Have finished a coloured pencil drawing inspired by looking up through the poinciana tree at a hazy sun filtered through green leaves and grey branches. I was lying on the chaise lounge beside the greenies aviary, looked up and was bewitched. Of course I didn't/couldn't capture what I saw. I didn't try and draw the leaves. My hazy sun and blue sky were poor representations yet despite my inability to record what was there, the drawing does have a certain something and it pleases me to look at it. I am a weekend artist, a tyro, an amateur, a doodler and have no illusions (although grandiose yet silly dreams) about my talent - yet I bet I feel the same frustration (and the same satisfaction) that an O'Keefe or Vermeer or Blake felt when they viewed their efforts. It is a funny mixture. Complete duds I throw away or paint over. It hurts to look at them, light years from what I was trying to say. But others, like the one previously described, have something in them despite their obvious faults.

We had an artist's day 10 days ago. I had nothing to work on as the tree/sky drawing was finished (it was the project for the previous week). I doodled a fat face and a fat body and now I've got a fat Buddha type figure with his fat harem trousered legs and fat sandled feet sitting on air with an equally fat cat sitting beside him. But he has lovely long fingered hands draped over his fat knees. Have no idea what he should sit on. Have less idea of what to do with the background. I look at the drawing, which I like so far, and it seems as though it would fit as an illustration in a children's book. So not art but an illustration? Maxfield Parrish was an illustrator as was Norman Rockwell. I'd say their art far surpasses much of what is labeled art today. But that's an old argument that I won't go into again. I suppose it's because this fellow looks like a character in some story. Perhaps I need to make up a story about him so that I'll know what to put in the background. I haven't touched it in a couple of days because I'm stuck.

Hot today. Supposed to be 36C. Saps the energy. I've got a fan sitting on a chair otherwise I couldn't be in here. The room is small and the computer generates heat (which makes this room nice in winter). I feel sorry for the horses. Balthazar sweats more than any horse I've ever met. In the afternoon his red coat is streaked with white salt crystals down the back, rump and along the neck. Despite this and being sun bleached, his coat is irridescent in places so I know the Natural Horse diet agrees with him. Pagan rarely sweats. He's also on the diet (Natural Horse Care by Pat Coleby) and it agrees with him. He's dappled everywhere and has stopped rubbing his tail. But he is lame. Seedy toe. Again. Dakota was very lame but he's on the mend. Treating both of them with salt water and hydrogen peroxide syringed into the holes in their hooves. Both lame on the offside front.

The Great Romance between Felicity and Suki is over. If I believed in any great love affair, it was theirs. I never saw so devoted a couple. Alas, Suki started flirting with a shy and slim little girl, even bringing her to meet Felicity. Felicity wasn't impressed. One day I watched as the new couple flew off leaving Felicity behind. She waited a few minutes then took off after them. She hadn't a hope of catching them if they didn't want to be caught. She's not that strong a flier. He stayed away for a few days then came back by himself. He was hungry and knew that food would be out in the afternoon. She didn't attack him or try and drive him away but she wasn't happy to see him either. Or maybe she was and was just too heartbroken to show it. She's eating well but I think it would be naive to assume her feelings aren't hurt. Scaly breasted lorikeets are flock birds. They are social and very tactile in their relationships. They play hard and love hard. I used to watch, smiling, as Suki and Felicity pressed into one another like they were trying to become one large green bird. Impatient and doting in turns. Both heads in the coop cup slurping up mix and one would feel the other was taking too much space so would give a nip. The next moment one would be regurgitating food for the other - the highest token of love and affection. In the bird world. I wouldn't like it if Richard regurgitated for me no matter how much he said it proved his undying love!

Since the breakup Felicity is not tolerated on the greenie aviary. Byron and Augusta attack her feet through the mesh. I feed her on Marvin's aviary now. Big change there too. Terry, a juvenile galah, is in care for coccidiosis and anorexia. Noticed him hanging around by himself, saw his poopy bottom and managed to herd him into the galah aviary where we caught him. Had him in a cocky cage but he wasn't happy. Eating well, yes, but making such a mess and turning himself inside out climbing up and around everything. He even got his wing caught through the bars with his contortions. This morning I moved him into Marvin's aviary and put Marvin in the cocky cage. Marvin isn't impressed but he'll cope. It's only temporary. I've tried to make it worth his while by getting him out more often. Even brought him inside for awhile which he enjoyed.

