Henry Langendorf Pelican, in the book ‘Celebrate the Sun’, is asked at the close of his life:
“Who will teach the young wisdom and discipline?” He says, “Systems are taught. Wisdom
and discipline come from experiencing life.” At times, when I am teaching, those words come
to my mind as I try to help children, preoccupied with material possessions, to reach past
all the tangible pleasures that pass, to an awareness of those intangible life values that last.
I am old, in a world increasingly troubled, and am concerned for the future of the young. I find
life at times seems to be like a comet, flashing light in a night-blue sky, only leaving behind,
as its tail disappears, a still luminous brightness, then a slowly dimming image on my mind.
Where I live, I can see all that passes on two sides, and my gardens and trees are nature-kind.
In October, on my birthday, a jacaranda tree drips drifts of mauve flowers on the grass.
Almost hidden from view, I often sit there with my dog and quietly watch those who pass.
Butterflies, birds and bees are at work through the day, in each flowering plant, bush and tree.
Pink-and-gray galahs, with yellow-crested white cockatoos, strip the pods from a red tulip tree.
Multi-coloured lorikeets, with other honeyeaters, feast on nectar in the pink-flowering gum.
Clouds of tiny chartreuse finches, with native finches and other migratory birds, always come
in the autumn and spring of the year, to feast in callistemons and grevilleas, here or nearby.
Once an albatross, with narrow long black wings and white body, was using thermals to fly,
gliding effortlessly in wide circles, high above the coast, in a cloudless azure afternoon sky.
A few times I have seen a drab hen or a fine iridescent-feathered cock pheasant come.
These birds rummage through shrubs, searching for grubs, instead of feeding on some
of the nectar attracting the honey-eating birds. Nature gave me two trees. An indigenous plum
has a pale creamy trunk, light-green leaves, yellow catkins, and tiny gold fruit in the autumn.
With a slender gray trunk, the other tree has serrated leaves, brown catkins and yellow blossom.
Nature planted these trees, so conveniently for me, in the garden beds where their seeds fell.
Father Time has the last word to say in this life, and I know in the end time will tell,
but for now, with familiar things about me and my dear old dog for company, all is well.
Every week a kind friend takes me out. We go to the library and shops, and enjoy morning tea.
When my old bones permit, I attend a tai-chi class, and a friend takes me swimming weekly.
If my daughter Sherry is home I will go there to dine, and bring back a plate, twice monthly.
Daughter Rosemary works, spends time with her grandchildren and, when she can, visits me.
Twice each year I spend time with daughter Leslie and her sons, at Canberra, in the A.C.T.
If I tend to feel gloomy, when complexities of life come to loom like a cloud over me,
then to sit in the garden with my old dog for company, always helps me regain equanimity.
There’s a raven alights in a leafy eucalyptus nearby, and ‘caw!’ it will call raucously,
seeming always to wait for an answer. My neighbours are amused when they hear me reply, imitating that bird. It will peer down at me, cock its head comically, then away it will fly.
After several dry weeks it is raining again: three soft drizzling days, with a molten-lead sky.
Between rains, some galahs on utility poles are now jostling to hang out their washing to dry.
Other birds never look so good at that as pelicans do, but Henry Langendorf’s a favourite bird.
I would tell those galahs to go get their washing under cover from the rain, but if they heard
me call out it could well scare them off. All of Nature must be relishing this soft-falling rain.
I have seen more galahs in the A.C.T. than anywhere else I have been, and I wonder again
if there’s also a surfeit of human ones there, in the politically privileged positions they fill.
For some days I’ve not stood hose in hand, so I hope to owe less on my next water bill.
Looking at me from her rug by the patio door, Molly woofs to be let in, till I yield to her will.
Then she enters the house with her flip-flopping tail indicating satisfaction, until,
well content with her lot, she falls asleep. Then there comes, as love’s cost, a soft snoring.
Ageing dogs tend to snore in their sleep, as some elderly people sometimes do. It grows boring,
but my life would not be as it is, without her. She will often pretend to be sleeping, ignoring
any nudging by me, and will keep her eyes shut, but then flip-flop her tail - funny dog.
I once read, and believe, one can no more buy love than one can buy a wagging tail on a dog.
All in all, being old in this so aptly named ‘Sunshine State’ truly has compensatory blessings.
When my thoughts become sad, to restore peace of mind I remember these blessings.
I am thankful my life, like a well-worn old vessel, meanders along a quiet stream; though
I know, as I draw near the landing, that ‘One is one and all alone, and ever more shall be so.’
