Living on bushland taught me this: weeds don’t arrive loudly — they take ground quietly, until it feels normal. So we clear some space, and watch what comes back.

It started as noticing cowrie shells on long beach walks. Then I made it a daily requirement — and the walk narrowed into a quiet, tense hunt.

A reminder of what gets traded away when a gift becomes a metric, and how to reset.

While I was taking old barbed wire fences off the land, I started noticing the less visible fences that still shape my own life.

What happens in a valley – and in us – when we start taking those fences down?

In one of the valleys where we live stands an ancient tree. It is a quiet witness to time — to what once was and to what now surrounds it. This story sits with the impact of our choices and how they shape what comes next.

A butcher bird’s urgent call breaks the stillness of a November morning. A goanna has ventured too close, and the bird responds with instinct and presence.

When it begins to sing again just moments later, questions quietly arise.