Walking the whippets yesterday and saw the death scene of the tadpoles in the ditch down the road. The ditch suckers the local frogs into laying their eggs. It looks like it would be permanent. The water is somewhat deep, it covers 20 feet or so, it's protected from direct sunlight. Why wouldn't it make a good nursery for little frogs? But it's an illusion. Unless it keeps raining the water dries up. The water lasts long enough for tadpoles to grow but not to turn into froglets. We crested the hill and saw half a dozen magpies and crows standing at the ditch. They flew off as we approached but by the muddy water and the remaining tadpoles crowded into small pockets of water it was obvious they were being picked off by the birds. A kindness really. They would die quickly rather than slowly and painfully. I rescued all those tadpoles from the swale in the peach paddock and took them to the dam. Whether they survived or became food for predators I don't know. Nature is a tough mother.

Moment of Vanity

Have just written in Balthazar's blog about his first friendly overture. After we'd finished our clicker training session, when I was hanging out with him, he in the paddock, me on the other side of the gate. It was about intention. When we 'train' I am in training or teacher mode. When we hang out we're...hanging out, no pressure on him to perform, even if the performance earns him multiple carrot treats. The friendliness was a revelation. And a *treat* for me. Marked by his head hanging over my back and his neck pressed into my body. Yes, I want more of that. Yes, I want to be friends. Yes, I have to change my intention. Yes, I have to change my attitude. It all comes back to what we put out we get back. If I want a friendly horse who seeks out my company than I must be a friendly person who seeks out his. I am friendly to him. I like being with him but it's similar in a way to meditation. There is a filter or a gauze curtain of my own making between the object (meditating or Balthazar) and me, one of my own construction. I'm not sure how to explain it. When I'm meditating or attempting to and I approach that state where I am nearly there (my *there* being only focussed and present and deeply silent) I often get in my own way. It's the monkey mind chatter, yes, but it's also something more, a reticence and holding back despite my desire to be in that place. My will is to be in that meditative space yet something in me also constructs this cheesecloth barrier that I maintain beautifully and effortlessly *in spite of myself*. So it is with Balthazar although I think that barrier might be easier to dissipate as I only have to really *see* him as Balthazar, the lovely chestnut thoroughbred person, to feel that friendly affection that I have for him in all interactions that don't involve clicker training.

Vanity, thy name is mine. Went to a friend's house yesterday for an art day. Two friends, two bird lovers and bird carers who love art and creating as much as I do. It was a great day. We all worked on projects and chatted. Had to use the loo and saw a set of bathroom scales. Got on and squinted. 53kg. 116 pounds. I haven't been below 120 since weighing 47kg while depressed after a bad breakup (actually the worst breakup, the one and only time I'd been beaten by a man but that's another story and one I don't want to revisit). That was in 1987. Once I recovered I quickly regained weight. This time I am not depressed. Quite the opposite. It is solely due to yoga and being practically vegan, specifically giving up dairy (except that found in Fair Trade chocolate and the two tablespoons of milk powder I put into the homemade bread). I eat like a horse. I eat huge portions of salad or rice or whatever's going. Yet, without effort I continue to lose weight. I'm 56 and gravity has taken its toll yet I weigh 116 pounds! I know, I know. Vain and silly and so against the precepts of Buddhism or any -ism yet I am so proud. I feel good. I feel strong! I have muscles where I've never had muscles even when I was lifting weights and working out at the gym. I have to bite my tongue to stop myself from proslytizing about the benefits of yoga. If I'd only known 30 years ago! But I know now and timing is everything. Perhaps I wouldn't have appreciated it 30 years ago. I didn't appreciate it 10 or 15 years ago when I attended a class in town with a couple of friends. I am so grateful to Gabi and Pete for inviting me to a class. And that teacher, who has since moved, for being a good teacher. I have a different teacher now but she's brilliant and although I do over an hour of yoga 5 or 6 days a week I still come home sore and wrung out after her class.

I've been thinking about blogging for a few days now. Things I wanted to write about - not grandiose things but things like how I like Natalia, our little bladder kitten who is a kitten no longer, a little chubby. Obesity in pets is verboten. I know that from all the surgeries I've witnessed on overweight animals. Yet, because she is short and stocky with stumpy legs and a cobby build, she looks so endearing and somehow *right* being a little overweight. I call her The Scamp. She has the personality of a scamp. She is at once endearing and maddening. She'll pick on the furniture while watching me in full knowledge that she'll get a sharp NO and a stamp of the foot. She does it for attention as much as to sharpen her claws. When I take the food in the afternoon to the verandah birds, she races from the chair across the mantel, jumps to the top of the TV cabinet to leer, pupils dilated, at Tony who jumps onto the top seed dish.

