Balm of Gilead

The day I visited Gilead for help, the sun was as dry as a rock.

The earth had been baked.

The sounds were of insects screaming with heat, their wings zumming fast to cool them, to move around supping from hidden droplets of water and nectar.

The herb garden was biblical in theme just like the place itself.

The scale of the endeavour, of the woman, of her vision and passion, was epic.

Rosemary giving off such strong, sweet, dry scent. Bring on the Paschal Lamb!

The day I visited Gilead to give help, to join Judy in her mammoth task of taming the Wanneroo Wilderness, of harnessing the power of the sun and the earth, I was also there to be healed.

Was it my mother that suggested I work with Judy that day, or did she just help make it happen. Ah, the intuition of women healers.

It was a day of coming out of my weary mind, of being physical and sweating and heaving mulching-carpet around, of inspiration at the hands of this newest-testament woman.

This eccentric, passionate, Catholic, eco-warrior. Mother Earth incarnate. Copies of the New Internationalist by the dunny. Lemon barley water to refresh us. Made from real lemons and real barley (are there any other kind?). Easy. Four kids later it's easy.

The sheer life force of this woman and this place.

It filled my fibres with strength and possibility. It washed away the hopelessness.

I was hooked on life again, just by getting my hands dirty in the presence of a real woman.