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2008 Winter Whales Ocean Classic – Byron Bay

This year is the 20th year for the Winter Whales Ocean Classic and the event will include the 2.2km Wategoes to Main Beach swim as well as ‘the dash for cash’ (500 m sprint) and the new ‘Mini Classic’ (800 m).

Date: First Sunday in May – 4 May 2008

Time: 10:00 am start

Location: Byron Bay Surf Club, Main Beach race starts from Wategoes

Contact: Chris Lowry aquadoctor@gmail.com

Birds, bugs and butterflies at third Brunswick Valley Nature Festival

The 2008 Brunswick Valley Nature Festival will be all about conserving biodiversity in our unique natural environment. The theme “Birds, bugs and butterflies” will highlight the threat of climate change to the region’s biodiversity as increasing numbers of species face extinction, and just what that means for our future.

The Festival will be at the Shearwater Steiner School at Mullumbimby on Sunday 1st June, 2008. You can read more about the Festival at www.brunswickvalleylandcare.org.au The day will include workshops and presentations, bird walks, and lots of hands-on and fun activities for everyone.

Put the date in your calendar now. Volunteers are needed to assist with the organisation and to help out on the day – please offer your services if there is anything you would like to do to make the Festival a success. Volunteers are invited to call Adrian on 6685 1287 or email to brunsvalley@optusnet.com.au Posted by Adrian Begg, Brunswick Valley Landcare.

Byron Bay New Year’s Eve 2007 – Safe Community Event

The Byron Bay Safety Committee has again been formulating the program for a safe community event for this years new years eve in Byron Bay.

With the success of recent years low key, community based, alcohol free, new year event, the same formula is planned for this year to ensure a safe night. said Chair of the committee, Mayor Jan Barham. Council has again resolved to provide a safe environment by the use of alcohol prohibition on the streets and parks in both Byron Bay and Brunswick. The format for NYE in Byron Bay will proceed as it was last year, focusing the event on the beachfront reserves and minimise the impact on local businesses. The committee is also calling for stall holders to make an expression of interest to have food and craft stalls on the night and an opportunity for community groups to have free stalls to showcase their work and activities. Details of how to apply are available on Councils website and via advertisements The event will commence at 3pm with children's activities and market stalls at the beach front.

The popular parade will feature again and there is a request to the community to join in by starting to prepare costumes and group presentations This year the support of Byron United is welcomed and there is a strong spirit of cooperation to provide for a safe, community friendly NYE in Byron Bay. Licensed venues in Byron Bay will again provide exciting events but these are ticketed and size limited, so those wanting to celebrate the night will need to get in quick to ensure they get a ticket.

Many restaurants in town will also be open and also require booking said Cr Barham. The committee thanks those local performers who have offered their talents for the night and buskers are invited to apply to perform on the night.

The Safety Committee also appreciates the generous donations from businesses for prizes for the parade and is hoping that there may be other support offered to assist in the provision of necessary infrastructure for the night. If you are still looking for accommodation over New Years Eve, visit our Still Available for NYE Accommodation Guide.

Living In The Byron Bubble

It is possible to fall as passionately in love with a place as with a person.

Both types of love affairs follow the same psychological lines of unfoldment. You set eyes on the intended. Sparks fly. Before you can say "Jack (or Jill) Robinson" or "Belongil Beach", you're smitten by the love object, who appears, initially to fulfill all your wildest dreams.

You flirt, you put your toe, so to speak, in the water, you grow superficially acquainted; then, more often than not, you plunge rapidly into what our culture mistakenly identifies as intimacy. That is to say, you are in bed together - literally or metaphorically, or, if you're lucky, both. You don't want to be anywhere else. He/she/this place is your heartland. It all becomes very intense. It begins to feel like - let me surface for a deep breath here - This is It! You hang out together, superglued at the hip by the seductive power of pure potential. You make plans, you fantasise about how perfect the future is going to be. A classic case of pure projection, as the shrinks would say.

