month of beauty: noticing

Noticing: the act of paying attention.

Noticing: Minding: Seeing: Hearing: Feeling: Relishing: Loving.

Noticing:

How my pancake mix today seems extra creamy. I bought almond meal in bulk; it's so pale and perfect. I beat it into the egg replacer and it gets all frothy, then slowly I work in the gluten free flour, the oat and soy and rice milk. The pancakes come out like clouds, fluffy and bright.

How the dog needs a wash. He looks at me with his eyebrows raised, then goes to the water bowl. He slurps and slobbers up the water, leaving drops everywhere. The cat comes to the bowl next. Unacceptable! He paws and paws at the bowl until one of us gets up to replace the water. He leans over. Laps at the surface like a princess.

How my girl and my boy and their sleepover friend are still friends, after all these years, even after we left school three years ago, and she stayed. How these kids laugh until they are bent over, until my daughter is staggering with laughter, until I'm laughing too, tears in my eyes.

How my son is a born teacher. My kids have created a circus: Cirque Des Mittaines. Our sleepover friend signs a contract: she is now a full member and gets to learn with the Master! (My son). Juggling first, then diabolos, then juggling again. They practice for over an hour. He patiently stands by and suggests. "Your hands," he says, "they need to be a little further forward. You're doing well."

How the wind feels on the dunes. Here we are, me cross-legged on the sand, watching how the waves curl. Kids building a den with driftwood and bits of bush, all of them climbing, tumbling, working, finding, organising, together, so happy together. I've wrapped my head with my scarf and imagine I look like an old gypsy grandmother. The kids call. "Come see! Come see!" Their den looks amazing. You can actually crawl inside and curl up to sleep.

How delicious the vege rolls taste from the sushi shop. We've gotten hungry out there in the sun and wind and sand. We gobble our lunch on the movie theatre benches, waiting for the doors to open. It's Ice Age 4. We have high hopes—we love the whole series. We love Buck best, the kids and I agree, from movie No. 3. We marvel at the boxes of popcorn, the size of those soft drink cups. We drip soy sauce from those little soy fish containers onto our rolls, one drop at a time.

How fun it is to sit in the darkened theatre, looking across to see the kids laughing, how caught up we are. How much I love to sit in movie theatres. How much I love to be swept up by a film, held inside it like I'm in a snow globe. Only released when the lights go up, and even then, I'm still dancing inside the story, still delighted.

How good our nachos dinner tastes after a day out and a day of adventure.

How our sleepover friend is sleeping over for another night! I love that she is here, and how happy she makes us all.

How the cat feels on my lap, one warm circle.

How the juggling balls sound as they thwap to the floor: my husband practicing in the living room behind me. He starts circus lessons with the kids next term. They are beside themselves with excitement.

How the dishwasher sounds: swooshing in a steady rhythm.

How calm and fine I feel.

How beautiful it is,

to pay attention.

5 senses

Things I happened to…

See.

We watched a movie last night. We hardly ever watch movies and we never watch tv. When I say never, I really mean never! The tvs all went to digital this month in Australia. We'd been thinking we needed to get a set-top box to convert our old analog images (little people walking along that high wire, all the way to our house! Where they would put up their little sets and move about inside our box, just for us. We always felt so special), into digital (all those people shrinking, turning into ones and zeros, all saying, 'But wait…wait…'), but we never did.

We never bought the box, much less a new television. Ours is over 10 years old. It's a fossil. Where's it supposed to go now? Is there a play park for defunct things, things like walkmans and the egg beaters you whirr by hand? I imagine our tv shyly entering… 'Hello?' it calls. The other tvs wave shyly back. There's a special corner for them, I imagine. Somewhere they plug themselves in…and in the crackle of nothing, there are the ghosts of the people who used to live there, moving about silently inside. 

We watched a dvd on our new computer. Why? It seemed easier, in the moment, to do it that way. And this is how you make these huge changes in your life. One moment you're in your old life, and then, just like a train being rerouted, a click shifts the tracks, and you head into the new. At some point, maybe years later, you go, "Remember when? When we used to watch tvs, when we listened to CDs, when we warmed up food on the stove, when we washed dishes by hand, when all we had were rocks to make fire and the wolves howled outside?"

It was a movie called Moon, a sci-fi film with Sam Rockwell. I'm not a sci-fi sort of person. I'm not a scary/spooky movie person either. I don't like to be shocked or overly nervous. But I'd heard this movie was great, and I'm a Sam Rockwell fan. It was worth it. It was unnerving in this delicious way, listening to the spooky music, knowing (sort of) and not knowing what's going to happen. There's a man, Sam, who is stuck alone on the dark side of the moon (or IS he? Oooh.). There's the grey of the moonscape and the trundling of the moon rover and the visions Sam starts to have… and then it gets kind of surreal. And kind of sad and kind of beautiful too. I totally went with it—I got hooked. I'm very glad I did.

