January is hot and humid. The pasture is tall and golden, seed heads flying. The cows have been ailing with eye infections and my farmer man is out working long hours in the heat. We've watched rainclouds build and roll over us without giving a drop. We've savoured dips in the dam and ripe summer fruit. I've put ice cubes in my coffee and begun a special quilt project using only linen scraps. Twice I've gone for a walk and watched the same wedged-tail eagle perched, perfectly still on the branch of a tall gum tree. We've stretched our hands into the soft fur of our new maremma pup, Pippin. He is the first puppy we've owned, and although a working dog, he is full of delight and fluffiness. I cannot help but smile when I see him. It's summertime - when the days stretch on and on, and we sigh audibly with relief when the evening breezes come in. We have nowhere to go and not much to do, which is to say, we're content to lay low in this beautiful and exhausting season // 

December is a blur of endings and illness and sunshine and the garden bursting with colour and growth, the flap of birds and the buzz of bees. We pick spent poppy heads for the door wreath and eat the last of the snow peas and shell the first of the broad beans (which the boys call "exploding rocket beans!"). Our dwelling, Fiddler's Cottage, undergoes much needed repairs to the wood cladding and is also given a lick of fresh paint which is glorious to behold.. We observe the four weeks of advent with our calendar of boxes filled with love notes and sweets, we read storybooks and Christmas fables and scriptures and poems, on Sundays we light the candles on our wreath and reflect on the gifts of hope, peace, joy and love Jesus brings...

Summer tends to be the season with the most reading for me - something perhaps about those long, light-filled days and the prickle of heat that makes me want to put my knitting away and stare at pages with the fan gently humming. Maybe there's a part of me, a learnt pattern in my body, that associates summer with reading - as mum would always gift us books for Christmas. Reading never feels like a chore in summer, a bit like walking at night: the very air of summer ushers permission to be consumed with words and breeze. 

There, there by Tommy Orange (2018)
Christmas book from my sister, the first novel by Tommy Orange. It read almost like a play, dramatic and atmospheric. I found it a refreshing read and haunting in some scenes and dialogue that have stayed with me long after finishing. Highly recommend. 

The Tall Man by Chloe Hooper (2008)
I wanted to read this as soon as I finished Chloe Hooper's other brilliant book The Arsonist. Hooper writes masterfully, poetically, with such clarity, sensitivity and humanity around issues that are so difficult - like this: the death of a young Aboriginal man in custody on an island I'd vaguely heard of. She paints the landscape and the characters of Palm Island with nuance and freshness that help you feel it all deeply, and not easily forget. The Tall Man is investigative writing on crime, racism, policing, history and mythology in Australia of the highest calibre. I didn't want it to end, and I longed for an ending that never came. I cannot recommend this book highly enough.

10 Reasons to quit your social media right now by Jaron Lanier (2018)
I had to read this even though I could think of thirty of my own reasons to quit. Jaron Lanier is a computer engineer, philosopher and musician. His "reasons" for quitting are sensible and intelligent and is definitely worth reading and pondering on. 

You are not a gadget by Jaron Lanier (2010)
I enjoyed this longer manifesto of Lanier's even more than the one above. He wrote it almost a decade ago and is uncanny in his accurate predictions and concerns for what social media platforms and technologies were becoming - and have become - forces for immense social, cultural, political and economic upheaval. Highly recommend. 

The Mother Fault by Kate Mildenhall (2020)
A speedy and enjoyable read. The plot is quite thrilling and fascinating, and while I didn't feel totally convinced by the main characters and the ending felt a bit clunky - there was something very poignant and timely about the near-future reality in which we are all micro-chipped and answerable to a global governmental system, as well as the over-reliance on digital devices, threats of constant surveillance. Critics mentioned a likeness to Atwood and I felt that too. Definitely worth a go. 

The Service of Clouds by Delia Falconer (1997)
Have you ever begun a book only to fall in love with it on the first few pages, only to struggle to finish it half way and then fall out with it completely by the ending? I guess my reactions with this one was as capricious and changing as the clouds. Yes, there are some really clever, beautiful sentences, and the descriptions of the Blue Mountains at the turn of the 20th century is quite mesmerising, but something fell flat and unsatisfying half-way through. If you love Ondaatje you will probably enjoy this one... 

The Twilight of Democracy by Applebaum (2020) 
Oh this was a fascinating read. Insightful and frightening. I asked my local library to purchase a copy of Applebaum's book after I heard her interviewed on the New Yorker politics and more podcast. I'm glad they were able to get it in. Applebaum has been watching and writing about (and living) politics in Central Europe for decades, but has much to say about her place of origin USA too. Highly recommend.  