They also say that with person-to-person love affairs it takes about two months for the initial limerance, that delectable word and state, to wear off. With locations, special place with which you have fallen truly, madly, deeply in love, it can take years for the romance to wear thin, for the honeymoon to be over. And then it's time to make a decision. Do you want to bail out, seek a new love interest and start the courtship phase all over again - and that may well be an appropriate course of action - or do you want to recommit yourself to your loved one and move on to a deeper, restructured phase of relating?

For several months after I moved from Bondi Beach to Byron Bay, Australia's most easterly, surf's up ecotopia, I had to keep pinching myself to make sure this radical relocation was for real. In the lee of the Cape one diamond day, I sat down and wrote a long euphoric, gratitude list, the core components of which, on reviewing, still hold true:

  • Byron is a viridescent, sub-tropical jewel in the continent's bellybutton.
  • Byron is not just a ravishing physical environment, it is a state of mind. It occupies an affectionate place in the national psyche, in the Australian Dream, and rightly so, for it is a place which affords you the time and (microsocietal) permission to find out who you are, apart from what you do.
  • Byron is one of the last bastions of the invididual, or as one local wit once put it: "the truth is out there - and so are we."

Exquisite jewels, when held in a certain light, however, may exhibit the odd dark facet. What the visiting apostles of trendiness can't perceive when they rock in, in the four-wheel drives, with their rose-colored glasses, their fingers drumming impatient tattoos on café tables all over town ("the service is so slow," they gripe) is that living here is an outward-bound course for the spirit, a post-graduate degree in personal boundary setting. As they say in New Age-speak, whatever or whoever your issues, you'll get plenty of chances to confront them in a small place like this. Ain't no metropolitan anonymity 'round here, folks. Your "stuff," as they used to call it in 80s self-awareness seminars, will be in your face often - at the post office and the weekends markets, in the library and the yoga classes, on the beaches…

You can pick the new residents because they rave about how wonderful it is to walk down Jonson Street and say hello to so many people they know; because they're more interested in finding out how you make your money than who you sleep with and because they've just rented a post office box for two months and announced smugly: "Yeah, I'm a local."

The longer they live here, the more they are likely to develop a different worldview. For example, I have stumbled on a new definition of forgiveness. If you spot someone you know, but now wish you didn't, in the soap powder aisle at Woolworths, that inevitable epicentre of desirable and undesirable social collisions, and you feel the urgent need to turn your trolley around, slip on your dark glasses and zoom off in the opposite direction, you clearly haven't forgiven them. If there is a theme song for the Days of Our Byron Lives, two strong flipside contenders would have to be How Sweet It Is and Nowhere To Run (Nowhere to Hide).

Despite this goldfishbowl existence, for almost seven years I barely stepped foot outside the Shire. For certain goods and services unobtainable in the Bay, I would occasionally cruise over to Ballina or to Lismore, where the streets are filled with folk who look like extras from a Fellini film. Going to the Gold Coast gave me a headache, literally. On the intermittent occasions I went to Sydney, I got sick. As for Queensland, I'd done my time there while growing up and now only crossed the border into the Deep North to attend funerals.

My Sydney friends envied my idyllic incarceration, turning up once or twice a year for R & R from their life-leaching corporate schedules.

You can grow quite cocooned and self-satisfied living in the Byron Bubble. Which I discovered one year when I drove to Hervey Bay to join some friends on a week-long whale-watching expedition. Travelling up with a Byron acquaintance and her small son, we stopped for a tea break at a roadhouse outside Bundaberg. After the tea, we walked back to my old Corona, parked in the vast bitumed car park. As we drew alongside my car, we saw a big, bearded man who looked as if he customarily ate four cows for breakfast, standing with his hands on his substantial hips, inspecting the stickers on the rear window. One of these said: "The goddess is alive. Magic is afoot."