We stayed up too late watching, of course.

One day, maybe we'll look back and say, "Remember? When we stayed up too late, watching Moon? And we didn't care because then we went to bed and whispered to each other as the children slept, as the night crawled into morning? And the last thing we said before sleep was, 'I love you.' Remember?"

Hear.

I just found a new band. Oh, they are lovely. They make you bounce. They lift you and make you smile. It's easy to love them. Because lift, bounce, smile and love are the things you always hope to have in your day.

Someone commented on this video: "This is what happiness feels like." Don't you agree, now that you've heard and bounced and smiled?

Taste.

This is just some of the vegan yumminess we've been loving recently!

Porridge with pear, apple and banana.

Home-made muesli with flaxseeds, chia seeds, pepitas, slivered almonds, psyllium husk, and oats, served with banana on rice flakes. (served with four milks—we're crazy that way. Almond, rice, soy and oat—all very yummy and all easily available)

Almond banana fritters served with real maple syrup!

Brown rice with lentil bean mix, sliced avocado on the top. 

Sweet potato and cannellini bean soup.

Quesadillas and Nachos and Tacos—all topped with crazy amounts of guacamole!

Pad Thai—my favourite. Unbelievably scrumptious, noodles and veg and tofu with a magic sauce, made by my beautiful husband. 

And a recipe for you (because I know you'll love it)

Vegan Brownies from the very cool, and very funny Vegan Zombie website:

These are insanely, divinely, yummy. They work with gluten free flour too! We dazzled everyone at my son's party with them, and then a family got the recipe and made a batch for their school fete. How cool is that? It made me very happy, to think of all the vegany love spreading outward.

Touch.

Winter is truly upon us. It's cold here, lots of wind blowing, lots of rain outside. Heaters on inside, sitting in ugg boots and jackets inside, many jackets (for me) outside. 

But because we love the sea, and because it wasn't raining one day, we went to the beach to feel the wind. 

It was Glorious. 

Smell.
My children's skin, as I'm cuddling them. When I'm kissing them goodnight and their skin gives off that sweet, sleepy scent. I breathe in and everything is all right with the world.

and See, again.

My children's stories from the Just Image competition!

I love them, and I know I'm biased, but I think you'll love them too.

Frederic Bates, Late lights, 
1963, watercolour, brush and blue ink on paper, 32.4 x 29.1cm

Down Down Down

by my boy

Down down down—it seemed strange that he should fall that fast through water.

Great unfamiliar shapes shot past as he tumbled, head-over-heels, towards the bottom of the sea. The underwater inhabitants watched with curiosity as the alien trespasser fell through their midst.

A stream of bubbles blew out like a cape behind him as he fell. It was like some great monster was hiding in the depths, and with each mighty breath the sailor was sucked further downwards. Like a missile, he sped through the twilight zone into midnight. In the blink of an eye, all sunlight was shut out. Eerie glowing colours swam in and out of his vision.

At that moment, his need for air hit him. It started like a bed of hot coals sitting in his lungs, and grew into a raging inferno. He tried to swim up, up towards the surface, but he knew it was futile.

And then, the light flickered back on again, first as a soft blue-ish glow, then becoming a harsher, colder shade. And with the light came a new sensation, like he was below the monster now, and it was weeping for something lost. Its great silvery tears flowed over his body.

Finally, the need for oxygen became too much. The sailor blacked out. 

•

Slowly, the young man’s eyes swam back into focus. He was lying on a hard, cracked grey surface as great rivers of rain poured down on him from a turbulent sky. Fog swirled and twisted around towering structures, concealing shadowy forms amid its misty folds.

Suddenly, something swooshed past his fallen body, sending a great wave of dirty water crashing down on him. He cleared his eyes just in time to see a sleek black monster shooting through the darkness. Its great red eyes glared back at him before it was swallowed by the night. The sailor shuddered. Then he heard a voice.

“Oh my god! John, come over here!”

The voice was high and female, and had a foreign tinge.

“What is it? Oh my god!”

This new voice was deeper, but had the same foreign sound.

Someone bent over him.

“What’s your name? Where do you live? What happened?”

The sailor groaned.

“Prithee, good sir, I beseech you; where am I?”