But that's enough for today. The big thing was Balthazar and my Moment of Vanity.

My Reality, His Reality

What you put out is what you get back. I'm slow to learn this key and valuable lesson. Just wrote in Balthazar's training log how I instinctively slapped him when he started to mug with his muzzle on my breast. He pinned his ears and why wouldn't he? I'd just hit him. Not hard. I could've slapped the cats that hard and they'd think I was just showing them attention yet the intention behind it was not one of affection. So I received what I gave.

Richard can be of a dour disposition. In private smiles don't come readily to his face. Sometimes I feel like the court jester capering about in a vain attempt to make him laugh or at least crack a smile. This morning he came out while I was feeding the birds. 'Good morning,' with this cat's behind set to his mouth. I started to smile a greeting but then, being in a contrary mood, I returned his expression and his greeting. He grimaced. I grimaced. Then he came over and gave me a hug. I notice when I 'chase' him for a smile or a pleasing demeanour it seems to have the opposite affect but when he perceives my face as 'set' or grim he's after me, 'Are you all right? You look sad.' So who is to say?

I worry about Richard. Try not to, remind myself that in *this* moment, all is well yet the niggling voice of unease whispers in my ear. As I said, in frustration, when Helen was here, I believe him to be mildly depressed. Depression would account for or be a symptom of the underlying worrying he grapples with most of the time. It would account for his negative attitude. If I say the sun is shining, he says it's too hot. If I say we're going to get some welcome rain, he hopes we don't get floods. If I point out the beauty of a flowering tree, he reminds me that it needs pruning. Perhaps it's only the difference between the way men and women perceive the world. Perhaps I am nit picking. But I can say that I perceive *him* as not being happy, not even content. Sometimes, he is reminded of how fortunate we are to live how and where we do when he sees how most of the world struggles for food, freedom, shelter, the basic human necessities, but those times are rare.

I lost patience with him the other day. He'd gone to get his knees seen to by the doctor who sent him for xrays which showed nothing wrong. His knees don't hurt, they get tired. I believe what he feels is true. I'm not denying that. And I am very proud of him for walking as much as he does. But otherwise, like most men, he does little to preserve his own health. Sometimes I even think he has given up and decided he is an old man. He's only 65. When I see him shuffling his feet, bowed forward like an elderly decrepit I am overcome with sadness imbued with annoyance. When we walk our beautiful walk down a spectacular dirt road surrounded by hills and wildlife, Richard is walking while staring at the ground in front of his feet. We walk separately. I am *there* enjoying the scenery, the feel of the wind on my face, looking for what creatures may be visible that day and Richard is a million miles away thinking/worrying. I used to remind him where we were and didn't he want to look but saying anything just made him cranky and I quit. I quit looking at him too for seeing him staring at the ground as he walked ruined my walk. I was resenting him rather than enjoying what I was doing.

It is useless to try and get someone to live their lives as you see fit. It only makes for friction when they don't comply. I *know* that. I do. One can only set an example by the way one lives ones life and if it appeals to others then great, if not, fine. That is a hard thing to do when married and your life is tied in with another. I get mad when I see him give up. I see the difference when he's inspired. He comes alive. His being is imbued with energy and purpose. But I cannot find him his joy. He has to. When we walk I get ahead of him and then wait for him to catch up, then walk on again. Unfortunately, I cannot amble. I need to stride out. A failing on my part but when I have tried to walk with him our walk deteriorates to a saunter. A few weeks ago, however, Richard was animated about something we were talking about. I can't remember what it was but I had to stretch out to keep up with him. He was alert, energetic, ALIVE. How can I help him to feel alive all the time? How can I help him remove this cheesecloth curtain he has placed between himself and life?

When I lost patience with him, after his visit to the doctor, I told him what I thought, that he must take responsibility for his health, that a doctor isn't going to give him a pill to fix his knees. I know how crooked Richard is from years of compensating for a sore back (which troubles far less than it used to). I see the bottom of his shoes which are worn very differently. I see his left knee larger than his right because that's the knee he always uses when kneeling. I see the natural crookedness and one-sidedness of anyone multiplied and magnified in him. Of course, I see yoga as an answer to help him. I want to share the positive difference it has made to me with him. More, I want the mental aspect in learning how to meditate, the relaxation, the mindfulness, to be a part of his life too. Naturally, I don't have those things all the time. It's a process but I am aware of them and the benefits are more obvious in my life than they used to be. Most of all, however, I want him to find his joy. I guess the only answer is to love him. Just love him, no matter what. And if he chooses to believe the self-made myth that he is old and shuffling and bent over with care, then I must love that too.