"Which wunna-yous'd be the goddess?" he challenged in a surly voice, a real ton-of-fun kind of guy. Before we had a chance to reply, he turned his back, folded his massive frame into his Queensland-registered, mud-spattered ute and roared off.

Aside from anything else, I've grown accustomed to and fond of the local semiotics. In Sydney, for example, the shops feature large signs warning in capital letters, that shoplifters will be prosecuted. In Byron, smaller signs in calligraphy chide the customers that "Stealing is Bad Karma." In Byron "Magic Happens" is the ubiquitous bumper sticker which signifies a belief in the benevolence of the local atmosphere. In Sydney, it's the name of a singles club for thirtysomethings.

The nature of personal reality shifts as constantly and subtly as the sands on Tallow Beach. Examining the shape of my current dunes of desire, I'm still glad I swapped a sizeable salary and the crowded isolation of Cement City, for a reordered set of life priorities, for soul-salving scenery and treasured friendships, for a strong sense of community, albeit one with a measure of small-mindedness.

According to one local real estate agent, writers are now featuring strongly among his property buyers. Byron has become what David Brooks calls a "latte town" and now I wonder if we're turning into an Antipodean version of L.A. as an industry town, but instead of every second waiter or taxi driver or tarot card reader being an aspiring actor, ours are writers. Well, there could be worse demographics, I reckon.

Cappuccinos, internet cafes, international change bureaus and writers notwithstanding, Byron is still a very small town.

Nevertheless, I've discovered it is possible to deepen in one's affections for the beloved - warts (Christmas tourist plagues, overdevelopment, galloping gossip) and all.

Life in Byron has given me the time, that luxury commodity which trades at a premium in the city, and the mindset to deconstruct and reinvent myself, to feather my own seaside nest. And it was only a few years ago, the seventh year of the proverbial itch, when I realised that, having made my own cosy green bed, I wasn't obliged to lie in it all the time.

I found myself ogling travel brochures and considering short-term contract jobs abroad. I found myself spending a few seasons on Sydney's northern beaches. One vitreous autumn afternoon, while walking on Palm Beach, I ran into a film producer I'd worked with during the 80s. This man, a veteran surfer, had lived at Cooper's Shoot in the 70s and he knew the Shire well.

After we exchanged pleasantries, he challenged me with: "I thought you went to live in Byron Bay?"

"I did," I replied, "but that was 1991 and I'm a big girl now. I'm allowed to come out sometimes and play in your back yard."

Moments later he told me about a recent trip he'd made to London. He spoke of how much he had enjoyed the change of scene, the experience of mixing with, as he called it, "a different strata of society."

"Exactly!" I concurred, hoping to reiterate my point about pluralism.

But his eyes grew glassy. My point had not punctuated his bubble of belief in Byron as the ultimate, one-way destination, as a kind of Hotel California of the Far North Coast - you know: you can check out, but you can never leave.

After the film producer and I said farewell, I walked north towards the Palm Beach lighthouse. Like Frodo Baggins in Lord of the Rings I found myself thinking warm-fuzzy, hobbit-like thought of home. As Frodo said before he set out on his 1000-page adventure: "There have been times when I thought the [Shire] inhabitants too stupid or dull for words, and have felt that an earthquake or an invasion of dragons might be good for them. But I don't feel like that now. I feel that as long as the Shire lies behind, safe and comfortable, I shall find wandering more bearable. I shall know that somewhere there is a firm foothold, even if my feet cannot stand there again."

