It’s been a week marked with pain and sadness, both personal and in the lives of those dear to me. Yesterday was one of tears and that tightness in the chest that comes from grief and anxiety over things you cannot change, but wish with all your heart that you could.

I want to fix, heal, restore, and I can do none of them.

As I worked through my sadness yesterday, I sat in Bear’s big green armchair and edited photos from my trip to Bosnia from a couple of years ago. Seeing these images, so soft, green and intensely peaceful, helped me move from deep grief to deep peace. I let myself have a good cry, spoke aloud the things laying heaviest on my heart and then read moving and inspiring things like this post from my friend Rain.

As the day came to a close I was wrung out but at rest. My hope was restored, my joy intact. It’s a lovely thing to be able to hope again. To see the pain in this world and hope for those broken relationships to be restored, those shattered bodies made whole, those places of darkness illumined with light.

I cherish those hopes and thought of the family motto of my Mum’s Welsh family line: “While I breathe, I hope.” All is not lost while there is still life. The broken things can be healed.

I put on the kettle and slid ginger cookies into the oven. I smiled as the sun came out after days of rain and cloud. And I just shook my head and chuckled when my dear, wretched goats found another hole in the fence to escape through.

Life is devastatingly painful sometimes. And scary. And sad. But somehow it’s still beautiful, with friendships and experiences that restore, comfort, and cheer.

“Be brave enough to hold onto the hope that life will be beautiful again.” – Brave Girls Club

I wish you a beautiful weekend, dear ones.

While I love Amsterdam in any kind of weather, I think my favorite is a crisp Autumn day.

It was on just such a day in October that my friend Amy and I arrived at the Amsterdam train station from Paris. A chill wind was whistling across canals and through alleyways so after dropping our bags off at my brother’s apartment, we bundled up in woolens and hats and went for a stroll.

In spite of the cold, plants still flourished in pots set up staircases and on this cheery lime green bench.

Late afternoon sun glistened on the water and warmed the red brick buildings.

Near the Rijksmuseum this bashful lady shielded her eyes.

And pigeons gorged themselves on a lush, green lawn.

I’m always smitten by the bicycles of Amsterdam. They aren’t the shiny, modern bikes I’m used to seeing in America, but the lovely old ones complete with bells and baskets.

On days like this I love returning home and making something comforting. My favorite dish recently is spiced applesauce. I don’t know of anything that makes the house smell more delectable than a pot of apples simmering with ginger, cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves. While it’s delicious by itself, I really like it swirled with vanilla yogurt.

What is your favorite time of year to go walking in your home town?

Spiced Applesauce

Ingredients:

8-10 apples, peeled, cored and diced
1/2 tsp ground ginger
1/2 tsp ground cinnamon
1/2 tsp ground cloves
1/2 tsp ground nutmeg
1/4-1/2 cup dark brown sugar or 2-3 Tbsp real maple syrup

Directions:

1. In a saucepan combine all ingredients and cover with water.
2. Bring to boil then lower heat and simmer 45 minutes.
3. Cool and chill until ready to serve.

It’s been a rough few days.

Feeling stronger and braver last week I tentatively opened a door to my past and unwittingly let in a few malicious ghosts. Instead of sending them scurrying with some well aimed truth, I let them linger and cause non-stop mayhem. My hard fought peace was gone and fear ran rampant. Insomnia, illness and grief followed in short order and I’ve been struggling with anxiety ever since.

Blast and bother.

I hate it when this happens. Hate it when I let others snatch my peace away, let them trample my joy and smother me with fear.

At my worst moment I decided enough was enough. Even though it was raining I donned my favorite boots, called my dog Fletcher and headed for the woods. There’s nothing like a good tramp through the bush to sort things out.

Five minutes later I was back. I had neglected fly spray and the buggers were about to drive me mad. I thoroughly drenched myself then headed back to the woods, grinning as potential fly-bombers hove off at the first scent of the spray.

My tromp took me along the edge of the dam, lush with weeds and wildflowers. Fletcher ran about like mad, having the time of his life even as his fur got soaked and matted with stickers.

Just getting out into the fresh air did wonders. The falling rain relaxed my tense muscles and I felt myself starting to breathe deeply again. Funny how stress restricts the diaphragm and makes your breathing shallow, suppressing the deep, cleansing breaths that do no end of good.

I wended my way through chest high grasses, carefully avoiding the pretty but mean-spirited Scotch thistles, keeping a weather eye open for kangaroos I knew napped nearby. As I approached the bush I smiled, knowing exactly where my feet were taking me.

