part of my heart

I was thinking about my favourite city in the whole world last night.

A friend sent me a link to a video, and because I had to wait 'til morning to watch it (silly internet plan that gives me almost no evening downloads, and which I have to change),

the city must have slipped, singing, into my thoughts, to keep me company.


San Francisco.

credit

Where my parents met and got married.

Where I lived for two and a half years.

Where I met my husband and (a little further North and beside a beach), we got married too. With so much smiling and so many happy tears!

Where my son was born. (Ditto the tears. The smiling, and the crooning of jazz into his hours-old ears)

Where, Before Kids, I lived in Hayes Valley, and would walk to work, past the outskirts of the Tenderloin, past the nightclubs with their sidewalks getting hosed down, past the men and women sitting with their signs on the streets.

Where I would ride my bike up and down the hills, heading for the sea.

Where I would head to and through Golden Gate Park, sometimes ending by the water, sometimes ending on a bench in the Australian section of the Botanical Gardens.

Where I would ride my bike all the way to Golden Gate Bridge and over the water. The Bay bright all around.

Where I would head north or east on a clear day and hike the Marin hills, the Oakland hills, day after day, striding. The air was so pure, it seemed. In spring the hills would be carpeted with wildflowers.

Where I would sit in coffee shops and listen to people play guitar and talk. I kept my notebook close and wrote the words other people said. And what they wore, and how they looked and the smells and sights and sounds.

Where after work I'd walk over glass and chrome bridges, walk between buildings, through and through, to the nearest cinema. See something French or something sweet (or both), and afterwards? Drift back over a city now sprinkled with light. Suspended above cars rushing and twinkling, their back lights red like kisses.

Where I would browse the hundreds of book shops and listen to writers' talks. I saw Alice Walker in a church once, and I heard an Irishman argue with Jeanette Winterson in a hall. The words vibrated the walls.

Where my friends and I would trip the fog-slung streets and eat and drink and laugh and listen to music and talk 'til morning.

Where I met a boy and we walked through North Beach and ate pizza and he listened to me in a way that was beautiful and spoke about music and art and made me laugh and my insides tilt.

Where my son took his first breath.


My city of Becoming. Of Being. Of Beginnings. I love it so.



I finally got to see the video this morning!

It is a video of a man who recreated San Francisco in toothpicks. I have been to everywhere he made.

He dropped ping-pong balls into the structure and as each one

rolled past and through each landmark, through each dear space that sang of Place of Place of Place,

my past lit up, moment by precious moment.

And made me smile :)

http://vimeo.com/22461692

updates and disclosures and more…

Today

I'm glad for a number of things,

one of which I haven't said a public "Thank you," for.

A while back my blog friend MJ,

who I wish lived next door to me, or better, that I lived next door to her (because it's summer over there, and you should see the trees on her street!)

gave me a Versatile Blogger Award.

Thanks so much, MJ. That meant a whole lot to me; it was lovely to be mentioned and appreciated and to feel like my words had really resonated with someone else. That was a really sweet day for me. 

I didn't blog about it back when MJ awarded it, because part of accepting the award involved nominating 7 people to pass the award on to. I kind of fretted over this. If I picked these 7 people, then I'd leave out all these other people I really admire and whose words I truly enjoy. What to do? So I just stewed on it, chewed on it, pondered it, then put it in my mental Too Hard basket. Or, more to the point, I Dropped the Ball. 

So as a ball dropper, I'm not sure I can accept this lovely award! I mean, is it like a chain letter where not only do I NOT win a million dollars but I will actually LOSE a million dollars? That would be bad, because right now I'm not sure I have a million dollars on me. 

Perhaps I can accept the award in spurts.