5 Tips for Booking Your Byron Bay Blues Festival Accommodation

If you’re planning to come to the Byron Bay Blues Festival for the first time – or even if you’ve been before, there are a few things you should keep in mind as you’re looking for your ideal place to stay. Before we get to the ‘tips’, the thing to remember is that Byron Bay is a small town – the larger annual festivals do attract more people than the town can accommodate… particularly when you take into account that the festival’s artists and crew are also staying here. Plus many people who come every year – re-book the same place each year. Here are my 5 tips to booking accommodation for the Blues Festival;

1. People : You need to know how many people are staying with you. Accommodation in Byron is very strict on maximum numbers… sneaking a few extra friends in to sleep on the floor won’t be tolerated and could result in loss of bond &/or eviction. There are places to stay that sleep one to a limited number of places that sleep up to 10 people. Most places have 1, 2 or 3 bedrooms.

2. Duration : It’s a five day festival, most of the accommodation has a minimum stay of 5 or 7 nights. There are a few properties with 3 or less minimum night stay – if you can only come for a few nights, grab one of these ASAP.

3. Location : For 2008, the Festival has moved back to Belongil Fields – which is located on Ewingsdale Rd (the road you take from the highway into Byron Bay) about 2.5 km from the centre of town. Shirley St and Belongil offer a 2-3 km walk to and from the festival, all of Byron Bay is serviced by shuttle buses, with accommodation in the hinterland and nearby villages offering their own charms.

4. Price : The Easter long weekend is just about the most expensive time of year to stay in Byron Bay. As a rule of thumb the closer to the festival or Beach and the shorter you stay – the more expensive it will be. In Byron Bay expect to pay $75-$125 per person per night – more for luxury, less if you stay out of town.

5. How to Book : The sooner you start the wider choice you’ll have. You will have to secure your booking with a deposit (often 50%), and you may loose it for a late cancellation.

The 4th Annual Fatherhood Festival

will take place Aug 31 – Sept 2nd, and Sept 8th, in Bangalow, NSW. Please check the web site for the huge program of nonstop concerts, panels, workshops, exhibits, activities, resources and more! Attached you’ll find the press release about the first event – the Fatherhood Concert on August 31st featuring LIOR & KEV CARMODY.

Keep your eye out for info on the special panel on September 8th featuring 2006 Father of the Year TERRY HICKS.

On Tallow Beach

Going down to my local beach always reminds me of being born. I’ve been cocooned, writing for ages on the “inside”, when suddenly I hear the roar of the breaking waters, the contractions begin and the big push to get out into the wider world is on. The birth canal is the path cut through the big entrance dune, which I enter through a shady tunnel of tuckeroo trees. I emerge on the “outside”, wide-eyed, wet, salty or licked alive by the wind, reborn into any one of myriad scenarios, for this beach, like all beaches, has its moods, its changing casts and hues.

These alter, subtly or dramatically, from hour to hour, from moment to moment. If I come down morning, noon and dusk on the same day, I can be gobsmacked by the awesome manifoldness of creation. I may find myself invigorated by an early splash in a choppy, overcast Pacific, burnished by midday’s merciless rays, then swaddled in sunset’s rubescence. When I can retain the raw receptivity of infancy, the innocent eye of childhood, these are votive scenes. They’re precious gifts and just the jolt to get me breathing deeply.

Cresting the dune one autumn morning, I crane my neck for a quick preview. A long clean streak of space, it’s unpeopled, for the Easter break is over and the tourists have departed, but it is far from a subdued natal setting. It is all airy animation and effulgence down here. The sky is a glistening jellyfish blue (some jellyfish actually manufacture their own light); the light is crystalline, flowing down onto the beach in a white confluence. The salty, sybaritic smell of freedom, like a heat-seeking emission, flies straight up my nostrils.

A lenient sou’easter has the clouds doing some stunning shapeshifting. Overhead, the cumulus have pearly white crowns and distended underbellies of pale taupe. Down at Broken Head, they’re draping whole ravines in dark nebula. Up towards the Cape they are pure ivory, backlit, trailing diffuse streamers of light. Banked in holy masses, they look like religious postcards drifting towards Queensland. This sky, like every sky, like a finger print, is unique. The clouds the clouds the clouds I say, a reflexive daily mantra. The cumulonimbus out to sea are storeys high, their slate foundations fat with rain and hung low enough to graze the horizon.

