Living is easy with eyes closed.
Misunderstanding all you see.
It’s getting hard to be someone but it all works out.
It doesn’t matter much to me.
— Strawberry Fields Forever, The Beatles
==
Winter morning I wake in darkness darkness darkness. 6:30 am.
things things things to do, to be, to busy head busy mind busy head mind head mindheadmindhead.
Another way is very close. Very close. Very close by.
I do know that. I am aware of that.
Yes.
So close that I’m in it. I’m in it already. Needing only to notice.
That’s enough. That’s enough. And that is enough.
In the same way that transcendental meditation and drugs do not put kaleidoscopes in anyone’s vision — rather they make visible what is and was already there — TO SPOT THAT IS ENOUGH.
==
So.
Awake.
Dark.
Pre-dawn.
Warm milky coffee slides pleasingly smoothly down my throat. Soft low light glows pleasingly warmly from a seven-pointed star which hangs from our wall.
Outside temperature: 5.1 degreesC. Feels like: 1.2 degreesC.
In black shorts, runners and hoodie, I grab my white beanie with the green embroided logo of Hammarby sports club on its upturned edge – a souvenir from my trip to Stockholm in late 2024 – and step into the day. What will today bring? What has today already brought?
Be here. Be here.
Bluestone pavers cut to slippery mirror smooth. Migrant workers engage in manual labour. Push cleaning carts. A bustle of activity flashes from the café kitchen. More from behind the closed glass door of the bakery. Industry. Industry.
Scattered cloud smatters darkened sky.
An orange glow illuminates the far east.
Be here. Be here.
Walking. Suburban streets. Streets of close housing, of renovations, of early morning dog walkers. A tradie sits in his silent, still, darkened car parked on the kerbside, face backlit from a phone screen which shines from his hand.
Be here. Be here.
A woman walks as hostage to two small dogs on leads, who zig and zag, piss and sniff.
“Come here, come here,” she pulls, twists, cajoles, sighs. Who walks who?
In a pitch dark front yard a man stands in sentinel silence beside his car.
A woman cycles past wearing fluffy gloves and trailing a scarf.
Pockets of deep darkness envelop the street ahead. Puddles of light spill from overhead lighting. I walk quietly. Nothing in my mind.
Be here.
Be here.
At a quiet street corner a pole that holds the street sign leans like it’s ill. Pendulous drops of water hang from the lower edge of the sign. Cold metal. Condensation.
I wonder about a water molecule hanging there in the gloom.
An H2O.
For how long have its elements been bound together?
What has it seen?
Evaporation? Time in the atmosphere? Condensation? Yes. Now on the sign.
From where did it come?
From where did it evaporate? From the bay? The ocean?
How long ago?
And before that?
And before that?
Has it spent much time in the frozen solid state?
Did it meet Cleopatra?
Did Cleopatra drink it? Did she piss it?
Did it once form part of a dinosaur?
Be here.
Be here now.
From the hillside, the low eastern sky glows like lava. But I’m into the valley and by the creek all is dark. All is dark.
Too dark for magpie song.
Too dark for kookaburra song.
No animal sounds.
Only the wash of the creek can be heard as on she flows.
On she flows.
Over darkened rocks and darkened soil, on she flows.
I am here.
==
This was inspired by my reading and enjoying Jeanette Winterson’s article describing her faraway summer solstice.
==
Like the Merri Creek, on we flow.
==
Thanks for reading. Thanks for being here now.
This has been Sproutings #144. For earlier editions, click on the image/ name for Sproutings at the top of the piece.
Go well.
Comments
Nothing yet. Say the first thing.
Sign in to join the conversation.