Sunshine under rain

The second week has been easier. I no longer feel as in the way. Or so stupid. I no longer feel like this was a big mistake. I still feel like a fraud and it still seems unbelievable that this hasn't been figured out and that I've been sent home in disgrace, but I've got some spice back, and I would fight back if they did. I may not be that clever, learned, industrious person right now. But I will be some day.

As I drove home this afternoon it was bucketing with rain. Big splashy swathes of Summer rain that ran down the windows and smelled delicious. The sun was setting behind the mountains and just as I neared home it burst from underneath the clouds and made each sparkling drop golden. I was smiling uncontrollably, happy and wondering if anything in life could be more beautiful when the sky above me forked with lightning while a rainbow shimmered in a full double arc across the sky.

Summer

Sitting on my back verandah, facing out over the mountains in the darkness. Overhead the sky is grumbling, the wind racing around, exciting the trees as they dance in anticipation. Every few seconds the sky lights up, a massive sheet of lightning in front of me. It has been hot all day - scorching my bare feet as I walked on the bitumen and making my face glow in the humidity. The Monkey's hair a mass of corkscrew spirals around her face. It's coming. Rolling closer and closer and the taste on the breeze is tantalising. My skin prickling with the intensity of what's coming.

I sat in the sun today, improperly leaving my bare skin naked to its rays and didn't care about sun safe messages. Instead I let that warm golden heat penetrate my skin and make me feel awake and alive for the first time in a week. Only for a few moments. I didn't get burned, nor even mildly pink. But I felt the dose of it sparkle through my skin. Needed and wanted.

Tonight, standing under the clothes line as we pulled in washing and watched the sky overhead light up I thought about the hot clear day and the joy of Summer storms. It hasn't been a stormy summer, it's been grey and wet and often cool. And I've missed this build up. The scorching weather. The underwater humidity. The limp hair and the glowing skin. The frisson in the air as the storm builds and builds.

It hasn't broken yet but the wind is so excited. She's calling me out from under my cover here, to come and play outside when it arrives. The trees are shivering as she sings and all around waits in breathless anticipation. The sweet smell of fresh rain, purer than any perfume bathing the air as the seconds between thunder and lightning diminish.

I'm waiting for the proper thunder. The cracks that make you jump out of your skin and tremble just a little. At the top of a very tall ride and waiting to free fall into the exhilaration that follows. I'm waiting for that crack right above my very head that feels as if the sky has ripped and there's a glimpse of some other dimension just for a second. A portal to the land of what if.

My skin is dancing. My eyes have turned gold for the first time in months. Little droplets of gold are running through my veins and I can breathe. Properly. Deep gasping lungfuls of breath. The rain is nearly here and I want to go out and play. Be soaked. Sodden. Cleansed.

I want to be part of the storm.

Stormy

There is a storm building.

I am on my front verandah watching the clouds; for a brief moment before there was a rainbow in the sunset, but now the sky is bruised and angry. The clouds are swirling, different levels excitedly circling the sky, some black, some green, some heavy with rain. I frightened a dogwalker before, standing at my front gate balancing my camera to take pictures of the sky. Excited and breathy, waiting for the storm to close in.

I need this storm, I feel almost as if I've created it. That the darkness inside of me has gathered just as the clouds have, to rumble and spew forth. There is wind here, wind that chases me, tosses my hair and the edge of my grey satin robe, floating it wide around me like a cape.

I can feel my fingers tingling, feel the energy that is vibrating as the storm gathers. It will be brutal when it hits. I want it to lash. Want it to be my voice when I have been lost for words all day. My skin is prickled, waiting for the first drops of rain to fall, waiting for the air around me to coalesce.

The birds were singing before, warning of the storm, but it is eerily quiet now as we wait for the first spray of the storm. I have felt it all day, the way the sultry heat sucked at my skin, taking away my breath to the skies. It is there now, hovering above me, dark and sullen. My temper, held in check, bruised and swollen.

