3 min read

friday morning

friday morning

the day after leap day, morning sunlight filtering through the trees, making the undersides of the boughs shine golden. long-limbed shadows move quietly across the parched earth, not caring whether or not anyone notices. i notice.

an extra day of breathing this year and what did i do with it? i paid attention. to the way the creative fuel collective sessions have shifted the way i perceive the world and respond to invitations to play with colour. i paid attention to what my body wants. this, not that. an herbal liver-loving tisane instead of caffeine. bubbly water. a glass of wine with my evening meal.

an extra day to be thankful: for the conclusions that time has permitted me, and the realisations that come again today. this, not that.

the light moves, bathing different parts of the house in her golden light. the shadows move with her. i notice.

i pay attention to what people, things, thoughts and feelings i am allowing into our home. i pay attention to what is already here and what i want to invite in. this book on a year of swimming outdoors in new zealand—a discovery at the local island recovery shop—is invited.

i think about what i’m drawn to and what catches my eye. it’s the minutiae of life. i love an adventure for sure, and i also love the place i return to. i love the shifts and changes in season, both in my home and my immediate surroundings. not wanting or chasing something larger, being content with what has manifested in our lives. not wishing for someone else’s perfect-looking life, being content with the way our life looks—to me, to us. this, not that.

i have a fondness for ordinary objects; like a perfectly comfortable armchair for reading in, a laundry basket that creaks as i pick it up, a merino jumper found second-hand that is perfect except for one small hole that can be mended, a cup that feels nice to hold in my hands, the spider’s tenuous and temporary connection to the washing line, the way the houseplants bloom when i have my back turned, surprising me next time they have my attention.

not this?

i wonder how this place on the internet fits into the larger story of my life now. whether writing here is helping me to reach toward you, or you to me, in any meaningful way. or whether it’s time to say goodbye to this decades-long experiment in sharing parts of my inner and outer life with you.

i am quietly and lovingly sitting with this question, to discover what might be true