Week three of Stage Four Restrictions
I am writing in my studio again. I walked into a cobweb across the door and opened it to find the floor was a graveyard for slaters, there were white specks of spider poo on the desk, (curiously not on the floor) and the windowsills were covered in dust. Not house dust; this is fine soil blown from drought-affected farmlands. I swept slaters and a huntsman carcass outside and wiped down the desk, legitimate avoidance tasks before being able to sit down and write. I have been reluctant to isolate myself voluntarily in addition to the restrictions we are all experiencing. Instead of craving time alone to write, I have worked in the house editing. The studio feels more like a creative space.
My daughter gave me ‘grand-mothers’ a book of essays by well- and lesser-known women who are grandmothers. I was hooked by the introduction: these are my people, my tribe. I know them, they know me. They understand. Like motherhood, the complexity of grandmotherhood defies description and yet these women describe the myriad emotions I feel that began with the birth of my daughter’s daughter and continue to swell with each successive miraculous birth, her four girls and my son’s precious son. I am so lucky to live close by and be part of their lives. I suspect this may become a grandmotherly blog. Or a birdwatcher’s blog.
The rain has dumped so much water that our heavy clay soil cannot absorb it fast enough and we have silvery puddles all over the lawn. Rainbow lorikeets have invaded the garden and stolen the seeds I put out for the king parrots. They are half the size, but I saw one see off five parrots yesterday, puffing himself up, bobbing his head up and down while hopping and flying from one feed tray to the other. This morning they are investigating a hollow in an old tree quite close to the house. The whole flock swooped in, chattering excitedly, and taking turns to poke their heads into the hole.
The Journey 