According to the weather bureau, much of the violence is South of here, lashing away from my hill, but it's coming, and I'm waiting for it. This is not a friendly storm, a loving storm, a storm to gently cleanse. It is a storm to scream by. A storm to curse as I become the air.

Olfactory

I love the smell of wisteria and pine trees. Wet pine needles in a bucket turning slightly swampy. tied to a tree to make the birds a warm nest over the frost. Wisteria on the breeze as I hang precariously from the tree, binding the ugly blue bucket to its trunk.

I love the smell of downy soft wattle, honey sweet and delicate. What fairies must smell like. Soft grey foliage that highlights the bright sunshine of the perfect blooms and holding hands for the first time.

I love the smell of WestCoast coolers, sweet and sickly. Backyard barbeques and adults lauging while children scoot between plastic outdoor furniture playing hard.

I love the smell of sparklers, dancing in the long narrow back garden and making circles. The hiss and fizz amd watching the sparks hit the grass. The pungent smell of them while cupping the fallen sparks in my hand until the last of the light is gone and the piping hot wires are plunged into Dad's waiting bucket.

I love the smell of overripe mangos in the sun. Pocked skin and finding half green ones hanging from trees. Picking one with only half of it blemished and eating the warm sweet flesh as the juice runs down my chin. Dancing on the blue painted trestles under the trees and singing songs made up out of my own head. Desperate tales of love and loss.

I love the smell of jacaranda flowers before they sour on the ground. The way it intensifies in the heat. Sitting in the tree, high above the ground making houses in the air.

I love the smell of fresh cut cedar. Distinctive green leaves and a fence with trees evenly spaced. Paper daisies. Sandcastles in the twilight glowing.

I love the smell of the approaching storm. When the cirrus clouds form overhead to herald the rain but the sun is yet scorching. The gust of sweet breath before it arrives and buckets down.

I love the smell of warm skin under cotton. The heat that rises through and blends so that it tastes and smells of warmth. Resisting the urge to bury my face in it and never come up for air.

Storm girl

(Picture by Nicholas O'Donnell)

I can't sleep. It's well past my bedtime and I'm buzzing a little bit. Buzzing not being an adjective one uses as a synonym for sleepy.

I went out tonight with a friend, to a pavement pizza restaurant in a suburb that was inundated merely a week ago and chatted a lot for a few hours. I haven't seen him for a few months, but he is one of those friends that you pick up where you left off and the conversation flows easily. It may have been a Wednesday night, but the sidewalk was never empty with endless people watching opportunities as the ominous clouds overhead began to rumble.

I haven't laughed as much as I did tonight for a long time. He commented on it too, that I seemed a bit sparklier today than usual, and it's odd, because I've been a bit tightly wound lately. So we discussed work, because that's what doctors inevitably do when they get together, and I talked a little of what had been stressing me, and he told a lot of the stories he always does, and we relaxed into that comfortable almost sibling like relationship we have. With me being too honest and him putting up with me taking the piss as we ate too much pizza and baklava.

I loved half listening, especially when it was a story I'd already heard before, and watching the people go by. Those dashing through the rain that started to fall, women in scary heels and tiny dresses, bohemian dresses and bare feet. A woman in a corset and severe make up. A woman who may have been born a man. And all the time, as we sat in our cheap plastic chairs I watched the lightning flash and waited for the storm to properly hit.

It came with that pre gust of wind, a cool exhalation before it began pelting down, and we leaned back in our chairs under the awning as the street filled with water and the laughter of those caught in the storm. It smelled so sweet that rain. Proper storm rain that smells different to the heavy, warm, monsoonal rain. Or the grey mist that has pervaded, or the relentless rain of recent weeks. It was rain that made me want to dance in it. That made me not care that it was ruining my (for once) well behaved hair and soaking my shirt.

Then I came home, and I hugged Bingley because I feel infectiously cheerful. Like something is alive in me. Something sparkly. And it's fluttering away in my chest and won't let me sleep.

Eating yoghurt with a fork

I woke with my sun on the face. It was deathly quiet and for the first time in weeks there was not the steady, cool drum of rain on the roof. For the first day this Summer it felt like a normal day. Except it wasn't.

