In the heat of this moment

​I’m not sure how best to tackle the beast that is the profusion of notebooks kept during six months away from familiar grounds. 
So for now, here are some very simple, very indulgent scenes from the less complicated parts of a slow December’s return. 

May your holiday rest - be it winter or summer - bring a sure pause, or the thrill of non-stop aliveness. Whatever you need. 
And by no stretch do I write in ignorance and denial of the hideous current realities of humankind, and deny the voices of pain that should be pondered over my jotted privileges. But I do write in hope that by greeting with thanks these pockets of tenderness in daily life, that some form of magical comfort be extended over oceans to those for whom daily life as a concept of choice no longer exists. 

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15/12/23 -
Always asking:
If I do what’s the cost? 
And if I don’t, what’s the cost? 


16/23/23 - 
As I walked out of the building, she declared her wishes for a “really low-key, unglamorous, classic Kiwi summer.” And I knew exactly what she meant. 


18/12/23 -
Tonight, in the bottom garden... Overgrown and splendid. Cushy greens exploding life. Golden - the South kind - turning tawny mountains velvet, or horseback. A moment of return, in that happiest mode, fashion-less and functional: crocs, trackies, a cotton shirt. Chatting as we dig and pull and plant. Dinner at the beach, chased with a cold plunge. In these simple minutes we are untouchable again, no scary thoughts of discontent and desperation. 


21/12/23 -
What a nice thing, standing barefoot in the garden
shelling a pea pod to pop into your mouth. 
Or taking sweet and tiny offerings from a glorious and unruly berry patch, bushed and busting 
to show you what it has done. 


22/12/23 -
Summer solstice. I’m domestic, but grubby and gruff. Wearing Frith’s gumboots, puffing and sweating, then delighting. 
Sun red cheeks all flushed I strip down to my undies and lie like a starfish up on the grassy bank in a heavy summer rain. I imagine being watered - blooming with abundance, beauty and provision. Part of a bigger picture. 
End up laughing at myself, gleefully. 


24/12/23 -
Not the ‘will’ but the ‘does.’


25/12/23 - 
Knee deep in the river flow, I hold her hands from upstream so she can “kick kick kick” like a little kid. We joke about her placebo wetsuit - vintage Body Glove. How melted the chest neoprene is…“it’s like someone’s taken a blowtorch to the neck!” 


26/12/23 - 
I’m constantly terrified of losing this feeling. But then I keep finding it. 
Again and again I find myself meeting peace. 


27/12/23 - 
June holds the leash, looks up and says: “she sure looks happy next to me.”
I look around, see who is next to me. I sure am happy next to them.