Well the floods changed our budget and our time lines for this year substantially, not just for our household but for the various Australian governments as well. We had planned on going 100% solar, travelling to New Zealand together for Ross’ international art collaboration, and having the pottery fully up and running by now, as well as a concert or two. But the floods required a reassessment.

So, what did we cut back on? The new Mudlark Pottery, managed by Anika, remains usable but unfinished; the fine woodwork (along with its income) came to a standstill while we dug drains and cleaned and sorted, and concerts were rained out. Below the house – strawbale guest house, orchard, and outdoor stage – are no go zones, full of neglect. But above the house, the new gravel, landscaping, and many extra drains are progressing well. We are still waiting for the insurer’s final go-ahead in repairing around the house and driveway and replacing built-in water damaged cupboards and repairing walls, but we know it will happen.

Unlike our esteemed governments, we decided the 100% renewable energy was non-negotiable. So we have spent all our remaining savings on solar panels to cover our energy use. We hope it is the right decision, as now I am working for council for six weeks as an art advisor in their masterplanning, so we can also pay the rates and put some food on the table. Ross went to New Zealand alone (having borrowed money to get there, but as an invited artist, he will be reimbursed), and the pottery still misses its veranda and sink.

Hopefully Ross will return to less expenses and drains (ha ha) on money and time, so he can get back to making his many commissions and doing his design PhD. Hopefully the Council money will stretch to finishing the pottery as well as covering life. And then, there’s the next project: the teaching studio and library along with rediscovery of the areas down the hill below the house - replanting garden and replacing trees that died in all that water, repairing the straw bale, and finding the paths. We even need to weed the stage!

But the sunshine has returned. And the place remains beautiful, if still a little muddy. And we are living the life we’d like to see the whole world live. We like to think that we are working towards Juliet Shlor’s advice on the four principles for plentitude: "Work and spend less. Create and connect more. Emit and degrade less. Enjoy and thrive more." (Plentitude: The Economics of True Wealth).

We are surrounded by animal life here: two chooks, two dogs, an uninvited billy goat gruff, hopping mice, possums, birds, frogs, and insects. We are as much a part of their world as they are of ours. And from this creative natural place emerges the strength and love to go on well in the world. We have plentitude and great richness along with a gentle happiness that is not dependent upon who we are or how much money we make. We weather the ups and downs with resilience and calm, wearing smiles on our faces (most of the time anyway). And we hope that our personal decisions and lifestyle might reflect all our futures… J

Whew! Yes, it’s another “whew!” mudlark. The last few months have been very busy and there’s little sign of things letting up.

I’d started this year wondering why I was trying to find work as a writer and looking at other jobs. I did manage some interesting work with UQ’s Architecture Department on raising urban creeks, and I’m still hoping this might lead to other things. But by May, more work started coming in and piling up. Ross has had no time to wonder about anything. He has been making, designing, entering, writing, and making like a whirlwind. We did take a few days out to deliver some commissions to Sydney, visit Jim, and see a small bit of the Sydney Writers’ Festival; we had to drive back via the inland route because of the floods along the coast.

A paper presented at the Ideas Festival, Brisbane March 2009 by Dr Tamsin Kerr.

Creative conservation: listening

Listen like a river

In the midst of the city, we listen to human-manufactured noises – the hum of cars, passing sirens, air conditioners. Within our houses, we hear the insistent beeping of microwaves, the many sounds of messaging, the mediated noise of our media. When we listen deeply, it’s to understand a difficult idea or to comprehend another point of view. But we do also notice the overt sounds of nature, particularly at edge places. In swamp remnants where night meets day, we hear the choruses of frogs and birds. The late night guttural calls of possums, even the neighbourly barking of dogs, remind us that we live in a more-than-human world.