A few weeks ago I was pottering in the backyard -- admiring this, sniffing that, dancing around the greyhound droppings -- when I noticed my artichoke looking rather limp. 

Sidling up close, I saw hundreds of lime green aphids covering the plant from trunk to head, like an angry rash all raised and scaly.

Bugger, I thought. Sap suckers.

My eyes adjusted to their camouflage and stacks more materialised around the garden. Aphids everywhere.

The internet told me I should spritz affected plants with neem oil or high pressure hose the little blighters into next week.

Grandma recommended poisoning the ants that farm the aphids then to ‘stop messing about with vegetables and get a job’.

Monty Don said to do nothing.

Being a pretty lazy gardener, Monty's approach sounded good to me -- so I went inside, made myself a miso, and let nature take its course.

And lo! Behold! Just when I started to think The Don had done me in and all our plants would die, the cavalry arrived.

I spotted a ladybird on a daisy.

Then two.

Then two locked in a multi-day coital piggyback that was equally awkward and impressive.

Then a tangerine cluster of eggs appeared on the underside of a rudbeckia leaf, and not long after there were mini alligators marching up and down stems making a meal of the problem. 

(Have you ever seen ladybird larvae? Reptilian. Remarkable. Really worth Googling. Each one can dispatch hundreds of aphids before it turns into an adult ladybird, so they’re the kind of monsters you want on your team.) 

The whole ladybird life cycle played out in our veggie patch; the same veggie patch bereft of beneficial insects only days before.

The eggs turned to larvae, the larvae became pupae, and two weeks later adult ladybirds emerged looking fly and maintaining backyard balance.

All fuelled by aphids.

All part of an awe-inspiring and self-regulating system one trillion times bigger and smarter than me.

Imagine if I’d sprayed and squashed and shucked the aphids -- fave ladybird food -- in a bid to control and correct the situation?

It made me contemplate how often we forge ahead with an intervention believing we know best, when our wisdom is so very feeble and the ramifications so very great. (See: 'civilising' natives, introducing cane toads, putting RoundUp on everything.)

Yep, there are times to act: when Cousin Clay is telling that joke about blondes, when centuries-old trees are being felled for a highway, when you just put a shovel through your shoe...

... but there plenty of occasions where waiting and watching is a totally valid course of action. When Doing Nothing results in something good. Where trust and patience trump traps and poison. 

It's hard to Do Less in a world beguiled by Just Do It. But if the ladybirds have taught me anything, it's that we're not the only beings on this planet with a will and a way. It's not always up to us. We're not all that. How bloody comforting.

So my pledge this year is to do heaps less and see what happens.

If you need me, I'll be ogling insects in flagrante delicto.

What's your approach to 2021?

Greetings from a grubby port-a-loo, somewhere in central Japan!

This small, sulphurous outhouse is ours for the next 10 days. Beside it, a stand-alone shower festooned with mould and soap dregs from the last 53 volunteers.

Next to that is our accomodation.

We share it with vagabonding bugs, beetles and the world’s largest self-sustaining colony of dust motes.

Last night, we also shared it with two young guys - one from America, the other from France.

They‘d already been at the farm for a month, and were staying one more night to get their fix of aforementioned luxuries.

So, we four strangers hunkered down on a 4x4m tatami floor, with a few thin futons to sleep on and an assortment of mouldy blankets one might use to protect furniture while moving house, or cover a corpse.

Before lights out, our American roommate Skyped his Ma at approx. 120 decibels while the rest of us enjoyed some quiet reading time. He then called his ex and sang gentle hymns into the speaker with motifs of “baby baby baby” and “I only want one, one”.

He backed up this strong performance with a new trick: sucking back snot so violently I was sure his tonsils would fly down his windpipe, followed by the occasional high-velocity gollie out the door.

This procedure was repeated every five minutes or so until around 6am this morning, when he cleared away his bedding, made space on the floor, and treated body and mind to a course of self-guided yoga and breathing exercises. We were lucky enough to score front row seats, just 30cm away.

The French guy stayed up til 2am on his laptop for a live gaming tournament, but was otherwise unobtrusive.

Needless to say, the first thing we did once we had the place to ourselves was hose down the toilet, shower, kitchen and cutlery. We even put a little vase of flowers on the rusty cooker.

These memorable marvels make our farming adventures all the sweeter, because who ever said: “Hey, remember that night nothing happened and we had a really great sleep?”

No one.

It all started when the captain made eye contact, bowed and flashed us a smile to melt icecaps.

We were at the boarding gate, awaiting our post-midnight Japan Airlines flight to Tokyo.

I was scowling and frowning and wishing I was anywhere but about to get on a big metal albatross that farts C02 and strikes terror into my statistics-make-no-difference, physics-ignorant heart.

And then came the crew, striding through the gate.

My life is in your hands for the next 10 hours, I thought. Hope you’ve had caffeine.

As they entered the jet bridge, we spotted the captain. Unmistakable. Not the tallest of men, but oozing authority. Wheeling a little grey bag, wearing a neat navy suit.

His hair deserved worship. Thick, silver, and swept back from his forehead in the ultimate blow wave. His face, a picture of symmetry and wisdom.

And as he walked down the aisle, he turned, looking George and I dead in the eyes. He gave the slightest, most polite nod and cracked a smile I’ll never forget.

All hail the captain.

Since then, we’ve been peppered with Japanese kindness.

The air hostess took us under her wing, teaching us phrases (futile) and giving us a postcard full of local tips and love hearts.

A man at the train station patiently walked us through the ticketing process, before repeating the whole ordeal with the next clueless tourist.