I turned the TV on, which is rare, and the emotions were similar to back in 2001 when I watched the Twin Towers. It was strange. Pottering about the house getting ready for work, while the sun shone and Brisbane was just waking up. And the river was silently rising.

As I drove towards work there were people walking dogs, people out running and not many cars at all. In fact it was very quiet for a Wednesday morning in Brisbane, not the steady pre peak hum of a city waking up, but absolute stillness. A hot, bright, steamy day. Until the peace was shattered by the blackhawk helicopters and the news choppers and the search and rescue choppers. A cacophony of blades against the blue blue sky.

We turned the corner to drive onto the usual freeway entry and suddenly there was a lake. A deep, brown, muddy lake surrounded by police tape. A detour left and another detour, this time with a high vis vested policeman directing traffic. And so it went, dead end after dead end. The Brisbane streets a maze of hand on the left wall to get out.

The Possum and Bingley were in the car with me, dropping me off at work, making sure I could get there and also making sure that I didn't need to park, as everywhere around the hospital is under water. There is no public transport to where we live now. The shops are closed or bare. And the morning was so still.

At work all "elective" surgeries were cancelled and the NUM of my ward fielded calls from those who were stuck. We can't get in. We can't get out. Our house is going under. We're evacuating... stories that seem so bizarre on such a fine sunny morning. It was surreal.

Yesterday as the news of the rising waters hit, and the impact began to reveal itself, I thought of the Possum's beautiful daycare centre. The little ramshackle place that has been part of our family for over 6 years, situated right on the river. The rain was bucketing down. Not a shower; not a storm; but bucketing. The roads around the hospital began to flood and every news bulletin carried my suburb as a headline - "going under". I could not focus on work. Every news bulletin was grimer. First flash flooding. Then bad flooding. Then whispers of "74" started to get out and I knew there was no point to me being at work. My baby was at daycare, next to the river, in an area under the 74 zone and I had to get to him. Mum and Dad had seen their city swept away the day before, a torrential flash flood that was beamed across the world because of its ferocity and destruction and I didn't like to tempt fate. I told my superiors and ran out into the rain and was instantly soaked.

The rain was indescribable. So heavy that you could not see. My eyelashes flattened in the deluge, instantly becoming wet to my skin through my layers of clothing. It was like swimming, but it stung as it hit my face. Huge heavy drops. Half the hospital was leaving with me and as I crawled out of the carpark and through the puddles I shivered in the airconditioning of the car, desperately calling Bingley to make sure he was out of the water. Pre-empting me he had gone to our centre and was helping to evacuate. All the children and staff out, everything of value that we could carry out. All the insurance papers and all those little things that make this tiny little centre perfect enough to trust with 3 of my babies, loaded into cars and shipped to higher ground, but leaving so much. Even thinking of it now my throat constricts.

Bingley and I met at home, stripping off our layers of sodden clothing and watching the Possum gallop around the living room. We turned on the TV and I was glued, for hours, watching the river rise, watching the suburbs and the landmarks I love be tickled, then licked, then smothered by water. And it was to get worse. Worse maybe than 74. Wivenhoe more than 100%. More than 150%. More than 200% as the rain came and came, and the knowledge that the wall of water that had hit the Lockey Valley, my home for some of my most formative years, was coming too.

And we went to bed with my brain swirling with the same murky waters that were creeping over the city, the mild sense of panic and a serene knowledge that all would be ok. Now that the 3 of us were together. (The girls are at Bingley's parent's well away from the South East corner). We had power and water and internet. And as I called my sister and brother they were ok too. Flooding near them, but not to them yet. And they were ok.

So today I went to work, the most convoluted path I've ever gone, but it was a normal day. A day so normal that it was surreal as I regularly flicked through the image gallery on the Courier Mail, usually surrounded by a gaggle of nurses as we stood awestruck by the destruction. Occasional gasps of "that's right near me". And frantic phone calls to check on loved ones. But in between the regular monotonous work that I do every day. The same sorts of things. The same sorts of tasks. Eating yoghurt with a fork because I couldn't find a spoon. And I signed up to do more shifts, because I knew we were short staffed and that they would need help.