I look and look at that blurry hyacinth line which the dictionary calls “the range or limit of scope, interest, knowledge”. For a short while, I project my thoughts beyond it, directly -- give or take a few islands -- to Chile. The Chileans, I assume, revere their land and seascapes, too. There must be literature, art, to attest. Some other time I might ask at the library; right now I’m up to my limit on the borrowing quota.

In a library book I once happened upon an extract from Charles Lyell’s Principles of Geology (1830-3) which said : “We know that one earthquake may raise the coast of Chile for a hundred miles to an average height of about five feet. A repetition of two thousand shocks of equal violence might produce a mountain chain one hundred miles long and ten thousand feet high. Now should ... one of these conclusions happen in a century, it would be consistent with the order of events experienced by the Chileans from the earliest times.” That made the survival tactics of Mother Nature and the Chileans sound pretty impressive. But Chile is a momentary idyll. The true, magnetic compass of my interest is here, latitude 28:41, longtitude 153:37, and now, 11am-ish (I don’t wear a watch anymore).

Most natural landscapes, even those which superficially appear barren or bland, are, I believe, rich, multilayered and idiosyncratic. Initially, their surface lines form a pattern of immediately obvious attractions and deficiencies. But since most of them have survived colorful histories that are longer than we can comfortably comprehend, they may also harbour less apparent qualities -- such as antediluvian wisdom, ingrained contradictions, unalloyed compassion, buried vulnerabilities. They may hum with hidden powers and stream with serpentine stories, dark mysteries, magic, myths, poetry and parables. They may cradle deep energies from which may flow either or both of the twin tributaries of delight and tribulation.

These interred treasures cannot instantly be detected or grabbed at by the greedy or the casually curious. Rather, it seems, they may unfold themselves, their portents, promises and higher purposes when we are in the right frame of mind. My own (adult) receptivity to these disclosures developed very subtly, very gradually right here in my own locale. My experience is that place is an active force, capable of a cogent interaction with us, capable of carving a deeply meaningful intaglio in our hearts.

* * *

Straight ahead a couple is fishing. She has just caught something. A white flash flails desperately on the sand until she smothers it with a weighted covering. I am a fish-eater. I avert my eyes, and thank that creature for its life. The fishers have picked a good spot. Half a dozen gannets circle overhead and suddenly one dives so ferociously, so ... vertiginously, it must surely smash itself on the aquamarine tube below. But no. Although a diving gannet hits the water at 96 kilometres per hour, this plunge was, as usual, aerodynamically perfect. It is hard to tell if the bird has caught something because gannets seize fish in their serrated bills and often swallow them before surfacing. In any event, it rises effortlessly from the wash. This dazzling routine is one I’ve seen often, yet each time it affects me the same way. My feet take root like a mangrove in the wet shore and I bear a marvelling kind of witness to the sheer risk and dare of that life-supporting manoeuvre. Of course, the gannets, who need neither affectation nor applause to get them through their days, are not being grandiloquent. It’s all just breakfast, lunch and dinner to them. Or is it? Blind instinct, you might say. Or, watching all those perspicacious encores, you might perceive that the airborne artistry is so effortlessly and immaculately blended into their lives that the two are inseparable. Wo am I, grappling to express and assimilate my own creativity into my life, to deny them that brilliant merger?

A swift scan of the sky reveals no sign of a brahminy kite, but a wedge-tailed shearwater is dynamically soaring on the prevailing winds. Suddenly it parachutes with its wings spread to the max. Devilishly it dips, catches another updraft and soars statically (its tail feathers fanned out and flapping furiously), before gliding, then dropping, then beating the force of gravity at its own game one more time, and lifting higher and higher. Is it scouting for food or is it trying to get somewhere? Is it testing the wind direction or is it – here’s that curly one again – just having fun? On a scintillating, red-letter day like today, wouldn’t you?

