Autumn’s Finally Decided To Show Up... Slowing Down Enough To Listen
G'Day Folks,
It’s 3pm, Monday, April 7th. Autumn’s finally decided to show up. The sky is blue again, clear and still, until a gust of wind kicks up dust and dead leaves. I squint as it rushes past, and for the first time in weeks, I feel grateful just to be dry. After all the mud and dying plants, it’s a relief to be squatting in the sun.
I’m picking capsicums with my daughters under a big old camphor laurel. A flock of white-headed pigeons are up in the branches, tearing into the ripening black fruit. Every now and then a hawk passes overhead and the whole tree erupts—branches shaking, birds panicking, wings flapping into leaves and branches. Then somehow, within seconds, they’re gliding in perfect formation, like a scene from a fighter jet movie. It’s wild how quickly chaos becomes harmony.
Then, the middle one lobs a half-rotten capsicum at her sister. Mid-throw, she’s already justifying it. It lands square in the back. I know exactly what’s coming and jump in before it turns into an all-out brawl. Meanwhile, the real puppet master—the five-year-old—stands there grinning while I give the other two a lecture.
When they’re not fighting, they’re telling me stories or asking questions no one could answer. Out here, doing repetitive work with no screens of distraction, I can actually listen. I hear everything. I’m not rushing them to get to the point. I’m just… here.
I get that feeling sometimes when we surf together, waiting for waves with them. Or walking through the bush looking for the wicked witch. But more often than not, we’re near each other without really being with each other. Same space, different worlds.
It’s a shit culture we’ve built, honestly. One that worships productivity above all else. We measure a country’s health in GDP and then act surprised when everyone’s burnt out and depressed.
And the solution? More child care, more work—so both parents can squeeze out every drop of economic value. Keep feeding the machine.
But six years of farming has slowly peeled the scales from our eyes. It’s only when you get off the hamster wheel, leave the city, stop chasing “stuff”, stop accumulating “things” that you start to see how lost we’ve become. But even then, knowing the truth doesn’t mean you can escape it—fully.
This system is built to keep us busy, distracted, always needing more. This farm was meant to be our way out. And in some ways, it is. But we inevitably feel the pressure again—to grow, to scale, to hustle. To keep our dream alive.