Cat Boundaries and an Art Habit

I've been mean and closed the door on Natalia. Natalia the Love Biter. The biter of elbows and chin and arm and nose. A purring chainsaw of pain. Natalia of needle sharp claws into my pillow thighs looking for a comfortable position. Natalia the Scamp. Sometimes I just have to say no to the cats. I am not the Chinese Emperor who cut off his sleeve rather than disturb his sleeping companion. No, I pick them up and move them out of the way. I encourage Nairobi to sit beside rather than on me because she makes my legs look like pages of Braille. When Matisse sleeps between the crook of my knee I have no compunction in rolling him to the outside. He weighs a lot. Having Matisse sit on my legs is like being weighed down by a furry boulder.

It has been raining steadily since last night. Although the cats are totally indoor cats, I suspect they get cabin fever when the rain brings the outside inside as a green gloom. I can almost hear them say, 'I'm bored!' Natalia doesn't usually notice whether I'm on the computer or not. She may come in and check out the bird tv through the window or hunt a wild fly on the pane, but sit on my lap? No, she's too busy. But this morning, my lap was a prize to be won despite gentle discouragement. Frankly, if she quickly found a position and went to sleep, no problem but being a rather large cat, she had to twist and turn and try this position and then that, digging claws in to steady herself. I removed her three times. She was like the boor at a party who just doesn't get it that you don't want to hear the fine details of his trip to the dentist. I put her out and shut the door.

Have finished, signed and framed the latest drawing. It's not pretty. It's not logical. But it has presence. It is pencil. A man's bald but beautifully formed head stares through his cupped binocular hands but the hands are joined at the elbow forming a sort of heart shape. Another pair of hands, striped and joined at the wrist form the bottom of the drawing. Massive shadowy shoulders frame the binocular hands. I should (oh, there's that word!) take a photo and try and get it up here but as I've used the word 'should' of course I won't. If I wanted to market my work I'd do so. It's still the work for it's own sake. These walls don't need any more pictures (although I've always admired the shot of Gertrude Stein's Paris salon which was hung with art from ceiling - and high ceilings at that - to floor) but when there's something on the board I breathe more easily. So I keep working.

Have started another work, coloured pencil. One day I sat in the chaise lounge under the poinciana tree and looked up. The sun coming through the branches, the green leaves and the orange-red blooms was a vision that I can never replicate. Yet I have to try. It's odd that artists know they can never truly recreate nature but are compelled to attempt it again and again and again. How frustrating to see the result of hours of work and know that it bears little resemblance to that golden kernel of joy that inspired its creation in the first place. When I looked up through the branches and saw the sky/tree/blossom/sunlight vision, I knew I would have to try. I'm not a plein air painter. I won't take the pad outside and try and copy what I see. I will try (and how impossible and at the same time laughable this is) to recreate the feeling it gave me when I first saw it. What else can I do?

I have copied many things; drawn people from life, copied images from photos, but the paintings which give the most satisfaction are the ones that come from my head. I read of artists who project a photoshopped image onto the canvas and then paint it in. That wouldn't work for me. In one sense it would seem like cheating, a paint by numbers exercise for adults. Trying to recreate the inner life is what interests me, even if it's only my interpretation of an image I've seen and then scrambled with memory and emotion.

A Meditation on Meditating

Meditation is one of the hardest things I've ever tried to learn. The other day there was a point where I think I can truly say I was meditating but it was difficult to maintain. Just goes to show how ferociously unfocussed my mind is. If I *try* I lose it but there is a level of effort involved. It's somewhat like balancing on a knife edge. Too much effort and I'm thinking about thinking. Not enough effort and I'm just thinking. Yet, in that infinite moment of now, when I am balanced it is, conversely, without effort. And it is a very peaceful place; quiet and still although I remain aware of everything around me, including myself meditating.

It is difficult to find the time. The best approach is just after doing yoga when I am energized yet relaxed. Rather than taking the classic meditation pose, I lay in shavasana (corpse pose). Figure if I can't meditate at least I can absorb the benefit of having practiced. The problem is and it's just one of space, is that I share the house. I can't very well ask Richard to bugger off for 20 minutes, especially when it's hot and miserable outside. If I shut myself in a room the cats would be pawing to get in and most rooms are too airless anyway. The living room is the only one with cross ventilation. But it seems Richard knows the time I should be about finished and comes in. I sit up and it's over for the day. As it is, the practice is getting longer and longer. I used to be satisfied with 20 minutes, then 30, 40 and now it's edging toward an hour and a half. I don't begrudge the time. Doing the practice is kind of timeless. It feels as though it takes much less time than it does and I'm always a little surprised when I look at my watch.