The tide is way out, the sand still moist from the previous night’s rain and the ocean has sculpted afresh the long bleached shoreline to the south. I start towards Broken Head, paddling in the shallows. A young kelpie up ahead runs withershins around the clear, kidney-shaped lagoon that wasn’t there yesterday, chasing a white-faced heron, scattering the silver gulls who’ve gathered on its seaward bar. I wonder how old they are, for I’ve heard that gulls, aside from being masters of thermodynamics, can live for as long as thirty years. They lift off, soar in a streamlined circle for a few minutes, then descend like a deluge of white teardrops, their harsh, plaintive cries tempering a sanguine sky which, this morning is giving the turquoise waters a run for their money in the universal beauty stakes. Or seen in another light, the ethers and the ocean are not competitors at all, but a smooth double act, moving and gliding in a curvy dance of their own devising. However you view things, it’s quite a scene down here. My bare feet trip lightly along the shore. I step out in a chest-filling faith that a grand choreographer is at work.

* * *

I think about this place, my home, and how it has seduced me, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, into marrying the Muse; how it has enticed me to put down roots in Joseph Campbell country – following my bliss, trusting the garden path of organic creativity to lead me through some fresh green fields along the way. During this, my own organically home-grown “Course in Miracles” and “Creation Time,” I have gained some priceless experience and understanding.

If -- and there is “much virtue in If” -- for just a microsecond, I allow myself to be enlightened, I can feel in my bones that, finally, it does not matter where “time” takes me, or any of us. One day – who knows? – I may check out of this coastal coven. Somewhere, sometime, I’m bound to say my fond farewells to the flexings and fumings of whole restless planet. But on another plane, I remain convinced that a part of me has been abducted and bound (but not gagged) by the spirit of this place.

This text is an extract from Love Letters from Mother Nature: A Meditative Journey, available from Byron Books, Fletcher Street, Byron Bay or online from Bruce Sims Books. Email: brucesims@ozemail.com.au

 

To The Lake Once More

Near where I live is a ti-tree lake, known in local Aboriginal lore as the women's lake. It's believed that before white settlement the lake was frequented by the Indigenous women, the Arakwal clan of the Bundjalung nation. In particular, it's said that the pregnant women bathed in it because of the therapeutic properties of the ti-tree oil.

An unspoiled place, surrounded by bush, steeped in tranquility, and one white-winged morning in mid-winter I set off, via the beach, to spend some time there. En route I hoped to spot whales, for the Humpbacks were on their annual migratory path from the Antarctic to the tropical waters off the Queensland coast to breed. I was in luck. A mother and calf coasted just beyond the breakers, blowing spume and tail fluking. Seeing this play gladdened me, although it was neither my first nor my closest sighting of those lurching leviathans. My friends Trish and Wally Franklin, who have spent as much time in close contact with Humpbacks as any researchers on the planet, say that such glimpses satisfy "important human needs" which cannot be quantified in economic or political terms. The inner growth resulting from such encounters does not show up in the gross national product, or in the sterile bottom line of the economic rationalists.

In the 1950s Byron Bay was one of Australia's major whaling stations. By 1959 the Byron Bay Whaling Company was granted a quota of one hundred and fifty whales (who in those times averaged ten tons). But by 1960, the whalers had almost wiped out the humpbacks and the barbaric practice was finished. Attitudes, thankfully, have changed and these days the only whales being shot around here are those sighted through the telescopic camera lenses of the whale-watching tourists who cluster around the Cape during the migration season.

When the whales had swum out of sight, I dawdled a while near a colony of crested terns in case a couple of them decided to turn on one of their spectacular paired mating flights. But they were all occupied with what appeared to be their morning ablutions and grooming. A southerly buster ruffled their shaggy black caps so they resembled a bunch of preening teenagers with mohawk haircuts.

