Sunday writings #13

Starting to write as it’s starting to rain. It was sunny when I spread out my cotton blanket beside the lake. The wind making the weather change its mind every five seconds. Is the rain coming or going? Am I coming or going? Sprinkles on my bare arm, this page in my notebook — should I leave? — then the sun shines weakly through the paperbarks. I decide to stay. A willy wagtail sashays at the lake’s edge. The sky greys again. The wind’s breath is cold on my skin. Beyond the dune on the far side of the lake I can hear the boom and rumble of the invisible surf, then, closer, the cricket-clicks of the wagtail, the air carrying all sounds equally.

I watch two windsurfers halfway between here and the other side, hear the men’s voices, the flap of a sail. The wind is gusty, mercurial, raging one moment and contrite the next. No proper rain yet, but the day is getting gloomier. I put on my flannel shirt and keep writing. Nothing important, just glimpses of a never-to-be-repeated afternoon. This is not an expansive place like the headlands where I usually write; it’s a contained, quiet place, a place to listen rather than look. I try to open my ears. I hear more birds, in the tops of the paperbarks. Wind-ripples of water against the shore. I look up and see handkerchiefs of blue sky between the clouds.

The wind arrives sudden and strong, energetic, unapologetic, and the trees answer back, making it audible. I watch it come, in dark patches on the water travelling fast, unimpeded, and suddenly I’m remembering glancing over my shoulder as I hold the wishbone of my own windsurfer, checking for gusts so I can be ready, how I learned to lean back in just the right away at just the right moment and feel my sail catch the new air and my board take off under me, instant excitement. Or, if I wasn’t ready, an instant swim. Small feedback loops make good teachers.

The sun is dappling now, taking a final bow, making, on the grass, patterns that move in time with the wind in the trees, that move in time with the gusts on the water, everything speaking to everything else, everything listening, understanding, knowing more than the finest words could ever say. I close my notebook and take in the wordless wonder of it all.

Or buy me a coffee (also appreciated!)