Sushi chefs have humoured our ordering idiocy, dishing out the good stuff while turning a blind eye to our table manners.

Bar tenders have included us in their raucous convos with friends, calling us ‘cute’ and dispensing indispensable J-pop tips.

On public transport, there are signs reminding locals to help baffled tourists navigate the system. I haven’t seen anything like that in Australia.

Japanese manners, thoughtfulness and grace are unparalleled.

Arigatou gozaimasu from two Nihon newbies.

As a kid, I lived in fear. Fear of dark hallways and haunted mirrors. Fear of planes flying overhead and bombs falling from the sky. Fear of being late for class and getting asked a maths question I didn’t know the answer to. Fear of my grandparent’s cavernous house with so many hidey holes for monsters and sprites. Fear of men in my dreams who staggered up and down the street seeking ways to break in. 

As a teen, I added to the collection. I feared going to the bathroom alone, holding my pee all through Star Wars till my bladder went into spasm. I feared the weird smell under my bedroom floorboards in our little city rental. I feared Dad didn’t think I was funny. I feared exceeding Mum’s single-parent income, curating our Coles trolley to include only those items on special. I feared choosing which parent to spend Christmas with. I feared being too old to still fear sleeping upstairs at my grandparent’s house. I feared dark blobs of seaweed and swimming over rocks. I feared the surf patrol yelling at me over the loudspeaker when caught outside the flags. I feared being pasty. I feared the cool kids and worried about the losers. I feared sympathy friendships I couldn’t get out of. I feared getting stuck at the top of the school camp flying fox, paralysed while my classmates whooped and heckled. I feared that ‘six-wash’ hair dye would never come out. I feared getting my period. I feared tampons. I feared being caught skipping class. I feared being $0.50 short on Hot Chip Friday. I feared the fun run. I feared being called a frigid cow. I feared looking at my boyfriend’s pathetic and expectant face up close, pimples and chapped lips leaning in for a snog.

As a young adult, I conquered some fears and cultivated others. I was scared of the pain in my chest. I was scared of the pain in my head. I was too scared to get an MRI that would settle my brain tumour fears once and for all. I was scared that I’d somehow manifested my friend’s terminal brain tumour. I was scared of saying something dumb in a uni tutorial. I was scared that everyone else seemed to get it but me. I was scared of my totally average grades. I was scared of the ramifications of inhaling toxic oven cleaner and feeling my windpipe on fire. I was scared that I’d miss an episode of Sex and the City. I was scared of sugar cravings. I was scared of those nights I’d break my diet and eat all my flatmate’s crackers and granola, waking with a puffy face and all-consuming guilt. I was scared people would call me fat. I was scared of that sore feeling on my chin that heralded a Vesuvian zit. I was scared of the old man on the bus who smelled of naphthalene. I was scared of asking my flatmate to wash the dishes. I was scared of my megalomaniac boss who was cheating on his girlfriend and only I knew it. I was scared my boyfriend had a crush on another girl. I was scared he’d catch me scouring his internet search history. 

As an adult? No spontaneous remission from fearfulness, I’m afraid. I’m scared of flying. I’m scared that I’ll see the flight attendants’ eyes widen at an unexpected noise and having three minutes of free fall to contemplate The End (will my body liquefy on impact or will I be torn limb-from-limb while conscious?). I’m scared of discovering I actually did want kids, aged 50. I’m scared of wasting my life waiting for something to happen. I’m scared of modern humans and our capacity for destruction, but have no idea how to be anything else. I’m scared of how much soft plastic is in my soft plastic recycling bin. I’m scared of getting stuck on the freeway while trying to flee the collapse of civilization. I’m scared I don’t know where I’m going without my iPhone. I’m scared of getting a flat tyre alone on a deserted dirt road with no signal and no spare. I’m scared everything I say is trite. I’m scared everything I write is lame. I’m scared I’ll live a comfortable, easy life. I’m scared I don’t have a cause. I’m scared that striving towards unexamined goals will distract me from what really matters. I’m scared of finding a lump in my breast. I’m scared that I’ll refuse conventional medicine in favour of reiki. I’m scared of spending my whole life worrying that I’m doing it wrong, only to discover at the eleventh hour that I did a pretty good job after all. I’m scared my dog doesn’t like his new jacket. 

Your turn.

Two stiff-collared businessmen just made my day.

While sitting in a St Kilda cafe, doodling in my diary like the consummate dweeb, one took pity on me and struck up a conversation.

You look deep in thought, he said.

Nah, just contemplating another bliss ball, said I.

Property developer, he said.

Copywriter, I returned.

We both had little clue what the other actually did, but found common ground in gardening, good health and seaweed fertilisers.

This high fallutin’ businessman, previously discussing a multi-million-dollar development with his portly sidekick, told me liked to grow chamomile and strawberries on his teensy city porch.

Just feels good, he said.

The other chimed in about people’s skewed priorities, how he sees ambitious youngsters chasing mansions and Mercedes all strung out on stimulants at the expense of what matters: community, connection, nature.

Woah, I thought. Either these guys had secret hippie-approved conversation cards hidden under the table...

...or they really did give a shit.

I reckon it’s the latter.

They reminded me that most of us, (all of us?), no matter how we earn our crust, no matter if we go for sourdough or wonderwhite, just want a good life. Just want to connect with others and try our best and feel happy in our bodies.

And the smallest green frond on a business mogul's balcony is a hopeful sign. We’re earth people, all of us.

Except maybe David Bowie who was sent from the stars.