He shook, hacked up a great gob of seaweed, and collapsed again into darkness. 

and…

The Dance Of The Brolgas

by my girl

The sky glowed red above the mountain tops. Underneath the setting sun the pool lay, soft and silent in the twilight.  It was still, reflecting the sky and the bunches of stars that poked their heads out into the world, dimly shining as they waited for the last streaks of sunlight to fade.

Then they came.

Dancing and calling came the brolgas. Waving their wings high, they sang. They shook their beaks and lifted their feet, scattering the water that leapt like tiny fish. The brolgas seemed to sing the moon into existence. Their song was powerful in a simple, beautiful way. The stars glimmered, smiling down at the dancing birds.

The brolgas, five of them, beat their wings and took great leaps in a circle, as the shining sphere of the moon rose into the sky, first low, over the mountains, then higher and higher.

One of the birds stretched its long neck, uncurling it to touch the moon, just gently, with its beak. It lifted its wings and brought them down again, letting out a burst of song.

And the other brolgas raised their heads and watched as the bird rose and circled above them.

Then they too beat their wings, once, twice, three times, and followed the brolga into the sky. The birds flew, giving swoops of song that were filled with the delicate power of the stars and the moon they had sung into life.

∞

and that's it…

(for now!)

here's to finding the joy in every moment you can,

with love from me to you.

more Now. more Here.

So I was making porridge this morning.

Pear porridge + cold winter morning. Mmmmm. Cats meandering through the rooms. Children reading upstairs in their warm beds. Sunlight sliding in through the kitchen window.

As I cooked, I thought, I'll get a book to read, while I stir and stir. Something to do while doing, in the way people do.

I read about two paragraphs, and suddenly thought, Actually, no.

Actually, no thank you. (I'm always polite!).

Because reading, while Fine and Good (always), takes away—right now—from

This.

The simple stirring. The movement of the spoon, circling. Then, doing figure eights, around, and around. Your hand light, the spoon light, your breathing even.

And the watching. As the oats lose their flake and flatness and become…something altogether different. As the pear moves in and merges, as the milk mixes, as the single pieces become a warm smooth One.

And you have the sounds around you. The whirr of the fridge. The lap lap of the cat's tongue finding water. The thump of someone's feet as they launch themselves upstairs, from bed to floor. The shift and creak of the dog in his bed. And the small sound of stirring, the simple hiss as the porridge moves with the spoon.

It's all in this moment. The world. You living in it. You: alive (alive!) and breathing. You, holding a spoon. You. Making something. You, aware, alert, attuned.

You. Here. Now.

There is nothing more

beautiful.


.

(and the porridge? Shared with my girl? While having breakfast with both kids? While reading out to them from a cool art book? 
It was delicious :) )

chain of shells

I shall make a chain of shells she said

and the boy said Ah

and the girl said Oh

and the two said Me too

(though the girl couldn't help herself and made

an owl instead!)

They

found shells in perfect quarter circles

strewn around the dune—

a bird's finished meal 

they thought

(she imagined it sitting 

back and 

rubbing its tummy with its feathery wings, 

maybe loosening its belt a notch

or two).

The sand

was linked 

with white by white

like the souls of the things

that used to live inside

were holding hands.

finding spirit

There are many days I could sit quietly and think…

about what spirit is, for me.

So many holy days to spark contemplation, so many people pausing.

Today, Easter Sunday, is one such day. A deeply important day, in this part of the world and others.

If I lived in Morocco,

Israel,

Tibet,

or the Sudan,

the days to pause, the holy moments, might be different.

Perhaps I'd find people dancing and calling out their name for God,

or kneeling towards Mecca,

or praying in a synagogue,

or quietly meditating in a room, high in the mountains.

(I know I'd find this happening here in Australia too, if I looked.) 

All of these people would be resonating. Finding their spirit. Their song. The path that feels truest to them. 

All these ways, these days, this kaleidoscope of faith,

are 

beautiful to me. 

We were watching the sunset the other day, looking over a lake that I loved as a child.

We stood high, high on a sand dune, the sea behind us, the lake before us. The sun dipped lower and lower over faraway hills.

Out of the blue, I said to my husband, "Who decides when Easter is? The date is always different."

He didn't have an answer straight away. I turned back and watched how the falling sun changed the light. The hills waited, infinite layers of blue. Tiny birds darted through the bushes. Called to each other, nestled into the trees. Larger birds coasted the twilight wind, their wings out like palms of the hand, held upward.

And then I said, "I wonder what those hills are." 

Thinking to myself, Are they part of the National Park? They are so beautiful. They seem to go on and on.

And my husband said, "Perhaps the Church?"

In that moment, I thought he meant the hills. I had already forgotten my question a minute earlier. 

In that moment, I thought, Yes. 