Like, to the right, on my blog list are people whose words lift me, hold me, keep me up, and make me smile. I am so glad to know them! But there are others I really like too, and others I am just discovering, so I have this idea to do a little blog show-and-tell soon, of all the people who excite and inspire me and why. Stay tuned, if you want, for that :)

And here are a few things about me:

1. I sometimes take a reeeeeaallly long time to make a decision. Sometimes, I take so long, I:
a) Forget to decide (another word for Dropping the Ball), or
b) Avoid making the decision long enough that I start to think, Maybe I don't actually need to make that decision! Maybe it's just ~ poof! ~ blown away. Maybe I never need to make another decision again! Genius, I tell you.

2. I don't like leaving people out. Like, ever. A throwback to mostly being an outsider growing up. Going to 7 different schools (in three countries!) can leave you a little out of the loop, so I'm always very conscious of including people, in everything. It's either a quality or a flaw. Hmmm. Can I decide which one it is later?

3. I love to matter. To other people. Like, it means a lot.

But that's enough about me

(sort of! Because I've got more to say)…

Another thing I'm glad about is,

one of my posts is in this week's Carnival of Homeschooling!

link

It's my first time in a Carnival… The roller coasters sure look exciting and the bearded ladies are beautiful, but the best part—there's a ferris wheel! What a view! :)

Anyway, it sure looks great, if you want to check it out. There are some really interesting and heartfelt posts on there. I'm very pleased to be a part of it.


Finally,

we're finding our flow again. 

I can't wait to post about it. I can't wait to tell you exactly How and Why we're finding it, and how happy it's making us all.

Especially me. I had, somehow, switched to a constant, unfixable Fret.

with a whole lot of What Ifs? and, I Can'ts! thrown in.

Now, we've made just a few changes. I've had some more epiphanies,

and life feels like:

wind in the sails,

making good speed,

accepting the passing rainshowers,

tilting here, there, just a little, nothing to worry about.

All in all…

a fine, clear time

out on the open sea.



.

words and a journey

I've been thinking about yesterday's post for two days. I have been wondering, just wondering, if it came across as preachy and sanctimonious.

If I came across as the kind of person who thinks they're better and wiser than others,

thinks they are the best parent ever,

thinks they have something new to say when they're actually stating the obvious,

thinks they are someone who has all the answers and needs to tell everyone what those answers are,

but has, instead, just come across as one of the biggest windbags of blogdom.

Because, if I did, that would be really sad.

I know most parents on this planet love their children AND like them. I'm not the only one. I'm one of billions. I'm also not the only one who sees their children as their friends. I am not the only one who can list reason after reason why their kids are great. And I'm not the only one who says "I love you," countless times.

I'm not special or unusual or particularly amazing as a parent. I'm not blowing the lid on any secrets, nor have I found the Parenting Meaning of Life.


I wasn't actually writing anything most people didn't already know. So what was the point of yesterday's blogpost, then?

Well, I guess, like so many of us, I was just writing my thoughts. But sometimes I wonder if those thoughts are read differently from how I intend them to be read.

I can't always prevent that. But I can explain a bit more about where my thoughts come from and what I believe.

• I believe respecting others is the most important thing you can do as a human.

• I am a pacifist, the kind who believes passionately in non-violence, in peaceful resolution to conflict.

• I am a dreamer who wishes everyone could accept each other, treat all living things with kindness and compassion, and take care of the earth.

• I'm a mum who is learning every day how to be a better parent, mentor and friend to my kids.


All these things inform my words—

the words I think and the words I write.

And sometimes I think that makes me come across a little bit, "Hey, lookit, I've found the Golden Ticket! The Holy Grail! The Secret! Everyone should listen to me (who is awesome! and wise!), right now!" And I think perhaps I also sound a bit, "Gosh, everyone, let's all live more like this, because then everyone can get along and be happy! Tra la la, skippety skip!"

You know, a mix between Pollyanna and some hairy dude on the sidewalk, holding up a sign saying, "Meaning of Life. $1."

Which is kind of weird. :)


So in the interests of full disclosure, I thought I'd add something to yesterday's blog post.