The Sacred Grove.

Bear and I discovered the Sacred Grove in December when we went on a sunny bush walk on Christmas Day. It’s comprised of a group of towering gum trees that somehow grew in a circle, their branches shading the meadow growing between their roots.

Stepping into the circle I closed my eyes, breathing deeply of the rain-washed air, luxuriating in the stillness. I opened my eyes and tipped my head back, delighted to see that the circle of tree trunks was reflected in the circle of branches above.

I don’t usually dance by myself in the woods, but on this day, I couldn’t help myself. I had to. After all the angst and pain of the last week, it was time to let it all go and celebrate the good things: true love, friendship, and real freedom.

I don’t actually know how to dance so I just started moving, a little jig here, a little shuffle there, so happy that only Fletcher was there to gaze at me in astonishment. Suddenly I was dancing like an Indian at a pow-wow, surely looking like a lunatic but it just felt right. The hopping-bowing-raising of the pow-pow dance led me around the grove. I felt grief leave me in a great sob, tears streaming down my cheeks, mingling with the rain. Then suddenly the dance changed and I was twirling, swirling, bobbing and weaving, grinning like a fool and feeling light and free. Fletcher came and sat at my feet, looking up at me in wonder, and I burst out laughing. Poor thing. He did not sign up for this!

I twirled a moment longer until suddenly I saw him, a bright orange and blue beetle scurrying along a yellow stalk. I was so startled by the tiny burst of color in a sea of green that all thoughts of dancing and twirling were gone as I knelt down to inspect his colorful little self.

The dancing had done its work. No longer consumed by pain I could celebrate life again, could find gorgeous little bits of beauty in snazzy bugs and perky flowers.

I am grateful.

Since then I’ve been able to work through those gutting things. To find forgiveness and peace again. Dear friends gave inestimable comfort and cheer and the advice I needed.

Today I read the following quotes and hope they shore up your resolve as they have mine.

“And the day came when the risk it took to remain tight inside the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.” Anais Nin

“Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Don’t be trapped by dogma – which is living with the results of other people’s thinking. Don’t let the noise of others’ opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition.” Steve Jobs

“Do not let your fire go out, spark by irreplaceable spark, in the hopeless swamps of the approximate, the not-quite, the not-yet, the not-at-all.  Do not let the hero in your soul perish, in lonely frustration for the life you deserved, but have never been able to reach. Check your road and the nature of your battle. The world you desired can be won. It exists, it is real, it is possible, it is yours.” Ayn Rand

I love stormy days in Australia. Rain pattering loudly on my tin roof. Winds rushing through the gum trees. Standing still under the canopy of branches, listening to the patter of water droplets as they fall from sky to leaf to forest floor.

It’s so good to be home. Cozy in the big, green armchair, creamy coffee sweetened with real maple syrup, time to rest and think and just be.

It’s a thoughtful sort of day. A day for naps and reading and gentle strolls in the rain. For penning handwritten letters and slow-roasting tomatoes. For making soup.

I juiced oranges this morning and put the peels in my crockpot and covered them with water. They’re simmering now, filling my little house with citrusy goodness.

I’m lingering on Pinterest today. Losing myself in glorious images. Letting go of niggling anxieties and fears as I’m reminded of how much beauty and goodness there is in this oft-frightening world.

I feel my little griefs ebbing, replaced by gratefulness.

Gratefulness for:

A big feather comforter that keeps me so cozy at night.

An “anything you can fit in this bag for $3″ special in the produce department at the grocery store. I filled one with cherries, peaches, nectarines, grapes, fresh dill and watercress. I can’t help smiling when I think of it.

Friends who love me just the way I am. No strings attached. No efforts to mold me into what they think is best.

A real hand-written letter in the mail. And a package wrapped in brown paper all the way from Germany.

Finding more dark chocolate when I thought it was all gone.

A whole stack of new British murder mysteries from the library.

Funny how a little gratefulness cheers a body right up. Now I think I’ll don my wellies and go for a trek in the storm. It’s a lovely storm.

What is cheering your heart today? xo

I am so happy to be able to celebrate Australia Day today. It’s an incredible gift to be in this wonderful country that has been such a haven for me, a place of real love, kindness, friendship and LIFE.

As I celebrate in the glorious sunshine with my dear ones, I leave you with the words of one of my favorite Aussie songs, complete with English translations of Aussie terms as supplied by my Bear.

