There seems to be a direct correlation between age and the desire for simplicity – the older I get, the more I value the simple things in life. And yet so often I am reminded of how deceptively complex simplicity is, especially in our culture where more rather than less is billed as better, and busyness is synonymous with successful...

On the summer solstice weekend, I facilitated a Sacred Ecology workshop near Warburton, Victoria. As usual I arrived early, preferring to have some solo time on the land before others turned up. Especially if it’s my first time to a venue (as was the case), it feels important to encounter the country on its terms, to see what suggestions or invitations it might have before imposing my ideas for curriculum...

While we’ve all been piling our plates high over the last week with foods likely sourced from all over the country, if not the world, a mate of mine has been eating only what he hunted or gathered from the land.

I’m being pulled rather than walking up the path to the bluff, care of the stronghold on my palm that an excited five year old in plaits has commanded...

Cresting a rise on the coastal heath track, I think of Istanbul. It’s an odd thought, but the dozens of grass tree flower stalks reaching skyward above the shrubbery remind me of the city’s skyline of minarets, and the loud call to prayer each dawn.

Most people are familiar with Renew Newcastle’s game changing project of negotiating the use of disused and vacant buildings in the city CBD for artists, cultural projects and community groups. The concept has not only brought colour and movement to Newcastle’s centre, but other cities around the country(and beyond) have picked up the template to great success.

Right now, I’m all about herbs. Whether growing in my garden, steeping in my teapot, flavouring my raw dips and stir-fries, administered by the capful every morning, dropped into the bathwater or oil burner, herbs are working their magic both from the inside and out... 

I’m not a bit fan of prescribing any animal a particular meaning. If someone dreams of a snake, I’m reluctant to suggest that they might be shedding their skin in some transition, or that the appearance a lion signals courage, believing it to be much more individual than universal.

This week I heard a story that I just have to share. It’s the story of a little red hen and a man named Chris.

I like when places in nature start to take on stories and rituals related to our lives – the magpie swoop tree, the pond of regret, the grandma rose. It’s like a modern kind of ‘songlining’ of our environment; a building of relationship and intimacy.

Sometime last year I received an email from a Meg, who, along with her partner Patrick, toddler Woody, eleven-year-old Zephyr and Zero their Jack Russell, were travelling 6000 kilometres of the east coast by bike, from Daylesford to Cape York and back, camping free, and hunting and gathering as much tucker as they could along the way.

When contemplating public green space to explore, I tend to overlook the large tract of land that cemeteries occupy. Often leafy, quiet and full curiously engraved stones, there is much of interest on offer for the wanderer.

It’s that time of year again. As the first thunderstorms of summer bubble and brew on the humid horizon, so too do are the storm birds ramping up in vocal intensity and activity.

Nature makes you happy. I don’t need to tell you that. Neither does science but it is, studies confirming that time in nature reduce stress levels and cultivate a general sense of wellbeing.

There is a strong correlation for me between bushwalking and puffing up steep hills. If one only ever knew the land from our parks and reserves, it would be easy to assume that trees only grew on steep and inaccessible slopes.

What signals spring for you? Perhaps it is the sweet scent of jasmine, brassicas in the garden going to seed, wildflowers appearing in a nearby reserve, or simply the packing away of winter woolies. My column last week spoke of one of my spring markers - the squawking return of the channel-billed cuckoos.

On the long road home after two months away in far north Queensland, I pondered about the rite of passage of homecoming. The signs and significance of the event are relative perhaps to the distance and time away, I thought.  

There’s a significant problem with a working holiday – when you’re working you feel like you’re missing out on a holiday, and when you’re not working you feel guilty for relaxing. In the last week of our northern adventure, it was time to switch off and give ourselves a true break...

There’s nothing like travelling in strange lands to make you feel like a stranger. Out of familiar environs, few of the accustomed habits, norms, rules and even languages apply. While not a foreign tongue (although sometimes the accent is so broad it is almost unintelligible), my adventures in far north Queensland have had some of this...

It has occurred to me in recent years that living amongst beaches, lakes and rivers and only ever seeing them from the shore is a bit like peering in at the ice cream flavours and never tasting them. Not about to invest in a boat, I haven’t been quite sure how to bridge the gap...