I turned inland, following a shallow amber thread of water back to its source. The lake's broad waters were placid and turbid as dark treacle, the perfect inscrutable consort for the faded sky which was dimpled by a white half-moon in the west. The tracks lacing the sandy shore cut through dense scrubby vegetation, a chaotic genius of canopy, understory and ground cover - wallum banksias, broadleafed paperbarks, ti-trees, swamp- and black she oaks proliferated, sheltering grass trees (fetching small fortunes in city nurseries these days), eggs and bacon bushes, lilies, irises, twining snake vines and the tiny ground-hugging and carnivorous sun dews plant which eats ants for breakfast.

Like so much of the Australian bush with its muted, grey-green and brown tones, this was not a place that socked you in the eye with a gaudy or grand beauty. But, alive with the croaky calls of wattle birds, the startling flashes of yellow on honey-eaters mid-flight, the thin notes of red-backed fairy wrens in the undergrowth, the murmurs of a zephyr through the tall, dry reeds, the bush radiated its own vibrant appeal.

That morning it was not a panorama I wanted (although the human eye naturally sees in panorama, in sweeps of roughly one hundred and forty degrees), but the intimacy of a sunny nook, so I retraced my steps to the seaward neck of the lake and, loose-limbed, all eyes, all ears, nestled against a grassy bank. A Welcome swallow flitted back and forth across the water, deftly skimming within inches of its surface. To my ears, its song was a long quiet, rambling twitter, but another bird would have heard the swallow's song as a much more complicated rendition. Such birdsongs often feature a detailed pattern of melody and rhythm, but they are broadcast so fast that humans can only identify them as a twittering, like a tape of our speech on fast forward. Although we hear sounds over a similar range to birds, they can hear ten times faster than us. Who then lives in the richer world, stereophonically speaking?

From the upper branches of a casuarina tree, a brahminy kite lifted off, performing a series of slow, fluid arabesques over the channel before cruising north on its solitary hunting rounds. On the opposite bank, the shallow water's slight ripples were mirrored as silver ribbons of wavy light on the pale, flaky trunks of paperbark trees. With a softened gaze, I watched those light waves. Time passed. I closed my eyes to help the entrenched, eagle-eyed observer in me, the one who always has to apprehend, to gradually let go. I allowed my shoulders to drop and my mind to be carried along as if by the water’s current. An image of my backyard heliconias came to me, bringing to light a dream from the previous evening. In that dream, the heliconias had "spoken" to me.

"See how we're always sending up new shoots? We let them all come up to the surface, to grow tall and stand together in a supportive clump. That's why we're beautiful." As psychological metaphors go, this certainly made sense to me.

I sat very still, breathing and listening, until the flickering light behind my eyelids faded out, until the place's serenity began to permeate me, until she and I grew seamless.

* * *

That evening, in my garden I sat on a rock and arranged around me a semi-circle of citronella candles. Under a fine spread of stars, I inhaled the candles' lemon scent and exhaled my thanks for all the beauty I'd encountered and absorbed in my time on this plane. Beauty, I realised, had informed and directed large tracts of my life, much as the stars have always done for mariners and for certain migratory breeds of birds.

Since childhood, my perception of beauty had been principally and inextricably linked to nature. Like a doppleganger sparking the embers of cherished memory, it lingered, even decades after the original physical formation had been obliterated by a dam, a freeway or a new housing development. In quest of beauty, I had variously moved house, borrowed money (to renovate), fallen in love, created a garden, travelled afield.

Yet as I pondered, a "modern", dissenting voice inside my head spoke up, playing devil's advocate, denigrating beauty and giving it a bad rap. "Beauty is in the eye of the beholder," it said, trotting out a tired and cynical cliché. I countered with Matthew Fox's claim that this facile and glib dismissal of beauty occurs because "harmony and cosmos are so little dealt with. Beauty alerts us to our cosmic connections." A dyed-in-the rainforest Romantic, I threw in some classic Keats, too: " ‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty,’ -- that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.’ " And a succinct swipe of Blake: "everything that lives in Holy."