Australia Day

Waltzing Matilda

Once a jolly swagman camped by a billabong
Under the shade of a coolibah tree
And he sang as he watched and waited till his billy boiled
You’ll come a-Waltzing Matilda with me

(swagman = an unemployed man traveling Australia in search of work with his bedroll – a swag, billabong = a water hole or lake, coolibah = type of gum tree, billy = usually a tin can with a wire handle, used to boil water over the fire for tea.)

Down came a jumbuck to drink at the billabong
Up got the swaggie and grabbed him with glee
And he sang as he stowed that jumbuck in his tucker-bag
You’ll come a-Waltzing Matilda with me

(jumbuck = a young sheep, swaggie = same as swagman, tucker-bag = a corn sack or sugar bag used to keep tucker (food) in)

Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda
You’ll come a-Waltzing Matilda with me
And he sang as he stowed that jumbuck in his tucker-bag
You’ll come a-Waltzing Matilda with me

Down came the squatter mounted on his thoroughbred
Up came the troopers One Two Three
Who’s the jolly jumbuck you’ve got in your tucker-bag?
You’ll come a-Waltzing Matilda with me

(squatter = a rich land owner, troopers = mounted police)

Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda
You’ll come a-Waltzing Matilda with me
Who’s the jolly jumbuck you’ve got in your tucker-bag?
You’ll come a-Waltzing Matilda with me.

Up got the swaggie and jumped into the billabong
You’ll never catch me alive said he
And his ghost may be heard as you pass by that billabong
You’ll come a-Waltzing Matilda with me

Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda
You’ll come a-Waltzing Matilda with me
And his ghost may be heard as you pass by that billabong
You’ll come a-Waltzing Matilda with me

What country are YOU celebrating life in today?

Sometimes the most beautiful places on earth are a lot closer than you think.

Such was the case when Bear and I went a-hunting for waterfalls last week. When we got to our first stop – Daggs Falls – I was speechless. I thought places like this were only found deep in South American jungles. (click here to view photos) I had no clue they were a one hour drive from my front door.

Much to my delight, the beauty was only just beginning. After meandering through a forest glistening with rain drops and rounding a bend to a sun-filled glade, we headed back down the trail and emerged at a lookout with this view of Queen Mary Falls.

I leaned carefully over the edge, watching the once placid stream gush over the cliff edge and fall to the rocks below. Sunlight broke through the heavy mist for a few minutes and turned the scene into something out of a tropical jungle. I fully expected monkeys to start swinging in the trees.

Everywhere I looked was lush growth: ferns clinging to the hillsides, trees growing right out of the rocky cliff face. “I can’t believe this! I can’t believe this!” may or may not have been repeated a dozen times by yours truly.

All too soon we rejoined the trail and hoofed it down the mountain so we could see the waterfall from the bottom. The trails themselves were gorgeous, canopied by bright green leaves glossy from rain, carpeted with even more leaves in chocolate brown and russet. I loved the fuschia ferns lining the path.

Finally we reached the bottom, glancing back at the creek magically transformed from a raging torrent to a quiet stream flowing gently among the boulders.

Then we craned our necks to look up through the mist to the cascading water. It was wondrous. Once again I felt I had been transported to a tropical oasis. This just couldn’t be so close to home.

We lingered awhile, trying to soak it all in, and at last turned homewards, hiking the trail through the bush, climbing leaf-strewn stone steps.

We got back to the car just before the heavy mist turned into a downpour. We dashed inside a nearby cafe and watched the deluge from dry, warm seats, sipping hot drinks and grinning at the trees filled with birds in bright green, blue, yellow and orange.

It was a good day.

What is the prettiest waterfall you’ve ever seen?

It was a marvelously misty, dark and drizzling day and Bear and I decided it was the perfect day for a trek in the hills. So, armed with hats, water bottles, and rolls of peppermints, we hopped in the ute (Australian for pick-up) and drove out through Killarney, Queensland. We drove past lush green fields dotted with cows and under towering trees that dripped down onto the car roof.

We were  in search of waterfalls.

Up, up along narrow winding roads we drove until a small sign bearing a drawing of a camera and the words “Daggs Falls” brought us to a skidding halt.

Donning our hats we walked down the hill to a small trail leading to a wooden boardwalk that jutted out over the edge of the cliff.

And this is what we saw.

I was stunned. Never in my wildest imaginings had I pictured waterfalls like this only an hour from my front door! I gazed in awe as the mist settled in a veil of droplets over my hair, patting my jittery stomach as I leaned out over the edge to see the water plummeting down to the valley floor far below.

Straightening up I glanced back over my shoulder through the canopy of gum trees, just able to catch a glimpse of emerald hills, soft and fuzzy in the rain.

