Despite a few recent sleep-limited nights, it's hard not to feel empowered and driven. I can see exactly what I want, I've been dreaming of where I need to be and the ducks fly seamlessly into row formation. It's here, now. The ridge line promising guidance.
Anachronisms created mixed feelings this week, focused on farming across seas. While being exposed to some of the newest ag-tech at the MobileTech Conference this week in New Zealand, it's hard to remove the thought of Braford cattle roaming ancient Worimi country and Clydesdales pulling antique carts. Tech, or no tech, this joy keeps me awake at night.
We woke early, loaded Izz into the float again last weekend. A little weary from the early starts and a passing storm the night before, she eventually made her way onto the trailer for the journey to Nabiac. After a trip over the mountains, we arrived a little weary ourselves and got straight into washing the feathers that glide within the wind. The Nabiac Show was in town.
I'm sitting in our new home. Views of the Buccan Buccan play through the rear windows as paint lines walls throughout. A soft breeze continues to provide life and flow here. Each breath an opportunity for new life.
Being back home this week has helped distil my thoughts from the last few, allowing time to see the stars and connect a few dots. A different time, a different momentum, all stacking up to what we see. And then eventually to what we don't. The past, left stagnant for what was, urging the creator to pay respect for the future.
In a world subject to changing fast and trying to keep ahead, gentle giants and a few old maps question the revolutionising change. Amidst the rush, a wave of slowing paces the hallow hallways, screaming for a recognition of the past. Often unnoticed, it is still here. Always was. Always will be.
Early morning fog lifted as the pressure from a lone garden hose released to the sight of purple horse shampoo. Touching up the soft, flowing feathers from just a few hours the night before, it was then onto the float and back inland for the Dungog Show. It was the first horse show since May, but Izz took it in her stride and reintroduced herself to the ring.
Following the wisdom flowing from our team last week, I was guided to listen. Just find the right people and absorb what is there, asking questions to chase the story and note what is not said, what is left in the space between us. Often they are words too hard to share, too painful to re-live as a memory or thought, let alone living in the shoes. Just listen.
My weekend started out under a million stars, as the cold night air filled the space around us, drowning out the sound of heavy horses trying to sleep. We arrived at the St Heliers Heavy Horse Field Day late on Friday night, with a rush to try and find a pen and set up before trying to get some sleep before an early morning. I awoke to the sound of horses playing, horsing around trying to work out who was boss. Somehow Izz found herself in this dispute, so it was straight over to pull her out of the pen and to the wash bays. We got her washed (and somewhat dry) just in time for her class, where she competed with six other horses to take out third place. Not a bad effort for a younger horse with pretty tough competition. What I love about the Heavy Horse industry is the way they bring youth into their network, hosting their own categories and honestly sharing tips and tricks around the show ring. But to my surprise even more, it’s the stories of some of the older breeders taking youth under their wings and giving them a horse to start- that’s the stuff our industry should be doing! It was also great to see a farrier work their magic, alongside whip plaiters and blacksmithing. Many of these lost talents are re-emerging through the maker revolution we find ourselves in- looking for novel, lasting products with purpose. Then it was back home for some cleaning and getting ready for the week ahead, followed by a family lunch. In a change to unwind and slow down again, I found myself searching my tea cupboard looking for the perfect brew. So in the light of an old measuring tool left at the house when we moved in and with an Indigenous art teapot, it was good to just settle. Monday morning I received some news I guess I had been expecting, yet something I didn’t want to hear. Dad called to say my Grandfather in Boorowa was severely unwell and that they were heading down to see him and my Nan. Standing around the hospital bed, it was clear that his wisdom and patience was no longer for this world. That his way with chainsaws and sheep would be encapsulated in time, waiting for stories and his journals to be unearthed to discover what he really was thinking. With a heavy heart, in the early hours of Tuesday morning he passed away, out of pain and leaving a massive hole in the family and small little town.