Water my Soul by Luci Shaw (2003)
A re-read. Shaw explores the rich, interior life of faith through the seasons of the garden. Beautiful, wise, timeless. Highly recommend. 

Into the Silent Land by Martin Laird (2006)
Read for my course in contemplative faith. I'd never heard of it before. I love the way Laird weaves in personal stories, poetry, literature and wisdom by the great Christian mystics along with more practical tips and exercises for cultivating a prayer-filled awareness of God's loving presence in everyday life.  I would definitely recommend this one for anyone starting out on the contemplative journey // 

What have you been reading lately?

in summer I can walk in the evening light
when little people have gone to bed
when dishes have been washed and dried
each step a kind of devotion
a prayer for being alive 

in summer I can walk in sandals
and feel the breeze under my skirt
coolness and dust and grass seeds
anoint my summer skin: 
tanned hands and dry feet. 

in summer I can walk at a slower pace, 
follow tracks of who came before me:
rabbit, horseshoe, tractor tred 
I wait for kangaroos hopping down the hill 
and lean in to hear the frogs croak,
and crane my neck for the goshawks,   
I can never tell if they are hunting or playing. 

in summer I can walk and gather
dried grasses in my hands,
elderberries off a twisted old tree,
blackberries from a thorny vine,
I reach for dancing thistle fibres
and hear my son's voice:
"Mum! Look at all the fairies"

in summer I can walk in the moonlight
when the stars begin to shine,
and I let my feet do the praying:
each step breaking bread
each breath thanksgiving 
​//

It really is! We are going through so many plums at the moment as we are getting them fresh in our CSA fruit box each week. There is nothing so nice as locally grown (without chemicals), seasonal fruit that tastes and feels as it should! This is my gluten-free adaptation of Stephanie Alexander's frangipane tart in her cookbook-to-rule-them-all, A Cook's Companion. She doesn't call for plums, but of course they work perfectly alongside almonds and the buttery shortbread base. It works just as well with nectarines, peaches, apricots, cherries, blackberries, strawberries, mulberries, raspberries, pears, poached quinces or apples or rhubarb. Basically most fruit! 

Plum Frangipane Tart

For the base:
200g plain gluten-free flour (or 100g each of rice flour + 100g tapioca/arrowroot starch or cornflour)
1 tablespoon sugar
100g cold butter, sliced into small cubes
1 small egg
2 teaspoons cold water

Blend flour, sugar and butter in a food processor until crumbly. Add egg and water with the motor running and blend together until a dough forms. Roll out onto a piece of floured parchment paper (I might this minimises mess and stickiness). I do not bother chilling the dough as specified in the recipe - I simply roll out a disc shape to fit my pie dish which is about 22cm in diameter (with enough size to line the fluted sides).

Instead of greasing and flouring the dish, I lift the dough with the baking parchment and place both of them in (the paper of course creating a barrier between the dough and dish). This ensures simple lifting out of the tart and cleaning of the dish. Feel free to grease if you prefer! Once dough is pressed into the dish, use a fork to mark a number of pricks on the base of the tart. 

Bake in a low-moderate oven (160'c) for 25 minutes or until lightly golden. Again I don't bother with weights or rice for the baking, the dough seems to keep it's shape well enough. 

For the frangipane:
150g white sugar
120g unsalted butter
200g ground almonds
2 eggs
1/4 cup brandy or similar (this really gives it a delicious something else, but can be omitted)
______
1/4 cup flaked almonds
5 small-medium sized plums, pitted and halved or sliced into wedges. You may need more/less depending on the size of the plums to cover the surface of the tart. 

Cream together butter and sugar in a food processor. Add almonds, eggs and brandy if using and mix well. Spread over tart base and arrange pitted and sliced plums on top of the tart. Bake in the oven (180'c) for 20 minutes. Oven oven and pull out tart so you can scatter with flaked almonds and a tablespoon of white or raw sugar (you may omit this if you wish). Cook for a further 15 minutes (or until tart is golden brown and the centre feels springy to touch - the size of the plums and moisture in them may increase cooking time). Cool in the tin. Serve on it's own or with some double cream. 

Lovely things bringing colour to my life: golden fennel flowers, profusion of pink hebe and the zinnias about to open // in my hands a top I'm knitting for my sister in the most theatrical and luscious yarn, a row added each morning and evening as the kettle comes to boil // on the table flowers for my son, to mark his 9th birthday and also balloons and a giant fruit mince pie (as requested), holding this beautiful human tight and delighting in him reading, snug in my hammock, as the sun sets // the sight and sounds of the farm's not-so-little and very enthusiastic goat kids, nibbling our hands, tickling, bleating for oak leaves (or anything really) // cutting fresh plums in half for tarts, eating them whole, stewing them slowly // savouring the summer rain and mild mornings, the return of school, beginning of kindergarten and my weekly studies, sandal wearing and overnight-zucchinis and everything this season brings... 