And on the sun shone.

The air though was strange. Surreal. Even in the bright cheerful sun you could feel the river rising. Smell the steam as the sun lifted some of the deluge and feel the energy of the slow rising water as it engulfed the city. My sister posted regularly throughout the day, pictures of the suburb that we moved from just over a year ago and streets and parks we love were unrecognisable under the tide of water. I offered her a bed. Then cajoled. Then used my best big sister voice to convince her to come, worried about the streets that were being cut off at each end and the waters ever rising. And tonight, as the sky darkened we stood out on our verandah, which usually has views of twinkling lights of the city and it was darkness.

Blackout over the brightest lights of the third largest city in Australia. Tracts of darkness. And the occasional whine of the military helicopters against the inky night. We watched then walked back into our brightly lit, airconditioned house with full power and gas and water and internet and it seemed even mroe strange. Then the frantic call to my sister to check she was ok as she eventually succumbed to the evacuation. Smelling of river mud and strange exhilirated fear when she got here. Wanting to equally smack and hug her. Wondering at this strange new world of ours. Sitting on the couch watching GoMA, the beautiful building I posted of just days ago be touched by the greasy river, molested by the debris that chugged downstream.

The pubs near us are on high ground, and even yet I can hear them. They were full this afternoon as we went through - large groups of slightly shellshocked locals having a drink and sharing stories. Those who remember '74 regaling the young ones. Those of us who don't creating our own. No one is sure exactly how they should behave. Some are filling that gap with "helping". There were more volunteers at the Bardon sandbaggers than gawkers. Others like me work essential services and filled the hours with that. But there were a great deal many more who wandered the streets, cameras pointed at the deluge, puzzled looks on their faces, as if they too, couldn't quite grasp the enormity of this.

And even tonight, perhaps because I am curled up in my own very comfortable bed, with te fan whirring softly above me, and my belly full from a cooked dinner, I can't imagine this. I can't reconcile all those pictures of my beautiful city with this strangled brown wreck. We drove home as close to the city as we could and I *saw* it, and yet I still cannot believe that we are being molested thus. That we have not agreed to this. Have not consented to this invasion and yet it comes anyway.

It feels worse somehow that the sun is shining. Sun is what we do best here in Brisbane. We do sun, and thick muggy afternoons and the most incredible electrical storms you will ever see. Games of spontaneous football or frisbee in the park. BBQs and beer. And to have the first glorious day in months, a day that should be spent enjoing the parks and the creeks and maybe out on the river spoiled by a rapidly rising torrent of hidden debris and dreams is heart breaking.

The air is so still at the moment. The wind is not talking to me, too busy surveying the river. And even now, the lasting heat of the day is steaming off the snaking river, shimmering above it in the starlight as I gaze over the balcony. I am wishing for rain, and yet not wishing at the same time. Raid would make this more real. Yesterday as the rain battered my skin and soaked my hair the floods seemed so real. So imminent. But tonight in the warm mugginess it's not. The river is rising, and the night is too frightened to intervene.

Exhale

Whoever said that money can't buy happiness is probably right. It didn't for example buy me the view of this beautiful tree every morning. Or the cows that moaned their greeting in the early light. Or the goats. Or the grassy wind that swept over the plains beyond.





Nor did it buy the beautiful drive up the mountain. Winding through trees so green they made my heart soar, and rivulets that ran beside the road singing joyfully before crescendoing like a Welsh choir over the causeways.



It didn't technically pay for the way my ears popped as we wound around the steep path up the private mountain, watching the sheer cliffs of the majestic scenic rim peep out from their forested covers. Or for the wallabies that hopped across our path or the fat, lazy cows that meandered across it.