The more I practice yoga, the more I see and feel the need to try meditation afterwards. In a way, that's where the real benefit lies. Especially as I'm engaging my mind (or disengaging) in a new and significant way. It's like trying to flex a muscle that hasn't been flexed before. I remember when I tried to learn how to wiggle my ears. The muscles that control ear wiggling had never been used before. I was just a kid then, envious because Mom and Tam could both wiggle their ears. I'd sit and think about wiggling them and that somehow awakened those muscles so that I eventually could move my ears up and down. And still can. So, the *muscle* for meditation exists, it's just never been used before. I trust the more I attempt to meditate, the stronger it will become and the easier it will be to do it. I've even *felt* (oh, how flimsy words are in description!) that meditation space when walking the dogs. I've read of people who can meditate at will anytime anywhere. I know now that it can be done and that one day I'll be able to as well.

Thoughts are Things

It is easy to be disheartened when tuned in to too much technology. I subscribe to a few *cause* newsletters having to do with the environment and animal welfare. The television is awash with stories about corporate greed, environmental apathy, loss of habitat, species extinction, etc. Although I care deeply about the environment and animals it has come to the point where I delete or another documentary on village life being destroyed by toxic runoff from some mine in PNG. Or just now on Deutsche Well TV, Asian carp taking over the Mississippi River moving in on Lake Michigan. The bad news is relentless.

I started to believe it. Started to believe we are past the point of no return. That the earth is screwed due to runaway global warming and we may as well open another bottle of champagne - and not recycle the bottle. That we have become so estranged from our mammalian ancestry that we treat ourselves, our animal cousins and the earth as though they are The Other, something to be dominated if not eradicated.

Of course this mindset had to stop. Even during the 'good thought' section of my daily yoga routine I was focussing on the negative; help this, stop that, change this. I was getting pretty depressed. Very dangerous. Thoughts are things. As I've quoted Arthur Eddington before, I don't mind doing so again. 'The stuff of the Universe is Mind Stuff'. So you think, so you are. So how does one fly in the face of all this bad news? Being blind to it all, pretending it isn't there won't make it go away. So how to help without succumbing?

By community. I realized that while I am thinking good thoughts, sending out thoughts of loving kindness, there are tens of thousands of people doing the same thing. I may not be very good at it but the intention is clear. I can add my good thoughts to the stream of prayer being created all over the world all the time. I did this and immediately felt better, felt part of a powerful merging of minds to save ourselves and the world. For all the bad news, there is much good news. And good people, people who are doing their bit. I don't have controlling shares in Rio Tinto but I can grow my own veggies, recycle almost everything, live in an eco and animal friendly way and, to save power turn off the darn TV.

The Dangers of Should

There is baggage attached to the world 'should'. Hefty knapsacks you sling over your own shoulder or bulging holdalls you attempt to hand to others. 'I should, you should', are loaded with much more than the desire to accomplish something laudable. They are loaded gun weapons used to force acquiesence to some scripted life plan. How much nicer is the word 'could'? Could implies free will, free from judgement and the shackling opinon of others, or yourself.

I'm a bad person because I should have done this rather than that. I should quit smoking, be more sociable, be a better artist/writer/wife/woman/human. I should be more tolerant. I should have more patience. I should stop swearing. I should should should. What if it read: I could have done this rather than that. I could quit smoking, be more sociable, be a better artist/writer/wife/woman/human. Those sentences are ripe with possibilities rather than a report card of my failings. And there's a finality inherent in the world 'should'. I don't know why it strikes me that way. I have no logical explanation yet should, rather than being an avenue to new vistas, is limiting. Perhaps because should is used when trying to change someone who isn't ready or open to that change. By using it I am marking out a clear path of behaviour. This not that. Could, on the other hand, marks the start of possibilities, avenues of choice.

I've been aware of the negative connotations associated with 'should' for many years. I haven't been successful in expurgating it from my vocabulary. Yet. I'm better in not saying it to others but I haven't extended that same courtesy to myself. Yet.

What brought this post on? I used should to myself today. Not a big deal. Small potatoes kind of situation but as soon as the word erupted into my mind, a course was fixed, one I purposely did not take even though I could. One might even say I didn't take that course because I 'should'.