"The question of attention in the age of digital media may ultimately come down to the question of limits, the acceptance of which may be the condition of a more enduring joy and satisfying life. What digital media promises on the other hand is an experience of limitlessness exemplified by the infinite scroll. It tempts us to become gluttons of the hyperreal. There is always more, and much of it may even seem urgent and critical. But we cannot attend to it all, nor should we. I know this, of course, but I need to remind myself more frequently than I’d care to admit."  
- M.ichael Sacasas, from his article: "Attention, Austerity, Freedom"

Earlier this month I quit instagram. 

I had spent almost six years sharing publicly: lovely photogenic bits of my life: farm, kids, meals, garden, sunsets, flowers in hand and crafty projects. Highlights and carefully curated lowlights, poems, recipes, thoughts. It was almost six years of watching other people's lives too, people I knew in real life and others I'd never met before - their faces, homes, artworks, babies, businesses, handmade clothes, coffee mugs, freshly baked loaves of bread. 

I joined in 2015 when everyone else seemed to be there. I was drawn to the visual nature of it: photos with little notes accompanying. It felt so much more interesting and enjoyable than other social media platforms that were focused on text and emojis. It also seemed a more convenient way to share (and follow) than writing and reading blog posts. The blog was dead, we all said. I had a toddler and a newborn baby, we were learning to farm and start a small business from scratch - it seemed the perfect place to document the journey: to fix the beautiful, ridiculous and important scenes in time. 

Then something began to shift in me, in the platform, my feed became a way to idealise my own experiences: an easy way to escape the monotony and difficulty of life with three tiny people dependant on me and a business that was holding on by fragile threads. I thought about it constantly, and in the middle of moments, how I could document and caption them later in a post. 

I loved how it gave me a sense of accomplishment, a reward for my doing. I loved how it seemed to justify and reinforce the life choices I had made. I loved how connected I felt to people, how it allowed me to do less real life socialising and the (more difficult) reaching out to friends and family through phone and email. I also loved how immediate the feedback was - almost instantly - the likes. I'd rationalise that the liking and comments weren't important: they weren't a reflection of me, or my worth - but in my body was a different story: the quick release of dopamine-laced warmth was something I wanted everyday if I could, and I was becoming addicted. 

I felt gripped, somehow beholden - like I couldn't leave but couldn't stay. I was spending on average 1.5-2.5 hours every on it. Scrolling, checking, reading, liking, watching stories, posting, re-reading my own posts and reviewing other people's posts I'd put in my bookmarked folders for ideas and inspirations (inevitably leading to looking up patterns and products).  I called it a "little hobby", "a non-essential", "a tool for decompressing" but really it took up a big part of my life. 

I tried extended breaks from it - some for a few weeks, the longest was four months. It would follow a predictable pattern: I would feel increasingly unhappy and overwhelmed using it, decided to leave for a while, delete the app from my phone, almost immediately feel better to no longer have the temptation to use it, followed days later by sadness and irritability (a withdrawal of sorts, with regular unlocking and locking of my phone), followed by calm relief, clarity, peacefulness. I would ask myself why I even used it anymore, and talk to friends and family who were willing to hear me ramble around in circles. Then I'd decide to return - download the app again - resolve to use the platform differently, with more boundaries and a lighter grip. It wasn't the platform, it was me I'd say, I can approach it differently! And I would, to begin with... but then I'd inevitably circle back to the uncomfortable, addictive mode. 

In the past twelve months I've read and listened to some really thoughtful, challenging articles, podcasts and books on how social media is changing us: our culture, politics and relationships (see bottom of this post for more references and links). I really believe we need to speak about our experiences and gather together to brainstorm some best practice tools for these platforms and the important needs they meet - as well as call for appropriate governmental industry regulation. 

I recently borrowed Jaron Lanier's books "10 Arguments for Deleting your Social Media Right Now" and "You are not a gadget" from my local library. I'd seen Lanier in the Netflix documentary, The Social Dilemma, last year and was intrigued in his perspective as a computer scientist and "internet pioneer" but also a philosopher and musician. He is deeply concerned about social media platforms that play into our human desires for attention, approval and connection, whilst also exacerbating addiction, sadness, alienation, irrational behaviour, intolerance and mob mentality. He asks why organisations that purport to be "for people" rely on the free sharing of data that is collected and sold, targeted advertising and algorithms aimed at modifying human behaviour that ultimately go against people. Pit people against each other. Lanier is not anti-technology, or anti-internet - quite the opposite - he is calling for more dialogue around how to nurture personal dignity and promote diverse and kind community within the online world. These lines of his really stood out to me: 

"The most important thing to ask about any technology is how it is changing people"

"If we associate human identity with the digital reduction instead of reality at large we will reduce ourselves" 

Between Christmas and New Year, I contemplated a 2021 without instagram. A proper twelve month break. But then the thought of moving on altogether, deleting my entire account and it's six year history became more and more appealing. A number of friends, independently of me and for various reasons, decided to leave for good. Some left due to concerns in IG's changing terms of use, some for personal reasons and mental health. 