Instead, it paid for a room with a fireplace made from stones handcut in Scotland when Settled Australia was newly born. Hand hewn rock that delighted my fingertips as I pondered it's history. Cedar shutters on floor to ceiling windows that beheld an uninterrupted view of mountains and trees and humming fields of grass and wildflowers. The sweet spicy scent from the cedar tickling my belly and warming my senses. L'occitane bath salts in a spa I could stretch out in and read a full book from beginning to end. 7 course menus with wines I've never tasted before matched perfectly in crystal that made me ache with their simple perfection



Board games and cards as the rain thundered down, a warm grey blanket that we watched roll in from the valleys below to keep us cosy. Laughing games at the pool table with drinks handed to us with so much as a lifted eyebrow. Canapes and cups of tea.


Walking across the sodden trails while the bees hummed so merrily that the air was alive with it. The sweetness of clover and the sharpness of thistle matched by the wildflowers that dappled the green.



Sitting back, looking out over the vastness of the panorama. Drinking in the air and the view and that wild tang of being somewhere remote and isolated. And that delighted, delightful sensation of being on holiday, even if it can be measured in mere hours. Curled up on the window seat, a cashmere rug in tasteful neutrals thrown over my knees, a giant fluffy white bathrobe tied around my waist.

Drizzle

I woke up this morning in the darkness and methodically mixed formula as I gazed out on a sodden morning untroubled by bright rays of sunshine. All was shadowed. Dripping. No friendly warmth, only cold and wet and sleeping world, safely tucked up in bed while I shivered.

I climbed back into bed 15 minutes later while the Possum slurped his way to sleep and half slept until I was paged for my regular Saturday morning taxi service to ballet. I tried to feel enthusiastic about washing my hair and dressing but couldn't manage it, and stumbled out of the house clean and smelling nice, but with wet straggly hair and not even moisturiser on my terrible sleep deprived and stressed skin.

I didn't even realise how utterly miserable I looked until I saw myself in the mirror while helping the Monkey in one of the children's bathrooms as I lifted her to wash her hands. I looked haggard. At least 5, but more like 10 years older than I am. Hair half dried, stringy, half wavy, mostly frizzy. My skin looking old and tired and battered. I recoiled from the mirror.

We got home from ballet and the Elfling went off to the toothfairy (to my shame) to have a shallow hole in her tooth filled. She was apparently very brave, and the composite filling is completely not visible in her beautiful mouth, but I feel a bit of shame about it. Especially as I have no holes in my own teeth. We've always been pretty good about brushing, but obviously not thorough enough. /end segue

Anyhow, I stood in front of the mirror looking at my sallow skin and boring clothes and shuddered. Washed my hands, blinked slowly and waited to see recognition of the face that I know is there somewhere instead of this old tired stranger. Stripping out of my boring functional clothes to my underwear and deciding on starting the day all over again. Doing my hair quickly, putting on the tiniest bit of makeup and wrapping a scarf around a bright silky top while pulling on my boots.

I looked in my full length mirror this time, and while certainly not going to break any hearts I had the tiniest bit of sparkle about my person (we can't all transform into swans) and I just felt my mood lift. Felt the grey coolness of the day seep in and prickle instead along the blood.

We headed into the city and walked out into the misty sleety weather speckled with innumerable bright coloured umbrellas and I felt instantly cheerful. The spray of cool wet across my face and the insistent slap of wind as it raced under and over the bridge as we crossed it. By the time we reached the mall my shirt was wet and plastered to my skin and I knew my face was starting to radiate. Could feel the warmth in my cheeks and eyes.

We did some shopping and ended up sitting in a coffee shop while rain pelted the plate glass windows and I loved it. Loved the colour against the grey, the coolness and the dampness and the cluster of patrons crowded in the cafe. The noisy hum of people seeking shelter and the smell of roasting coffee beans and all day breakfasts.

I loved that I had a Saturday to sit with my babies and play with them and drink and eat and relax. To feel that frisson of relaxed energy that pervades on a proper weekend.

Came home and lay on my bed listening to the rain pour down and watched as the sun set under the clouds in a golden fireball.

It was a beautiful day.