I have controlled and do control huge aspects of my kids' lives. I suggest when it's time for bed, I suggest brushing teeth, I say yes or no to icecream. I suggest maths and I say no to things. I get cross and have asked my kids to go to their rooms. I have, in fact, slammed doors! I have cried and felt hopeless and even found myself saying those words: "Perhaps you should go back to school." I have not been the best, or greatest, or wisest parent sometimes.

But sometimes, I've done okay, maybe even better than okay. Sometimes, I've done something that rings so true and so right and brings such joy to my kids, that I've quietly said, "Good. That was good," to myself and notched one up for me as a Mum.

And I've found the more I journey down the path of our Freedom Experiment—into natural learning, unschooling, life learning, whatever it's called—I've felt more solid as a mother. More sure of myself, who I am, and who I want to be.

I say "Yes" so much more.

I say, "This is what I think, but what do you think?"

I say, "No, I don't think so, but here's why."

I choose communication and friendship over control.

And I've found that this way makes us happier.

And,

I feel like I'm learning SO MUCH, ALL THE TIME.



So then I share, here, what I'm learning.

And I truly hope my words come across as my own discoveries,

about myself and about my family,

NOT as some "Declaration on the Way to Live as Discovered by Me which is the Right and True and Only Way by the Power Invested in Me and So Forth."

Because no matter what I write here, these are just words,

just thoughts,

and I'm just one person

amongst the wondering, thoughtful, heartfelt billions.



.

a smorgasbord of thoughts

Thought 1: Samoa

I am slowly going through our Samoa pictures. There are so many!

The one above is the view from our ferry—the one we took from the "mainland" of Upolu, to the bigger but less populated island of Savaii.

There, in the photo, is Savaii, looming in the distance. (Not the little island on the left, but the really big fuzzy one far, far away!)

On this island, my daughter got pretty sick and we had to take her to hospital. On this island, I too had to go to hospital, 30 years ago. On this island we swam and ate and rested and on this island

we

spread the ashes of my father.

In this photograph, all of that is looming: expectant, promising, waiting.

It carries weight and hope and heft. And when I look at it, I actually feel tired!

But complete, too.

In these days of having returned and still feeling afloat,

I am sorting, finding, organising my thoughts, processing,

not just the many photographs,

but also the journey

which began when we were first deciding whether or not to go, back in September

and ended when the plane touched sweet, beautiful ground last Thursday.

Because it wasn't just a holiday

and it wasn't just a time to say good bye to my father

and it wasn't just a family reunion

and it wasn't just a homecoming

and it wasn't just relaxing

and it wasn't just complicated

and it wasn't just emotional or

difficult or

tiring or

scary

… it was

all

of these things

together.

I still feel like I'm on/in a boat/plane/car and I still feel like I'm not quite home! And yet, it's also

so so good to be home. To have faced fear and accepted adventure and to have embraced hope.

And, now, to have it behind us. It's been a long, long journey,

and I am ready to rest.

Thought 2: Now

My Samoa Diary: Days 5 - 10 is coming very soon! I promise.

But

in the meantime, the kids are super busy here with learning, and thinking and writing and making and playing and being and talking and I want to share a little.

Yesterday, my daughter wrote and made a book called, The Little Yellow Kitten. It's just awesome.

I read it just now and marveled, "It's just like a real book!"

My girl gave me a look. (You know the type.) And she said, "Mum. It IS a real book."

Sorry! Of course it is.

I totally want to post the whole story here. I've asked my girl if that's okay, and she's "thinking about it."

Which means I have to wait. Which is kind of hard for me. Do you think I should ask her again? It's been five whole minutes…!

While we were away, she also filled her writing book and her art book with stories, poems and art. Filled them. So she got a new notebook in Samoa, and it's already half full of stories.

She has become a writing maniac. Her stories are so rich, full of wonderful characters, dialogue, adventure, and awesome words like "agile," and "tumbled." This is the girl who at the beginning of the year said she didn't like to write stories!