The dissenting voice grew a little shrill in its demands for me to recant: You Romantics live in a dream world, eschewing science and the hard, dark facts of life, it said. So I parried with a few insights from Peter Marshall's Nature's Web: "Romanticism not only offers a modern way of experiencing reality, but forms the basis of a truly ecological sensibility." For Romantics see the universe as a living organism, an organic whole. Through their exuberant pursuit of individual expression, they, like most ecologists, esteem unity in diversity. They have a love of unspoiled natural environments, of wilderness and pristine places. They intuit the divine presence in all things and in their desire to interpret nature, are avid explorers of all levels of consciousness.

What a tragedy of our times that beauty needs to be sanctioned, I thought. Fox claims that Westerners lost beauty when we lost the creation-centred spiritual traditions -- in effect, when we lost the cosmos.

And so the dialectics went, until, weary of them, I dropped into meditation... Afterwards, the candles were burning low. It was late and I wanted to sleep, for at first light I was going to the Belongil estuary to bird-watch.

This text is an extract from Love Letters from Mother Nature: A Meditative Journey, available from Byron Books, Fletcher Street, Byron Bay or online from Bruce Sims Books. Email: brucesims@ozemail.com.au

A Taste of Byron 2007 – Byron Bay Food Festival

NORCO PRESENTS A TASTE OF BYRON CARNIVALE DENNING PARK,MAIN BEACH (East Of The Surf Club) SEPTEMBER 22 & 23

The Lions Club of Byron Bay is pleased to announce the return of A Taste Of Byron Carnivale this time over TWO huge days in September. Last year’s event was hailed by organisers stall holders and those who attended as the best yet. Estimates of 10,000 people delighted to the tastes and sounds of beautiful Byron Bay. Over 40 of the Byron area’s finest restaurants, coffee shops and purveyors of fine foods were stretched to the limit as hungry crowds enjoyed a perfect Byron Bay blue sky day. There were cooking demonstrations from leading chefs, great live music, salsa & pole dancing, races for the kids and wine and beer tasting. The laughter in the air mixed with the tantalising aromas of herbs and spices that were lovingly combined to create the signature dishes of the restaurants on display. Because of the outstanding success of last year organisers have decided to extend this year’s event over two days.

Saturday September 22 will be themed as an international Chilli Festival led by our own world famous award winning Byron Bay Chilli Company. Creators of Chilli products from around the world will converge on Byron Bay to compete in the creation of the best chilli dish, sauce or product. The best Margarita will also be judged and sold on the day and there will be Latin Dancing, live music from local area groups and musicians all culminating in the night time with a spectacular fire dance display. There will also be a coffee barista competition where all the local area baristas will be invited to create their best coffee using Byron Bay Coffee. Winners of all categories will be announced on the night. Fresh produce and producers of local food products will also be invited to set up stalls to allow the crowds to sample their wares.

Sunday September 23 will be a huge day of feasting, fun, song & dance all washed down with boutique beers and vintage wine!! This year more than 50 of our great restaurants and cafes are expected to participate creating their own signature dishes and competing for the award of “Best in Show”. Also there will be awards for Best Dressed stand & Best Produce stall. There will once again be an exciting line up of leading chefs demonstrating their art, street performers, games for the kids & more – all in the carnival atmosphere of a beautiful Byron Bay spring day.

Make a note in your diary and book your accommodation now for A Taste of Byron Carnivale Saturday September 22 & Sunday September 23 2007.

Bangalow Markets near Byron Bay

The Bangalow markets just west (about 15 minutes) of Byron Bay are held on the 4th Sunday of the month. Pretty much the same stall holders as the Byron Bay markets (on the first Sunday of the month) – with more shade (plenty of big old trees around). Here’s a short clip.

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