More hearts than you can poke a cattle prod at

I've just returned from outback South Australia where I was taking part in a documentary about women from different walks of life learning to become jillaroos.
 I won't go into the details of my brush with the world of film-making and farm work just yet, as I am still a little shell-shocked and trying to process all the sights/sounds and experiences of what turned out to be a mammoth month — mentally and physically.
Watch this space ...
But, I am happy to report that I won a few hearts.
Three to be exact: I was given two stone hearts retrieved from the red dirt (one is included above, the other is so tiny that it would not have shown up in a photo) and a rustic tin heart with my initial on it.
 I bought the fancy red one myself, so that doesn't count.
These random hearts were given to me by people who barely knew me. But their timing, in each instance, was impeccable.
As if on cue, these sweet little symbols turned up just when I needed to show some ticker.
How heartening.

Love set in stone

On a recent camping trip to the country, I made it my mission to find a little rock shaped liked a heart.
 I got the idea from one of my favourite blogs, Farmgirl Fare. Farmgirl Susan owns a remote farm in Missouri and documents the daily happenings involving the animals and work on her property. She also is a passionate cook and shares some really great recipes. While working around the property she keeps an eye out for heart-shaped rocks.
 I have been searching for my own version for months.
I must confess I didn't find this little beauty above, a junior member of the family did.
She spotted it near our campsite after I had left for home.
It found its way to me today.
 Thanks little one,  I'll keep it forever.
 It seems a good heart is hard, but not impossible, to find.

This time it's personal

 I have been wanting to read these two books for a while and I got the chance over Christmas. I read Elizabeth Gilbert's "Eat Pray Love" first, then Judith Lucy's "Drink Smoke Pass Out".
I felt as if I was the only person in the world who hadn't read "Eat Pray Love", what with all the hoo-ha about its phenomenal success. Actually, I suspect a large proportion of Gilbert's critics on the net have barely managed to read the cover of her book.
Anything that is a success these days attracts swift criticism — positive and negative.
 Opinions on any subject imaginable are dumped on the internet every second. It's like unprocessed landfill. If you want to wade through it you have to hold your nose, trawl through the rubbish and not be afraid to discard or pick up things that catch your eye.
Books, like music, attract such ardent lovers and haters.
It's personal, you see — like these two books.
And this is my opinion: I loved both of them.
Here are two people, and they just happen to be women, who are describing what it is like to embark on a spiritual journey. A lot of people are quick to deride and dismiss anything that is called a "journey", but that is exactly what it is. It's a good word and an accurate description of what it feels like when you are exploring the great unknown that's both inside and beyond you.
Some have no interest in going down that path, some do. Get over it.
It's personal.
Critics can bang on all they like about what they consider to be privileged women embarking on a "self-indulgent trip of self-discovery". The knives really come out when these authors happen to make money out of it. There's nothing like money to get the haters bent out of shape.
Spiritual journeys are universal and come in many forms. It doesn't matter if you live in the "first world" (whatever that is) or the second, third or fourth world. If you are on that trip, you're on it. You don't need a passport, don't need money ... you already hold the ticket.
I've been travelling a spiritual path for years. I've probably been on it all my life. It's just something I do. I don't discuss it unless someone asks me about it, or if I am talking with someone who is going through a similar experience.
It's funny when certain people try to analyse or "understand" what you are doing (like that kooky chakra balancing, crazy kinesiology or meditation ... all clearly the work of snake-oil salesmen).
It seems as if they need you to justify why you are doing it.
I tell them to not concern themselves with my business and that it's just "The Vibe" (wise words from Guru Dennis Denuto).
I'm off to Keep Calm and Carry On.
Peace and love.

Indiana Jones never wore lycra

Here's a job option: archaeology.
But, besides years of study, it seems there is a new "fitness" component.
Actually, I might just stick to marathon running.

*Random magazine courtesy of my favourite op-shop

Life: streaming now in real-time

I spent New Year's Day up the creek.
 It was an odd choice considering I ended 2012 up Unemployment Creek without a paddle.
As I cooled my heels in Craven Creek, at the foot of Barrington Tops NSW, I realised paddles were over-rated.
 I was content to sit and watch the driftwood, leaves, berries and flowers flow by to who knows where.
The butterflies still led a merry dance, a bossy male fairy wren kept his harem in check on the bank opposite, the flies carried on as usual and a few crimson rosellas dropped in for a drink and a chat.
But my feet, the same ones that brought me here, were still ... as were my heart and head.
It's almost time to get going. I'm ready to explore what's around the bend.
But this time I'll have a spring in my step.

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow

I woke this morning to find it had snowed ... Australian-style.
My front yard is carpeted in fragrant white flowers dropped by a murraya tree.
The timing couldn't be better:  Christmas Eve.
What a beautiful gift.
Thank-you Mother Nature. Merry Christmas to you, too.

Away in a retail manger

A funny thing happened while I was in a cubicle of a shopping mall toilet the other day: I heard a rooster crow.
Please, just stay with me.
I dare say stranger things have happened in a shopping centre loo, but this was in   "Am I Going Crazy in the Coconut?" territory.
The rooster continued calling ... three times.
No-one else was at the wash basin, so I couldn't check if I was the only one tuned to Cock-a-Doodle-Doo Radio.
I gravitated towards the sound like a sailor to a siren.
I pushed through the kiddies in Santa's photo-op line to find a pen full of cute little cuddlies from a local farm. I patted the assorted exotic chooks, lambs and goats with equal parts relief and affection.
I then entered the mother of all barnyards: the department store.
In my corner of the world (suburban Australia) the pre-Christmas cocktail is a heady mix of humidity, short tempers and unreasonable expectations.
That day, I had a bee in my bonnet and it was getting on my goat.
  "You're too young to be a grumpy old woman," I reminded myself  as  I entered Barnyard Bargains. Hens and chickens were scratching around the shelves as far as the eye could see. Roosters patrolled the perimeter, occasionally marshalling a stray chick or strutting off to the barbecue section.
I joined the rabble, but soon realised I was not in Kansas anymore (hang on, maybe I was ... I believe there are one or two barns in Kansas) as the hens started exploding around me in synchronised screeching at their chicks. Littlies were brought into line with a sharp peck or wing clip.
Mercifully I managed to pluck out what I needed without significant blood loss.
I couldn't hear a rooster crowing anymore, but I sure as merry hell could hear Michael Buble.
Now I've nothing against the Buble boy, but I have a conspiracy theory that a retailers' rule book exists, and it includes the chapter Holiday Playlists to Make the Punters Spend Like Drunken Sailors. I bet it goes something like this: Father's Day (Cranky Frankie,  Creedence or Cold Chisel); Mother's Day (that nice Michael Crawford or Susan Boyle); Easter (who cares? Just make it bouncy); Australia Day (John Williamson) and Christmas (the vocal stylings of Buble, followed closely by Mariah).
I scurried to the checkout and joined the queue, just like a sheep set for dipping.
But relief at reaching the end of the line was short-lived when I was released from the pen not drenched, but fleeced.
How much? Holy cow!
The bee in my bonnet had suddenly taken a holiday. But I could hear something else: Gobble, gobble, gobble.
Who stuffed that turkey in my bonnet?