As for my son, he finished all the books we brought to Samoa on day 5, just after we'd arrived in a tiny village in Savaii, far away from any book shops. The very rustic and lovely hotel we were staying in had a "library" room somewhere. My husband and son scouted for books and came back with a book from the '70's about diving for treasure, a musty copy of Lord of the Rings, and an old, old Encyclopedia Brittanica Volume 1 (the letter "A")

I didn't know which of these my boy read. I was in a blur with looking after a sick girl and saying hello to dear family friends and spreading my father's ashes. I still feel blurred by it.

But two days ago, my son blurted out, "I can't believe that encylopedia didn't have an entry for Arrhidaeus!"

Um? What? Who?

"Oh, Arrhidaeus, the dyslexic brother of Alexander the Great, who looked after his son after Alexander had died.I can't believe they didn't mention him!"

Really? They didn't have that? Say it ain't so!

I googled Arrhidaeus afterwards, to learn a little, and my son was spot-on. Though he wasn't dyslexic, he was epileptic. (I guess my son would have failed that in a test?) My son said, "Oh, yeah, that's right—I knew there was something different about his brain; I just forgot what."

Yeah, my beautiful boy. Rock that knowledge!

Thought 3: Unschooling

I have one last thing to share today. (So many thoughts, tumbling, tumbling!)

Someone, a very nice woman, mentioned my blog in her comment on a post on unschooling. It's a fascinating post, by The Pioneer Woman.

This post has literally hundreds of comments, and they make for an amazing, rich read, with hundreds of different perspectives given on this Thing Called Unschooling/Life Learning/Natural Learning.

I managed to read about fifty, before my brain petered out. I've bookmarked it and can't wait to go back for more. It's also a very respectful thread, which is refreshing! I highly recommend anyone interested in this method of homeschooling go and check it out.

Anyway, something someone asked in the comments section was this:

"What IS unschooling?"

And it got me thinking.

I think that is a near-impossible question to answer!

Unschooling, by its very nature, is a fluid thing—it's organic, highly personal, and can't really be pinned down. For me, I believe unschooling is based on respect—listening to and respecting how a child learns and wants to learn. It is built on following a child's passions and interests, and on finding ways to help learning happen, ways that are individual and infinite in number.

But that's my version of what unschooling is (and it's pretty dreamy and unspecific, I know!). In fact, I'm not even sure I'd call us "unschoolers," because by my very nature, I avoid being defined, or pinned down. For someone else, their definition of what unschooling is might be very different.

I believe there is no one, "right" way to unschool, or to homeschool for that matter. Because homeschooling is a deeply, deeply personal journey.

Our homeschool journey incorporates all methods of learning—at least, the methods that work for us. It allows for leaving a day completely open to see what comes up, but it also allows for using curriculum, incorporating schedules and routines, and having mentors make suggestions and offer up ideas.

Our journey, ideally, is "personalised, non-coercive, and interest-led" and it is built on respect. Sometimes our homeschool doesn't fit this goal—it gets snarled up in outside worries and expectations, in the sense that we "should" be doing this, or we "need" to do that to get it right. Then we take a deep breath (or at least, I do!). We talk, we pick ourselves up, we focus, and move on.

Homeschooling is such an individual journey that really no label or definition is right for us. Or…maybe…every label is right?!

So, we are unschoolers, and proud of it. AND, we are life learners. AND method dabblers, curriculum tasters, idea brewers, plan makers, learning lovers, people respecters, rule avoiders, skills learners, open-hearters, skills teachers, heart-on-sleevers, judgement skippers, life livers, mistake makers and belly laughers.

This is who we are, and this is our journey.

And it makes us so happy. It feels right to our very bones.

•

And now…

I think I'll stop thinking

(That is, until I start again!)

me time

I'm up early. I can hear the birds calling from tree to tree: "Are you up? I'm up! I'm totally up! Had my first worm! Howabout you? Nah, I'm waiting for Freda here. She wants the blossoms, so we'll do those in the yard over there. Freda, hey, you awake?"

