Bowler Hat, Sagarnaga, La Paz, Bolivia.



A Love Prayer

For love to be,
I need to love.

To love is to be love.
To be love is to love.

Only love can love.
Love can only love.

May love be my life.
May my life be love.




If Every Day Was Christmas Day

If every day was Christmas Day
Would you buy more stuff
If every day was Christmas Day
When would enough be enough

If every day was Christmas Day
Would you make your peace
If every day was Christmas Day
Would all your wars just cease

If every day was Christmas Day
Would you give to the homeless
If every day was Christmas Day
Would you make it anonymous

If everyday was Christmas Day
would your love be shown not spoken
If everyday was Christmas Day
Would you leave your door open

If everyday was Christmas Day
would you think before you speak
If every day was Christmas Day
would you turn the other cheek

If every day was Christmas Day
would you stock up your ammunition
If every day was Christmas Day
would it be a rung for your ambition

If everyday was Christmas Day
would you fatten on gravy and ham
If everyday was Christmas Day
would you convert to Islam

If every day was Christmas Day
whose beliefs would you follow
If everyday was Christmas Day
Whose place shall me meet tomorrow








Howling at the Winter Moon

A sign of how groovy Australia’s Wintermoon Festival was going to be showed itself within minutes of my arrival. Dianne, disguised as a rainbow, asked me, “Do you know the Four Agreements?” I didn’t, but I knew she was going to tell me. She counted them on her fingers as they rolled off her tongue; “Honour your word, don’t take anything personally, don’t make assumptions, always do your best”. She eluded there was a fifth, but for that, I had to wait.

For the festival too. It was Monday and the official fun didn’t start until Friday, so I loitered at the Stoney Creek campground, startled by the iridescent blue Ulysses butterflies against rainforest green. I watched the school bus pass every morning with big eyes on little faces. I met Graeme from Mackay who was wallowing in the silence, reading and, more importantly, not being at work. I met festival volunteer Clair from Brisbane who helped make 1200 pizza bases and Tess from across the ditch who helped weave the Tranquility Temple together. Bettina, a masseur from Starlight Community, wasn’t a volunteer but offered them all a free massage.

In between, I sauntered the one kilometre down the dusty country road to Wintermoon’s main site.

On the Lunatic Stage, one of four stages, I saw pyramids of stuff covered with black plastic, weighed down with pumpkins. I helped volunteers place hay bales for seating in front of the Southern Cross Stage. I watched magician Sean Tretheway bewilder workers with pieces of rope that shrank, grew, unknotted, joined, before our very eyes. I shot the breeze with those on duty at the main gate.

On Thursday, the first of my immediate neighbours circled their wagons. When settled, we jammed on guitars, djembe, and pots. As a second lot of neighbours set up, I heard one say, “I’m so hungry I could eat the arse out of a low flying duck.” My third and final immediate neighbours were a gorgeous mum and her two teenagers. The daughter told me; “Mum’s always had a bit of hippie in her.” OK, I thought, I’ll be a hippy. That night, I went to sleep under a near full moon with the smell of woodsmoke, listening to laughter, singing, guitars, and a fiddle that hit all the notes – nearly.

Although the music didn’t officially start until five on Friday arvo, I entered the festival site after lunch and, whammo, practicing on a couple of hay bales by the chai tent were two performers at the festival, Rebecca Wright and husband Donald Mackay.

When they are inevitably performing on the international circuit, I’ll be able to gloat that I sat within two metres of them and listened to the acoustic warmth of Donald’s harp-like nylon string guitar, Rebecca’s weeping cello, and her clear voice singing her song about ‘the shores of my heart’. I tipped my hat a little so they couldn’t see my tears.

Of all the musical talent at Wintermoon, from the grab-your-granny-and-doe-see-doe dancing of the Bushwackers, to the passionate 40-year-old voice coming from 17 year-old Alys Longmate, to Richard Perso playing raunchy guitars, didgeridoo and drums simultaneously, to the banter and ballads of John Schumann & Hugh McDonald, who were the only act I saw receive a standing ovation, it was that encounter with Rebecca and Donald that remains my musical highlight of Wintermoon.

In fact, encounters is what Wintermoon became. Meeting people there was as easy as saying, “Gidday”. Perhaps because most were stoned or perhaps because everyone was chilled. Whatever it was, I met more people in that week than I met in the previous four months.

I went with a couple of them to the festival’s official opening at the Tranquility Temple; carpeted ground under a large tree, walled by woven palm leaves, a ceiling of green and blue tarpaulins painted with purple and white spiritual symbols. Cynthia guided a meditation. On the in-breath, we imagined a silver light from the sky entering our Sahasrara, or crown chakra, and a golden light from mother earth entering our Muladhara, or root chakra and, on the out-breath, a rainbow swirling around our body. I was getting into it but got distracted by a raucous food processor from a neighbouring stall.

It turned out to be the Hare Krishna mob. This was good, because a festival isn’t a festival without them. They, as always, sold big food for small bucks. Hare Rama! But they weren’t as entertaining as the Hungarian food stall next to them.

When a customer started their order with an “Uummm”, the dude would interject with, “Ve don’t sell um’s here. Everybody vants um. Maybe Hare Krishna sell um. Ve don’t sell dis um”. When anyone complained about waiting, which they often did, he would say, “Vhat you vant? I can’t go more slow.”

So many people wore tie-dyed clothing it looked like a rainbow had spilled over Wintermoon, or as one stall declared, “Dyed and gone to Hippy Heaven”. When I asked the hippiest heavenist dude of them all if I could take his photo, he thought momentarily and replied, “Yes. But the price is you must hug a complete stranger”. I agreed.

To escape the stalls, the music, and the relentless heat, I joined others in the cool tumbling waters of St Helen’s Creek.

Meanwhile, poets, songwriters and magicians gave workshops in the yurt. The inimitably creative and compassionate soul, Anneka, directed a lantern-making workshop in the Igaloo. The subsequent glowing pumpkins, birds, and flowers paraded through the festival site on Sunday night, the final night.

For the finale of the final concert, the musicians unplugged, climbed off the stage to the dance area and played an acoustic version of Ghost Riders in the Sky. So, there we were, the devil’s herd of cowpokes howling at the full winter moon, “yip-i-yi-a…yip-i-yi-yooo”.

When the music stopped, we placed our arms around the shoulders of those in front of us, complete strangers, forming an enormous round scrum of human hug, like a mob of tie-dyed penguins.

Breaking camp the following morning, my neighbours and I questioned the wisdom of heading back to reality. I shared a coffee with Dianne and she fessed the fifth of the four agreements; question everything!


Wintermoon Festival is held on the first weekend of May in Queensland, Australia. Visit