Dance with me Olga

How long is a piece of string Dear hearts?,

Age old question. Brings to mind all those lovely expressions: money for old rope, string of pearls, pearl necklace (hmmm), pearls of wisdom, knit one pearl one...all right I realise I am seriously digressing now. Must be the cheeky little cleanskin and the arse end of cyclone Olga stamping her feet outside the cottage. Lots of huffing and puffing as she rains on down. It suits me tonight. I like the idea of some hard rain, thunder and lightning to get some attention.

Olga wants some attention. I love it when the sky lights up enough to show the outline of those beautiful mountains that surround us and protect us. I like the sound of the rain. No individual drops here in the far far north. No, a current that seems to just fall and hit the ground with an intensity and deliberation the shows, yes, you will receive this rain, this mess of water that has no manners. Just falls.

The thunder seems to be the faithful husband in the corner of the room, in his cardi and sensible shoes, clearing his throat, saying...”Dear, do you think it's time to go?...” Olga just looks at him, blankly, so that she doesn't crucify him then and there. She repositions the lampshade on her head and asks ever so politely could you turn the music up a little and pour me another glass of wine...

The lightning is the teenager here, in the other corner. Watching, wondering what is under Olga's skirt, catching her cleavage in his flash of light, aiming to please and catch her attention. Both of them not able to compete with the energy, the capacity, the strength of Olga and her rain.

I love the wet season. It is extreme and unpredictable and yet...predictable. I feel a part of the season. In the season and in the moment. There is no ignoring Olga or the wet. I like playing by the season's rules. I like being hot and sweaty, outside of sport. I like the idea that the weather and not anyone else, is in control.

Swell the rivers, flood the bridges, cut off the roads. Bring it on. I can wait it out. Feed the rainforest and the fauna of that community. I am happy to be a guest during the season, picking my way through the puddles, driving at granny speed around those enormous roundabouts, feeling and smelling the film of humid sweat on my body. It smells good. Watching my orchids grow at a speed unbelievable. Being conscious of everything at a level higher than at any other time of the year.

Everything is intensified. Senses are heightened. We are all so much more aware of each other – man and weather and plant and animal. We are all paying attention Dear hearts. Or so you should.

Dance with me Olga.

Back to that piece of string....How long it is depends on the nature of it...

I suspect I am getting a little esoteric, and I do not mean to be difficult, Dear hearts, but that is the inherent nature of said piece of string. Perhaps what is most important here, is how long one is prepared to imagine it may be. Expectation Dear hearts. One cannot help that.

I must speak for myself, when I say, that every wet season I have had, I always reach the point where I say to myself, I have had enough.

To Olga and past incarnations of low pressure activity's credit, it is at that critical tipping point, that the lampshade is placed back on the base, the music is turned down and the lady in her infinite wisdom, takes her leave...

Enjoy the wet.

With love
Miss Mich