Reflection...

... for Knots in the String.

Easter is a time of reflection, is it not? We find evidence that life is worth the living and that seasons will continue with Divine regularity. Things may go, but they will return. The beauty that is nature along with the things that really matter – family, closest friends.

We decided Fang should begin his picnic-education and so we had not one but two picnics over Easter. Packing the cane basket into the car and heading off for places of amber and ruby, where rivers were so still I thought I gazed at a fey looking glass. Another world – clear water but softly tea-tainted with tannins.

We had hot coffee and hot-cross buns, and later, fine breads, fruit pastes and creamy Tasmanian cheeses. At every stop, we walked with Pups. Admired a beautifully crafted wooden sailboat complete with granny and granddaughter sailing along the edge of the riverbank.

Explored water-rat country and thought of Ratty. "There is nothing half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats…"

Spoke quackery with the ducks, ran (or was dragged along) the white lines on a country soccer field, climbed to the snowline which is so honestly not snowy that we wondered if winter will really be cold enough ever again.

Another day we worked like navvies in the little town garden, trimming small hedges and topiaries, shearing our side of the massive back hedge, planting all the tulips, ranunculi, Tête-à-têtes, lobelia, miniature cyclamen and primulas so that all the tubs and garden beds can fill us with joy in spring. I find a calmness of spirit in my autumn and winter gardens – they may be a little bare but here and there I will spy white flowers from winter bloomers – my own little snowfalls.

And then, on the coast, gazing at the big garden’s own amber and cranberry canopy.

I watched Conclave and was left breathless with its scope.

Reading Raynor Winn’s Landlines. Having read The Salt Path when it was first published, I’m finally reading the second in her series, with the third, Wild Silence, to follow. I learned in 2023 when my son was diagnosed with a very rare lung disease (only 200 researched cases in the world) that threads of life are as fragile as silk warp and weft and that great care must be taken in handling those threads. To nurture and love what is precious. Winn speaks to that with every step that Moth takes. For me, I watch my son approach every day with fortitude. Just like Moth. It’s a sobering but inspirational thing. Life’s too short.

Then the ANZAC Day walk, coming home to a cup of piping hot tea and fresh ANZAC biscuits that I had made. There’s something poignant in those golden, oaty biscuits as we remember:

‘They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them…’ Laurence Binyon

And at the end of Easter, I felt such sadness at the passing of a good man in Pope Francis. Admiration at his courage in appearing before the masses in Saint Peter’s Square on Easter Sunday, offering his blessings, and then passing away that night as if he knew his final duty was done. "Requiescat in pace…”

Music? This. It’s such a beautiful piece at a time of reflection.