In the end quitting instagram was my answer to an ongoing dilemma I found myself in. It felt good to realise I did have a choice and this could be mine. I know it doesn't "fix" the structural problems within the platform, or  my own baggage around why I became addicted. It also creates a new burden of exploring ways to stay in touch with friends and connections made primarily through it. I really do miss "seeing" the glimpses of life on there - the creative community and diverse, provocative voices. I need to make more effort now to seek those out in other ways. 

Quitting marks the end of a six year chapter - almost as old as my second born son. And while it is sad and painful in many ways, it has also made space and time in my life for something new. It has allowed me - so far - to rest, to contract, and to begin things I have long dreamed of like re-enrolling in my studies and in launching a monthly newsletter celebrating the seasons of life. 

I completed two garments recently: one began slowly and I lost interest in, only to pick it back up and love it completely! The other was sewn in a frenzy of excitement and anticipation only to find it didn't look or feel as lovely as I hoped. As in much of life, in making I find myself wondering about needs, wants and expectations. About the process of a thing, not only the finished product.

The first make is a lightweight summer shawl using a cotton-silk blend of yarn that I have had in my stash for about seven years. I'd actually used some of it to make a crochet vest a few years ago that I hardly wore - so I unravelled it and used the yarn along with the other balls to knit this shawl.

The pattern is called "The Seaside Shawl" by Carrie Bostick Hodge and follows a fairly straight-forward hour-glass lace pattern with increasing garter rows in between. I was attracted to the semi-circle, urchin-like quality of it. When I started it though I didn't feel overly excited and found myself getting a bit bored in the garter rows. I wondered how practical the shawl would be and if I'd ever wear it. I eventually put it aside to work on some other crafty projects for a few months. Then after Christmas I got it out again and found myself enjoying then knitting so much! The simplicity and repetition, was just what I needed at the end of a busy year. I took it down to the riverside and knit as my boys played. 

Once finished the shawl blocked out beautifully and I've been using it often in the mornings when there is still a touch of coolness in the air before the heat of the day sets in. It is the perfect summer weight shawl, and the colour reminds me of so many things I have growing in the summer garden - silver dust, lambs ears, succulents - as well as the lichen that grows so abundantly on the granite rocks and hawthorn bushes around the farm. 

Pattern: Seaside Shawl by Carrie Bostick Hodge
Yarn: 4ply cotton/silk blend from Bendigo Woollen Mills

The other recent make is my second version of "The Teahouse Dress" by Sew House 7 (which I have posted about before) but this time in a beautiful, soft double gauze cotton by my favourite textile designer Nani Iro.

I confess I fell in love with the hand painted flowers and swallows in the design, the sage green hues and the little bursts of blue and teal green and soft pink. I thought it would make the perfect, comfortable special occasion dress that I could wear to my sister's 30th birthday and then for Christmas in December - as it turned out both events fell on unseasonably cool days and I couldn't even wear it! 

I dreamed about this dress long before I started sewing it, and even as I worked on it I thought I would love it so much. But when I finished I soon found that I didn't! The cotton sits so differently to linen; I feel like every seam and stitch and rumple is visible. More un-ironed vintage curtain looking than flattering kimono dress. Sigh, perhaps it will grow on me with time? I wonder if I should just unpick it and make it into something entirely different.

Pattern: Teahouse Dress by Sew House 7
Fabric: "Jardin" double gauze cotton by Nani Iro 

Down by the river
three boys barefoot
looking for fish, frogs,
and yabbie claws

We marvel at the shallows,
green and weedy,
banks covered with reeds
willows flowing with leaves
poplars tall and shimmering,

the littlest boy is
crouching on a rock
watching water bugs
he sees me watching him
and grins,

It’s a mud pie heaven
a place to sit
watch rocks sink,
forgotten fence posts
stick up like rusty thumbs
dragonflies land on them
we notice tiny blue moths,
flies and native bees.

Three boys rivering,
above them galahs flying,
their mother revelling
in watery reflection, thinking,
we seem to come on
the days we most need it.