The kidlets are asleep, and my husband is off practicing trumpet by the beach in our minivan. If he gets up early enough, he watches the sun rise over the ocean. Serious win.

I'm up early for some 'me' time. I love 'me' time. When everything else is quiet, and waiting, and the day hasn't taken off at a sprint. It's the time my thoughts gather. Make more thoughts, then more, all tumbling over themselves to be heard.

It's also the time I prepare for writers workshop. It's our second last meeting of the term today. Wow—how'd that happen?

How'd a year go by, a year that began with me thinking of starting a writers workshop for young people (a lifelong dream of mine), and is ending with me having run a a writers workshop for young people for almost a whole year! A workshop kids actually enjoy, a workshop filled with energy and enthusiasm, creativity and support. It's hard to believe, after all that dreaming, that it could come together so beautifully.

Then again, I think it's actually quite simple: You put a dream out there. You want it enough and believe in it enough and follow the path fearlessly enough, the dream finds you. If the dream is the right dream for you. If the path is the right path.

I think if I said today, "I'd like to be a fighter pilot," and went for it with total determination, I could possibly get pretty close to being a fighter pilot. I mean, I'm a good learner—I'm smart and stuff! And I can be determined when I want to be (like when there's cake somewhere: I will find it, and eat it). But the thing is, I don't like flying in planes. Or fighting. Or heights, much. I think it wouldn't take long for the Universe to know this wasn't the right path for me.

But homeschool. Homeschool. It's like the moment we began, all these beautiful things kept happening. My girl started to smile again and could be her true, safe self. My boy joined us, and found his learning confidence, and seriously took off with his music. I found friends who thought totally outside the box, just like me (and were so very kind). They became part of my community, new and old friends together, all supportive, all discovering.

I found time, somewhere, somehow to start writing again. I said, I'd like to start a writers workshop and lo and behold, a writers workshop was off and running. I began a blog and found people just like me in the blog-o-sphere—kindred spirits. I found my voice and my confidence and shared my heart and it was heard.

I've become a better parent. I listen more to my kids—I get real time to listen. They feel heard and so they express themselves better. We get along just so well.

(And I love that last night, my girl said, "Just for tonight, can I sleep with you?"

I checked with my husband and he said, "Is anything wrong?"

And I said, with a smile, "Nothing. Nothing's wrong. She just would very much like a sleepover."

So she had one, and it wasn't a sign of something Terrible. It was a sign that everything was Right. )

And now, my path brings me to a new adventure. Some school parents have approached me through my husband—parents of his music students—and they have asked me to start a writers workshop for them. Wow. It's only another dream I've had for decades now. To begin to build a community of young writers; to set up writing classes for kids in the area; to actually earn a little bit of money doing something I love. It's kind of lovely.

I'll start next year, and I have so many ideas! So many Big Thoughts, and Little Thoughts; Huge dreams and Small. I'll be running workshops, living and learning with my kids, writing my thoughts (and possibly my book?), walking my dog, loving my family, listening to the birds call to each other through the trees.

And it will be Me time.

All of it.

serendipity

I wrote a story once, years ago, as part of a novel-in-waiting. I don't think now it has a place there, but a friend recently wrote about what tea means to her in her blog (yet to be publicly shared, so I was lucky). And just by chance I found this old story tonight. Serendipity, I think it's called. "The discovery of things not sought." But, of course, it's so much more than that.

And I thought, Let us have tea together, you and I. Your tea story and mine. With their little fingers crooked, and the steam curling over the cups. That seems only right…

A cup of tea.

First I fill the jug and switch it on. While I wait for the water to boil I have to make some decisions. Which tea? Which mug? I am thinking Rooibos. A bush from a tiny province in South Africa. It has no caffeine but you can drink it with milk and sugar, so it’s like a regular tea in disguise.

