In the Absence of Eggs

It’s been three weeks now and the chooks aren’t putting out. Well not as far as I can tell. If they’re laying, they’re not letting on.
“Look out for eggs in strange places,” the homeowners cry joyfully, Quantas bound. Thing is, I have been looking: under boulders, piles of grass, roosting spots, but no eggs. Nada. Nothing. 

What’s worse is one’s losing all her feathers. A coating of downy soft plumage lines the carport, like the aftermath of a pillow fight. More each day.  
Dear God,
If you’re around this Easter
Please take care of the chooks,
Please don’t let there be any animal fatalities under my watch. 
I don’t care about the eggs anymore. 
Thank you, 
Amen. 
While God’s working on that l head out in search of the chocolate kind, Cadbury’s Mini Eggs, my primary source of sustenance for years spent writing March report cards. 
Wincing at the increasingly exposed blue neck of the barren chook nestled deep within the carport I drive off in a cloud of feathers, eager to accumulate an Easter stash of something edible.

Aussies love their chocolate. Cadbury’s is HUGE. Easter egg displays are spectacular with eggs of every size, colour, and filling that launch pensioners into fits of giddy delight. But alas, I search the aisles of Coles, Woolworths, and IGA in vain. Under great duress I’m forced to entertain the notion of an Easter devoid of my favourite crunchy morsels. 
With no luck on the egg front of either variety it’s clearly time for a change – again! The licence plates remind me:
Tasmania – Explore the Possibilities

So instead, each morning I hunt for the hugest, plumpest figs ready to pluck and rest atop my counter and ponder the deliciously divine ways in which to consume.


I scan the vista of meandering river amidst fields of barley, cut a blooming red rose and admire its majesty of folds and fragrance. The rooster crows, a kookaburra laughs, and a robin models his tangerine chest to appreciative onlookers. Bountiful beauties of another kind offer themselves to me in abundance.
Who needs eggs? Not me it seems. 

Well, at least not till the next full moon. (See Mars Bar Meditation) Hmmm, think that’s tonight. Suddenly, a werewolf urgency propels me into a frenzied panic….

hey…look what I found at the corner store!

La Buena Vida

When in doubt about where you are meant to be, look down at your feet- Buddhist saying –


Llucalcari, a one-street village nestled along Mallorca’s spectacular west coast is my new ‘meant to be’ place. A village that warrants a name on a Google map but not on a road sign. Blink and you miss it. Not surprisingly many new visitors arriving into Palma’s airport after dark, in just-rented vehicles, tackling hair pin bends and glancing down at ‘How To Get To The House’ directions, simply drive on by! 


The bus stop, as it happens, is the lone marker to this dreamlike hamlet. The descent to which resembles a private driveway on a roller coaster. My inner voice, now firmly in the ‘ON’ position, talks me down, down, down, convincing me to take the No Entry lane toward the beckoning ocean. Apparently the only way in, and out. 
  
With exacting precision I maneuver the car into the one remaining teensy space, congratulate myself and step outside. Houses trussed up, all in a row. Not a soul in sight. Probably just as well considering my Spanish illiteracy. What’s “Good evening”? I forget already! With flashlight and careful instructions arrogantly ignored on the back seat, I grasp the house key. The search for my Caserio begins. “This is fun,” I chuckle, like a kid on a scavenger hunt, supremely confident in my detective abilities.

Ten minutes later and I am still out on the street, homeless. The key doesn’t fit the lock. Am I even in the right village I wonder? The derelict church next door invokes chills even the warmest of breezes can’t avert.  A deep down fear brews in my gut. Could there have been some kind of mistake? Unwittingly I try the key in the adjoining property (my neighbours’ apparently) leaving us all half scared to death. “Habla ingles?” I ask in desperation to the blank faces in the doorway. Yet amidst the confusion my arrival had in fact been anticipated and I am redirected to the door I first fumbled failingly to master. A welcome entry befitting sighs, giggles and cold beer waiting patiently for my arrival. 


Part 2
Last year, arriving in Ireland on a week’s retreat with poet David Whyte, we were reminded to take a good look around as we’d never see this place again exactly as we did on this first night. And so it is here. Four weeks and each day reveals something previously unseen, unfelt. And as with any place we inhabit for long enough, a familiarity grows. We get to call it Home. A House of Belonging?
Life here is slow. Days are long. Fertile ground for one to ponder new directions. Boiling the kettle to clean the dishes. Washing clothes by hand. Everything more elemental and necessary to gear down a body and mind. A healing of sorts. Windows recessed deep in stone walls allow for an uncommon darkness and profoundly deep sleep, and ancient doors keep interiors like wine cellars, cool and dark. Once opened, blinded by the light. Reminders of childhood Saturdays spilling out of the local cinema into the bright afternoon light. 
The sun’s rays enter the outside bathroom in the late morning making for a perfect time to bathe. The shower head limps with excess weight in its cradle requiring body convolutions to rinse bubbles from my hair. Errant winds deposit swirling leaves at my feet. I am a million miles away from the life I so recently knew.
A 30 minute walk to Deia, the nearby village with its ‘lifestyles of the rich and famous’ appeal, provide the basic necessities for daily life and the opportunity to greet new friends with the obligatory kissing on both cheeks. Purchases need to be made before the mandatory siesta closures, the heaving weight of bottled water and wine forgotten by years of car ownership. Chocolate cravings have to be planned ahead, if that’s even possible!
Beach access, a 5 minute descent through terraced olive groves and a resident donkey, invite sun lovers the opportunity to spread their nakedness over giant boulders, providing they possess the agility to scale the perilously steep ledges….typically those meant to be seen naked. This is how many ‘take the sun’ on this side of the Atlantic, but as the Buddhist saying goes, ‘When in doubt about where you’re meant to be…’ I look down at my feet and make a swift departure home.