Sighing with delight, I got back in the ute and we continued on our drive, stopping again at the trail head leading to Queen Mary Falls. It was drizzling again but the rain was warm so we headed for the woods, following the trail as it wended through the sodden bush.

How I love hiking in the woods! The deep stillness that seems so quiet at first but then dissolves into myriad little sounds: water dripping onto fallen leaves, lizard scurrying through the undergrowth, birds twittering unseen.

As we came around a bend in the trail, the sun broke through the mist for a moment, turning the deliciously eerie woods into a golden park.

At last we’d found the stream that gurgled peacefully between grassy banks, flowing steadily towards the cliff that would turn it from a placid creek into a glorious waterfall.

We stood on the bridge for a long time, soaking up the scent of loamy earth and rain-washed leaves, feeling all our little stresses wash away.

We took one last glance at the stream before plunging into the woods again, getting ever closer to the Queen Mary Falls I’d heard so much about.

And I’ll show you that tomorrow.

Where is your favorite place to go for a walk?

The sun was shining gloriously through the early morning mist as my friend Margo and I woke on our last day at the beautiful agriturismo Casa Scaparone near Alba, Italy.

We packed our bags and went to take showers only to discover there was no hot water! Not a welcome discovery on a chilly October morning, but such are the occasional hiccups of staying in the Italian countryside. Margo ran downstairs to let our host know, and they immediately set about putting it to rights…by firing up the wood stove to get the water hot. I love discovering little quirks like that. It never did get hot enough before we had to leave, but as I shivered my way through my morning ablutions, I grinned thinking how fun it was to be staying in a place where water is heated by flame-licked logs in a stove.

Margo and I met up in the wonderful old dining room (click here to see photos) for one last hearty farm breakfast. I toasted thick slices of homemade bread and slathered it with homemade soft goat cheese and homemade jams made from fruit grown on the farm. Our host made us deliciously strong Italian coffee and I soaked up the atmosphere of this marvelous place, delighting in the brick floor smoothed with age, the sturdy dark timbers overhead, and the soft light streaming in the tall windows.

Once our bags were loaded in the car, Margo and I bid farewell to Casa Scaparone and headed down the mountainside to pick up our fellow writer Kathy in nearby Alba. Armed with a hand-drawn map scribbled by our host on an obliging place mat, we were on the search for a sheep farm where we hoped to learn all about the making of cheese.

Our search took us far up into the hills, up, up, up, meandering through tiny villages and along the edges of sheer drop-offs. It was stunning!

It didn’t take us long to get lost, or rather, for the sheep farm to get lost. We knew precisely where we were, but there was no sheep farm to be found. We stopped often for directions, easing our way through narrow alleys in search of someone, anyone who might know where it was. But to no avail. Not one of the Italians we met had ever heard of it. Alas.

It didn’t matter though. We were so in awe of the gorgeous countryside we were seeing in our rambles, that we really didn’t mind.

After winding our way through the town of Cuneo, we decided to stop at a welcoming looking farmhouse to see if they knew where our elusive sheep farm was. We were greeted by a tiny Italian woman who spoke the merest amount of English. She’d never heard of the sheep farm either but she then surprised us with the announcement that she was a sausage maker. Not only was she a sausage maker, but her “factory” was just down the road.

Well, with three food-lovers in the car, there’s no way we could pass up a chance to see how Italian sausage is made. We sauntered down the country lane and entered a ramshackle courtyard complete with some ferociously barking dogs. After a rather entertaining display of bravado, we made it past the dogs, through the farmyard, and into the pristine and odoriferous environs of the sausage-making workshop.

Thanks to Kathy’s interpreting skills, we learned a lot about Italian sausage and dried meats. We learned that pancetta must be made from the stomach since it has more fat, while prosciutto (my favorite) comes from the leaner leg. Our hostess told us that she processes ten pigs a week all year long and still can’t make enough sausage to keep up with demand. Having tasted her product – salty, savory, and toothsome – it’s little wonder.

We bid farewell to our sausage-making friend and headed for the hills on our way to Lago Orta. Pretty soon we were ravenous and stopped for a roadside picnic featuring finds from our travels that day: local cheese, handmade sausage and Italian chocolate.

We never did find the sheep farm. Perhaps some day we’ll go back to that area of Italy and go a-hunting once more. Until then I cherish sunshiny memories of a glorious fall day in the Piedmont.

What is your favorite picnic food?

A dusky Autumn stroll, Lago Orta, Italy