“Who will teach the young wisdom and discipline?” He says, “Systems are taught. Wisdom
and discipline come from experiencing life.” At times, when I am teaching, those words come
to my mind as I try to help children, preoccupied with material possessions, to reach past
all the tangible pleasures that pass, to an awareness of those intangible life values that last.
I am old, in a world increasingly troubled, and am concerned for the future of the young. I find
life at times seems to be like a comet, flashing light in a night-blue sky, only leaving behind,
as its tail disappears, a still luminous brightness, then a slowly dimming image on my mind.
Where I live, I can see all that passes on two sides, and my gardens and trees are nature-kind.
In October, on my birthday, a jacaranda tree drips drifts of mauve flowers on the grass.
Almost hidden from view, I often sit there with my dog and quietly watch those who pass.
Butterflies, birds and bees are at work through the day, in each flowering plant, bush and tree.
Pink-and-gray galahs, with yellow-crested white cockatoos, strip the pods from a red tulip tree.
Multi-coloured lorikeets, with other honeyeaters, feast on nectar in the pink-flowering gum.
Clouds of tiny chartreuse finches, with native finches and other migratory birds, always come
in the autumn and spring of the year, to feast in callistemons and grevilleas, here or nearby.
Once an albatross, with narrow long black wings and white body, was using thermals to fly,
gliding effortlessly in wide circles, high above the coast, in a cloudless azure afternoon sky.
A few times I have seen a drab hen or a fine iridescent-feathered cock pheasant come.
These birds rummage through shrubs, searching for grubs, instead of feeding on some
of the nectar attracting the honey-eating birds. Nature gave me two trees. An indigenous plum
has a pale creamy trunk, light-green leaves, yellow catkins, and tiny gold fruit in the autumn.
With a slender gray trunk, the other tree has serrated leaves, brown catkins and yellow blossom.
Nature planted these trees, so conveniently for me, in the garden beds where their seeds fell.
Father Time has the last word to say in this life, and I know in the end time will tell,
but for now, with familiar things about me and my dear old dog for company, all is well.
Every week a kind friend takes me out. We go to the library and shops, and enjoy morning tea.
When my old bones permit, I attend a tai-chi class, and a friend takes me swimming weekly.
If my daughter Sherry is home I will go there to dine, and bring back a plate, twice monthly.
Daughter Rosemary works, spends time with her grandchildren and, when she can, visits me.
Twice each year I spend time with daughter Leslie and her sons, at Canberra, in the A.C.T.
If I tend to feel gloomy, when complexities of life come to loom like a cloud over me,
then to sit in the garden with my old dog for company, always helps me regain equanimity.
There’s a raven alights in a leafy eucalyptus nearby, and ‘caw!’ it will call raucously,
seeming always to wait for an answer. My neighbours are amused when they hear me reply, imitating that bird. It will peer down at me, cock its head comically, then away it will fly.
After several dry weeks it is raining again: three soft drizzling days, with a molten-lead sky.
Between rains, some galahs on utility poles are now jostling to hang out their washing to dry.
Other birds never look so good at that as pelicans do, but Henry Langendorf’s a favourite bird.
I would tell those galahs to go get their washing under cover from the rain, but if they heard
me call out it could well scare them off. All of Nature must be relishing this soft-falling rain.
I have seen more galahs in the A.C.T. than anywhere else I have been, and I wonder again
if there’s also a surfeit of human ones there, in the politically privileged positions they fill.
For some days I’ve not stood hose in hand, so I hope to owe less on my next water bill.
Looking at me from her rug by the patio door, Molly woofs to be let in, till I yield to her will.
Then she enters the house with her flip-flopping tail indicating satisfaction, until,
well content with her lot, she falls asleep. Then there comes, as love’s cost, a soft snoring.
Ageing dogs tend to snore in their sleep, as some elderly people sometimes do. It grows boring,
but my life would not be as it is, without her. She will often pretend to be sleeping, ignoring
any nudging by me, and will keep her eyes shut, but then flip-flop her tail - funny dog.
I once read, and believe, one can no more buy love than one can buy a wagging tail on a dog.
All in all, being old in this so aptly named ‘Sunshine State’ truly has compensatory blessings.
When my thoughts become sad, to restore peace of mind I remember these blessings.
I am thankful my life, like a well-worn old vessel, meanders along a quiet stream; though
I know, as I draw near the landing, that ‘One is one and all alone, and ever more shall be so.’