If I had caffeine I would go crazy. I was at a friend’s house the other day and drank two cups of English Breakfast. I never drink black tea, but this day I thought, Goddamn, I’m tired of depriving myself. I’ll just have a little. After the second cup, I told her my life story. It took about five minutes, the words leaping over each other like animals in flight, animals trying to outrun a fire. My head buzzed, my skin tingled. I couldn’t stop talking. When I left, I had to walk out backwards because I was still going, my words ricocheting against the walls, the windows, tangling up in my friend's hair. And the stories were sad and dark, all of them, and her eyes went wide.

Afterwards, when I came down, I thought, What have I done? I apologised the next day, and she said, No. It was okay. I didn’t mind at all. But perhaps she was merely being kind. In that gentle way you might treat a feral cat stuck up a tree.

The kettle makes a murmuring sound that grows louder, an approaching train.

The mug. We have two enormous, truly gigantic mugs from a trip to a tourist shop in San Francisco. They are a committment. You have to be ready for a lot of liquid. You have to be prepared to get up to pee over and over again. If I know I will be writing upstairs for a long time, I think, The big mug. But then they are in the dishwasher sometimes, or still with my husband’s coffee on the bottom, the sediment like tar. Washing a mug this size takes time, more time than I might like to spend.

So I might pick one of the mugs I have been given for Mother’s Day, one for each of the last five years. They show my childrens’ evolution. The first has my daughter at six months old, holding a watermelon rind and peering over it with her big eyes. On the other side is my son who, in this photo, is nearly three. He is playing a toy guitar, but the guitar is huge and heavy, so the strap bears him down and he bends his knees. He is strumming a serious rock riff—his face is contorted with effort, or joy, or both.

Another mug shows the children lying over the dog, smiling up at the camera. The dog lies placidly. He is so gentle, so smelly. On another, the children hold up home-made signs saying, Happy Mother’s Day. I love you. And their eyes squint, because the light is bright outside, so they look worried even though I am sure they were happy. Another mug is fading, the smiles of the children holding fast like Cheshire cats, but the detail becoming blurred. And I think, One day, they will turn white.

The last cup doesn’t exist. Now I remember—my husband missed a year. The shop closed down and he searched through the Yellow Pages with no luck. So he bought me a plastic vase that looked like wood and a box with leather squares on the top. I thanked him but I knew I didn’t want these things. How to explain that it wasn’t things I wanted on this day, but him, and my children, around me, adoring me, keeping me alive.

The kettle has boiled. Today, I choose a butterfly cup given to me by my mother. I put the teabag in, and pour the water. I put in a spoonful of sugar and I stir, with one hand wrapped around the mug. I love this moment. It is pure, here, the time slowed. The cup starts off cool, and as I stir, the tea brews and the cup warms, the china slowly absorbing the heat. Until the delicious moment when the cup is too hot to hold, and I have to move my hand away. I don't mind the almost pain, and sometimes, I see how far I can travel into it. I go with my eyes wide open and I am not afraid.

Once, I burned my fingers badly on the stove. I held them under running water for forty-five minutes. While underwater, my fingers felt fine—in fact, they felt nothing. But I couldn’t stay there. I knew at some point, I was going to have to turn off the tap and face the pain, get in the car, be driven to the doctor to dress the burns.

I took my fingers away. The pain was breathtaking. It hit me as a solid wave, enough to knock a person over, enough to make a person scream. But then something curious happened: I let the pain in. I embraced it. As the pain took over my body I felt I was on the sea. I lifted and floated and held the pain close. So it could not scare me. So it owned nothing. It was almost beautiful.

The tea is ready for the milk. I take out the bag. I pour in just enough milk so the tea is creamy, not too dark. Not too light. Then I sip it. Because it might need more sugar, more milk, more…something.

But today it doesn’t. Today, it is perfect.

superpowered

What does it mean when you like kids' books best? And you adore going to kids' movies, and one of your favourite films of all time is The Emperor's New Groove? What does it mean when during the kids' holiday show at the museum you laugh the loudest of everyone in the theatre?

