I have fond memories of May Gibb’s stories except for my childhood indignation at the Banksia tree being the bad, bad Banksia men. As I gazed fondly at the Banksia trees, I thought to myself with a giggle, how could such a striking tree be bad.
As my skin ages in my mind, it was bad too. Whilst on holidays and out on an early morning walk, I discovered this very grand old-growth Banksia tree. I was admiring its beautiful gnarly skin with lots of lumps and bumps. I found joy in its twisted and awkward branches as they reached out in all their glory of endurance. I loved this tree and I wanted to draw it. With a flash of insight between me and the lumpy bumpy Banksia, my unconditional love for this tree revealed that I needed to unconditionally love my own skin. In that soft magical light was a shared moment of love for each other.