Diary Entries

27 Entries collected

RECENT ENTRIES

Name
Wendy Blaxland
Location

Wahroonga NSW 2076
Australia

ISO-GARDENING [PART I] I’ve just googled growing basil. Three transplanted supermarket seedlings have suddenly died outside. Too cold. We didn’t know they were tropical! Those green patches on the soil on the inside crop are mould! Due to the tea-leaves generously and thriftily added to their soil– for nitrogen, says my co-gardener. And now we know they’re picky about water, that solves our daily argy- bargy over when to add it. The space outside our back door once grandly called ‘the herb garden’, is being prepped for hopeful punnets of lettuce and snow peas– oh the visions splendid of sturdy globes and delicious pods! It’ll be fine, as soon as we cover it with chicken wire to fend off one neighbouring chicken, three brush turkeys and a bandicoot; oh, and work out where the leopard slugs hide by day to wait for their evening feed. Enormous creatures, centimetres long, they glide out in the darkness like pirate vessels intent on tender plunder. And I’d better prune our faithful rosemary bush, enduring through drought and bouts of sporadic gardening that would leave it below thickets of tomato plants self-seeded, occasionally fruiting. The self-seeded parsley often flourished there until work deadlines left them parched, unwatered and drooping. Oh, unproductive retrospective guilt! We have high hopes this time. My fellow gardener’s stopped tipping daily coffee grounds out the back door as mulch. The cow manure’s bought. We are on track. This time.
Name
Wendy Blaxland
Location

Wahroonga NSW 2076
Australia

THE ECSTASY OF LIVING Life vibrates. Colours sing like flashes of light winking from a diamond: emerald, scarlet, gold! The high sounds of a violin swell and drip and flow sweeter than fresh honey. My skin purrs all over like a cat stretching. Love catches and calls and my whole skin cries out to be stroked by a lover, snuggled under a cloud of feathery doona. I raise my arms high and turn my interlinked hands out to breathe out and stretch luxuriously like a bat soaring through the sky at dusk to a feast of fresh fruit hanging on trees, ripe to bite. The smell of a white peach tempts my tongue. Petals of the lilli-pilli fall over me like small tendrils of fragrant creamy hair. I rock from sleep to waking as easily as lungs expand in salt-laden air and all of me rejoices that yes, yes, I am alive.
Name
Wendy Blaxland
Location

Wahroonga NSW 2076
Australia

OUR BACKYARD WORLD The grass is a busy thoroughfare. A red velvet mite climbs a grass blade, and two minute black ants scale the arid cliffs of my right big toe. Suddenly their world shakes as I flex my foot to warn them the mountain will move soon. They scurry off. Two more lives saved. Next task? To use an ancient bone buried by a long-dead thrifty dog as home for a tiny succulent. broken from a flourishing group. The new sprig’s called a pup– yes, seriously. I pack in good black soil, gently water it in. May a pup, two ants and a red velvet mite enjoy their day in this world they share with giants.
Name
Wendy Blaxland
Location

Wahroonga NSW 2076
Australia

MOTHER'S DAY 2020 This year was different. The day before, in the supermarket I join the carefully separated shoppers with sheafs of chrysanthemums in the tops of their trolleys above the boxes of chocolates. It feels like Christmas eve: the tone is festive, anticipatory. Women in mid-life manoevre trolleys deftly, scanning their lists with practised eyes. The seafood counter’s busy. Fathers with sons stride past un-trolleyed, intent on getting in and out, or stand in checkout lines with just Mum’s favourite sweets in hand. ‘That’ll do.’ Relieved. Me? I gather my Saturday papers, my favourite bread, and see the packaged chocolate cakes, a printed icing slab on top: ‘Happy Mother’s Day’– and find my eyes brimful. My mum is a long time gone– over thirty years ago. How can it hurt so much? I furtively wipe my eyes and head towards the fruit. Later, I head back against the flow, and defiantly pick up one of the chocolate cakes festooned with fondant love. It is unexpectedly heavy. I’ll share it with my kids. In the car I let the tears flow. How life continues to surprise us. Grief has no timetable, no neat ending. But salt water’s always healing. I wipe my eyes again and feel the sunlight warm me through the windscreen, snug in my driver’s seat, grown up again. Mostly.
Name
Wendy Blaxland
Location