What does it mean when you let your kids have choc chip cookies one night right at dinnertime because they smell so good and waiting 'til after dinner would be a tragedy? And you go to buy a bra at the shop with your daughter and two minutes later announce, "This is way too boring, let's leave," and to the delight of your girl, visit the toy store instead?

What about the fact you easily choose learning to play Poptropica with your kids over doing the laundry? And you love going to pet the kittens at the RSPCA because, yes, they are so cute? And you totally want to pour water onto the campfire when it's time to leave—because it seems so cool to watch all that steam—and you sneak in a turn before any kids notice?

What does it mean when you don't like bedtimes either? And you think maybe there are some monsters under the bed, or in the bathroom at night?

What does it mean when you find logic annoying sometimes because it gets in the way of spontaneity? And talking about money (earning it, managing it, wanting it) makes you exhausted? And you want to get whatever new pet you and the kids have fallen in love with now—I mean right now—because not getting it is way too dull?

My husband has an answer for this. He says, "You're like a kid, Helena. A kid with adult powers."

Which is either dangerous or liberating, or both. Sometimes it makes you get so caught up in the ending to the movie Babe at the age of 28 that your roommates all laugh at you—you're on the edge of your seat, wide-eyed and transported with joy at Babe's powers. Sometimes it means you love the moment your kids open their Christmas stockings because the look on their faces, in that moment when they see what's inside, is too delicious for words. It makes your skin tingle.

And sometimes it means you want to move to the tropics this minute, because winter's just too ordinary, and you spend a good hour looking up houses in northern Queensland instead of looking for an affordable way to heat your home. And it means you buy a boardgame every single time you enter the toy shop with the kids, so you can't go in too often.

And it means you would pick running a free writers workshop for kids a hundred times over teaching adults for money. Because kids are so great; they are true and fine and interesting. And they live in the moment, always, and love to play and be together. And life can be that simple.

It doesn't earn you much, being a kid inside. And plenty of times, I manage to take out my adult powers and use them for practical, sensible things. But the kid in me is always there, and I can't shake her—she is my skin and my spirit, one of the best parts of me I have.

together and alone

Today I rode my bike, by myself, to a cafe downtown. I rode the bike track that runs along the beach, past a lagoon, over a creek, through pockets of bush, all the way to a gorgeous cafe overlooking the ocean. As I rode, I thought, This is a good moment. This is a good life. This is a beautiful place to be. Here I am.

I saw kids fossicking in the creek. A woman in a wheelchair, rug over her knees, eating lunch at the edge of the lagoon. I saw men powering remote-controlled boats. A girl walking her pet rabbit. A boy in a bicycle seat, almost asleep. Couples side by side beside the sea.

I didn't talk to anyone, that is, no-one except the friendly waitstaff at the cafe and one man—I offered his young son my uneaten hot choc marshmallows and got a warm, Yes please and Thankyou smile in return.

I read. I wrote. I watched. I thought. I rode. All in my own silence.

I couldn't remember the last time I'd been by myself, at least not for so long. My son almost came with me—he said, "I've been wanting to go on a long ride for ages!"

I thought, 'Well, I was thinking of taking time for myself, but…that would actually be really nice.' I realised I honestly didn't mind if my plan changed, if my son came with me on my "afternoon off." I knew we'd have a good time.

"Okay," I said, "If you want to, you're welcome to come."

But, in the end he decided to stay. Because, he reasoned, Dad should have time with him too, and my son wanted to be fair. Which was very kind.

My afternoon was simple and good and I loved the silence I had. But as I rode, I realised that if my son had come too, the "alternate version" of my afternoon would have been just as lovely. Not for the same reasons, but for other good reasons, fine reasons of its own.

I knew I could have joy either way, no matter what I did, because I believed it would be there waiting, and I would find it.

view from the cafe window

view on my way home

lovely, isn't it?