It felt so true to me. 

Of course. The hills are the church. 

And the sky all around. 

And the birds calling, the sun dipping, the light changing, 

the water in the distance, so still, and fading into blue grey. 

And the sound of the surf behind me, purring, holding me up with its hand warm on my back. 

This, here, is my church. This is where my spirit feels truest. 

My feet on the sand, rooted into the Now, into this moment. This view. These sounds. These trees, this life, this sky, this sea. The living, breathing, vibrating, resonating natural world. 

My spirit is here. This is my worshipful space. 

And I felt such peace. 

Such connection.

Such joy. 

On this day, and on others, where the spirit rises and holds you, 

wherever you are, 

however your spirit sings,

I wish you beauty, peace, and love. 

a day…

wake to the feel of my girl touching my arm
turning and she's smiling

right into my eyes



chickens at the back door, where's breakfast?

padding out over still damp grass to feed them

they cluck and follow, cluck and follow


hanging clothes on the line, bare feet on still damp grass

soft brown moth on a clothes peg

cicadas whirring

birds calling to each other, tree to tree to tree


eggs for my boy for breakfast
make him a lunch like longago school time

then he's gone all day, helping out at Robocamp

back home and

my girl saying, don't look! as she does another writing project

at her beloved desk.

dog splayed out on the cool tile floor

cat in a box


smoothies and books
my girl says, well that's our whole summer holidays right there!

wandering the garden

 

it's lovely out here


quick visit from my mum, just popping in and she's always ready to listen, read, share.
so beautiful to me


quick visit to two girls we've missed all summer—they've been sick with whooping cough
my girl when she sees them—her face lit with love
sitting on a rug in the sun
hearing all the stories they've written while waiting to get better
it's never long enough when we're with them


now we're

picking up my boy
he's in a crowd of boys
circled around a bunch of legorobots having a sumo challenge
all the boys laughing


and when we get home


my girl goes to her desk
my boy goes to his book


and mum, what's plight mean? (my girl who's writing) What's an anecdote? (my boy entranced by Nanny Piggins) What does bodily mean? (my girl) What's the Theory of Relativity? (my boy)

so we go to the computer and watch YouTube videos on Einstein's Theory of General and Special Relativity. yeah. we do, and my brain starts to go 'round and 'round trying to understand.

asking my boy, "Are you getting this?"
"Yeah," he says. (Like, Yeah, Mum, of course I am, aren't you?)

then it's

pancakes for dinner
made with extra eggs and dolloped with homemade, just-this-minute-made strawberry jam

except my boy has to have a heaping plate of pasta and lentil bolognese first
then a big ol' pancake for dessert


and it's time for a walk

sunset walk with the dog—old dog—plodding behind
happy happy

across the park, sun gone behind the mountain, clouds spinning gold

racing kids—who's first to the soccer posts?
bolting across just shorn grass
Oh, I think I've sprained my leg running too hard, could I have sprained my leg, mum?
how about a hopping race along the cricket pitch? says my boy


home and showers and reading reading reading reading
and Dad's coming home tonight!
(5 days away is too long)
and deciding who's going to sleep where on the big family bed and it's getting late

and his lights come down the driveway and the kids,
bouncing on the bed like toddlers,
Dad! Dad! Come upstairs!

And cuddles and more cuddles
and goodnight

and time on the couch with just my husband
hearing about his week at jazz camp and all the stories

and then
warm milk and honey
to try and quiet my mind
and tell it:

you can stop planning and thinking, just for a little while,
just for a time

Pause and reflect
on these small moments

as you have been,
already,
all day,

stopping and noting and holding close and taking photographs with your mind

embracing each small thing

that has built this day,

with Reverence.

To Do and To Don't

Things I am doing

even though I shouldn't be.

Staying up late when my whole body (eyes to knees, hair to toe) says I'M TIRED. Like REALLY TIRED. Please, please, take me to bed.

Worrying over how to help my girl understand maths. Like stewing over, mulling, ruminating, obsessing. Maths has become my nemesis. (But only KIND OF, because my son and I are going to dive into fractions tomorrow, and I think fractions are COOL).

Wishing I could help homeschool some kids who aren't homeschooled, who'd be so so great to hang out with, but aren't mine, and can't be wished over like a cool toy in a shop window. Bummer about that.

Wishing I could fix things I have no real power over. That's a really great wish, and goes in the box with wishing for world peace and the end to poverty. Though you can make quite a bit of noise about the last two.

Things I am doing

that I should be doing.

(Otherwise known as a WIN-WIN situation)

Listening to the quiet.