Wahroonga NSW 2076
Australia

AUTUMN HERON This morning a strange heron hung motionless from a blueberry ash in the garden. Angular, its eye was staring downward, its belly and tail still. An upper wing was hooked nonchalantly over a branch, the other stretched below. I almost held my breath in case it drew itself together and flapped away. No. Just a stray twist of bark, fallen from the eucalypt above, that the sun had scribbled with shadows.
Name
Wendy Blaxland
Location

Wahroonga NSW 2076
Australia

MOTHER'S DAY 2020 This year was different. The day before, in the supermarket I join the carefully separated shoppers with sheafs of chrysanthemums in the tops of their trolleys above the boxes of chocolates. It feels like Christmas eve: the tone is festive, anticipatory. Women in mid-life manoevre trolleys deftly, scanning their lists with practised eyes. The seafood counter’s busy. Fathers with sons stride past un-trolleyed, intent on getting in and out, or stand in checkout lines with just Mum’s favourite sweets in hand. ‘That’ll do.’ Relieved. Me? I gather my Saturday papers, my favourite bread, and see the packaged chocolate cakes, a printed icing slab on top: ‘Happy Mother’s Day’– and find my eyes brimful. My mum is a long time gone– over thirty years ago. How can it hurt so much? I furtively wipe my eyes and head towards the fruit. Later, I head back against the flow, and defiantly pick up one of the chocolate cakes festooned with fondant love. It is unexpectedly heavy. I’ll share it with my kids. In the car I let the tears flow. How life continues to surprise us. Grief has no timetable, no neat ending. But salt water’s always healing. I wipe my eyes again and feel the sunlight warm me through the windscreen, snug in my driver’s seat, grown up again. Mostly.
Name
Wendy Blaxland
Location

Wahroonga NSW 2076
Australia

GLIMPSE An on-line work meeting at home. It’s evening. Children’s bed-time. Suddenly, from one screen through the study walls we hear shrieks and cries of ‘I want Daddy…’ We all smile, except Daddy. Later, his head swivels from the screen. A door has opened, quietly. Onscreen, we see a upturned head appearing at his knee, and we glimpse a tear-washed face. Silently, Daddy bends to hug his little son goodnight. They exchange a tender kiss. No words. A hush has fallen on the group. This is why we work.
Name
Wendy Blaxland
Location

Wahroonga NSW 2076
Australia

FIRST FRUITS FROM THE GARDEN Today I sampled the first of our iso-garden veggies, casual casualty of the first serious weeding: a centimetre of fragile bok choy. I offered to share it with my fellow gardener; he shook his head with a smile. Okay, bok choy. Thanks–and sorry I pulled you out. It vanished in a ceremonial mouthful, more a wisp of hopeful green than any serious nourishment. But this gift from the gardening gods will linger long in my mind: the most splendid autumn feast. First fruits from the garden Today I sampled the first of our iso-garden veggies, casual casualty of the first serious weeding: a centimetre of fragile bok choy. I offered to share it with my fellow gardener; he shook his head with a smile. Okay, bok choy. Thanks–and sorry I pulled you out. It vanished in a ceremonial mouthful, more a wisp of hopeful green than any serious nourishment. But this gift from the gardening gods will linger long in my mind: the most splendid autumn feast.
Name
Wendy Blaxland
Location

Wahroonga NSW 2076
Australia

FREE TO A GOOD HOME Yup, we’re growing vegies too. Dug out the old packets of seeds; even sieved the compost. Um, anyone want a few of our two hundred and seventy three purple carrot seedlings? Free.
Name
Wendy Blaxland
Location

Wahroonga NSW 2076
Australia

CORONAVIRUS MUSINGS Chopping at the giant strelitzia feels good, even with inadequate secateurs. Crrrunch. Crash. The wide flat leaves flap to the ground, defeated. More sunlight to warm our cooling pool. Hot work, too. I put down The secateurs, stretch, and step gratefully into the water. Later, I see a leaf way above my lethal reach with five perfectly round holes punched across one side. Bullet holes? Hardly, in our quiet eyrie, perched in the bush. Then I spy a young leaf, rolled, waiting to unfurl its glory and wave its banner at the sun. If a hungry insect drilled straight through that juicy roll and then departed…yes! Its mark would stay forever. So what has my attack meant to this sturdy plant? A dozen leaves executed, lying in a heap, still green, but severed. Gardening is not for the faint of heart, thinks Madame Defarge, casual executioner of the leafy suburb, tenderly rescuing a small bronzed beetle from the oceanous pool.