I look outside and the air is filled with smoke and dust as the wind howls across the land.

I walk outside and underfoot the ground is dry and cracked, some cracks big enough to easily slide my hand into.

I knock on the side of our last rainwater tank and it is barely half full.

I stand in the last paddock and see dead grass and clods of dirt where once there was grass waist high filled with wildflowers.

And I wonder how long until the water runs out, the grass withers away.

We’re doing everything we can to hang on. We shower once a week, flush toilets once a day, wear the same clothes over and over again to limit laundry to once a month.

Kind friends in the city, Shaun and Stacey, fill water bottles for us so we always have drinking water, and when we visit, they give us stern instructions to bring our laundry and take the longest, hottest showers we want.

I use our precious bore water to keep my gardens going so I can give our animals something green to eat each day. Some lettuce, silverbeet, and sorrel, a handful of weeds, some asparagus fronds, the bottom leaves of the artichokes.

We stay close to home except for work trips and devise our own entertainment so we can save every spare penny for water, power, and feed for the animals.

Most of the time our spirits are good. We give thanks every day that we have enough water for us and our animals, we delight in the wild animals and birds that come to drink out of the water troughs we set up for them, and we try to make life extra nice for each other with special meals and working together on projects that matter to us.

But other times it all feels too much. This week was a too much week. So I cried. A lot. And we were extra kind and gentle to ourselves and each other. We bought fresh blueberries for me and avocados for Bear, put on movies where snow falls and rain buckets down and the world is lush and green, and sat on the back veranda with our coffees and talked about how much we love our farm, our home, even in this desolation.

And one day, when the wind died down and the air cleared and we could breathe well again, I went outside at sunset to see if I could find beauty.

I did.

It’s a different kind of beauty. It’s quiet, small, easy to overlook.

But somehow, in that quietness, it is all the more wondrous.

As I looked I also found life. Pomegranate trees I thought long dead are dotted with tiny green leaves, a lime tree covered with white blossoms when all its citrus neighbours were dead, olive trees looking as if they’d never been healthier or happier. Amazing.

I returned to the house with my hope restored, my spirits lifted, my focus shifted.

We will keep holding on. We’ll keep looking for innovative ways to care for our animals and our land. We’ll keep hoping for rain.

Courage, dear heart.