Sitting beside my daughter's ball of wool and needles, from her new adventure into the LAND of KNITTING. Having a little smile inside about that. She loves her knitting. I need me some needles now, to join her. I need to get my boy some needles. We needs us a knittin' circle!

Thinking of how warm and snug my feet are in their purple UGG boots. Mother's Day present 2010. Everyone should get a pair. Preferably in a colour they'd never choose for themselves.

Listening to the quiet. I know I mentioned it already, but it really is lovely.

Listening to the fridge humming. In F sharp. I know, because I just got up, went over to the piano and checked.

Letting the cat get on my lap in the nth hour, just as I'm thinking I WILL go to bed…

oh…I shouldn't have done that.

a new day…

a new day equals:

a talk with a sister—love, kindness, understanding, compassion

an appointment with a doctor

a pact to see someone to talk things through on a regular basis, rain, hail or shine

a big family cuddle on the bed with the children kicking their feet up and laughing

a kiss from my husband. His lips taste of peanut butter

preparing for writers workshop

sun shining

being gently reminded to look for the joy

the kids happily learning, writing reading talking being. Our homeschool land happy and intact

the dog licking himself

the cat scratching at the playroom door

birds calling

asking a friend to hang with my kids while I see the doctor. She saying yes without hesitation

a sleepover tonight with two bouncety kids coming

pizza video night

my kids

my husband

us

a new day equals…

it is morning, the day is in front of me

let's see what it brings?

some things

A list of out-of-order things and thoughts, both random and vital

1. I have a cold and have had one for days. I had forgotten what it was like to be sick. Since changing my diet completely two years ago, I think I've had maybe 1/2 a cold. So, I'm ready to be better.

2. We had a family reunion this weekend and I got to tell relative after relative about homeschooling. Each person had questions, and each listened respectfully as I talked about it. I was proud of the fact I knew what I was talking about, and had a considered answer for every question. And perhaps they didn't agree, but they didn't let on. I think my enthusiasm in sharing our adventure and having everyone meet my amazing, funny, interesting kids made any nay-saying impossible. I felt invincible and so lucky.

3. My son wants to be a historian now. He wants to blow everyone away with his knowledge of Greek and Roman history. He said, "I'm going to write such a great book, everyone'll forget all about The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire!"

4. My daughter didn't understand something in maths one day last week. She and I both got a bit funny about that. I, not so cleverly, panicked (the Panic Spiral goes, "Oh, she doesn't know something. She should know it. I'm not doing this right. Perhaps we shouldn't have homeschooled. I suck." Not the most original or clever panic spiral. Wish it could have been more interesting, but I think Panic Spirals are notorious for being Illogical and Dull). As for my girl—after panicking at the maths question and crying—my daughter saw me become lost, freeze into my panic, become stuck. She went and quickly wrote an information report on an African Bird (she really did). Then she came and hugged me. And she said, "But I know 9 + 9 is 18, Mum! I didn't know that before. You taught me that."

5. I saw a movie the other night. I was feeling uncertain, about many things. But then I watched this film, called Away We Go (directed by Sam Mendes). And it was so beautiful. It reminded me that love is all.

(The soundtrack features Alexi Murdoch. His music is incredible. You listen, and joy can't help itself; it has to slip in and curl beside your heart).

bliss

Tonight we went to a concert. A trio. Piano, bass, drums.

Simple, and not simple at all.

My kids sat and listened to the entire concert, for the first time ever. Normally they get full by the first set, and need to play outside, go home, be elsewhere. That has always been fine—over the years I've become used to getting a "taste" of the music, and being content with that.

But this time…we were transfixed. The music filled us, lulled us, excited us, captivated us. The musicians explored sounds and rhythms we'd not heard played that way before. My son danced in his seat with a friend; at one point he shut his eyes and just moved his head. My daughter sat on my lap and rested against me, perfectly still.

The musicians talked to each other through their music—it was as though they were a single creation, an invention, a complicated organism. Three music makers, all understanding each other, what the other was doing, what the other was about to do. It felt like being pulled into a kaleidescope. At one point, I closed my eyes, and smiled.

When I wrote—in an earlier post—about the importance of following your dreams, a friend said it reminded her of Joseph Campbell's statement: "Follow your bliss."

Tonight, I could see the musicians were following their bliss. Absolutely. They were inside their own world as they played, where nothing existed but the sounds they were making.

By listening, I was drawn into that bliss, and could make it my own. My kids too, were drawn into a world of Fine, and Pure, and True. Afterwards, it was like they were lit from within.

It was a magical night. I never wanted the music to end.

(Oh, and the name of the band? The Ben Winkelman Trio.)

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?