And so, I return to writing

And in doing so, I return to the joy of words.

It’s six o’clock in the morning, and my alarm goes off. As I partially remove my blindfold, I see that the room is already bathed in the cool blue light seeping in through the blinds. Without checking, I can tell that it is misty and overcast outside. 

I swing my arm out from under the weighted blanket and reach over to hit ‘Stop’, not ‘Snooze’. I roll back onto my side and, for a moment, I consider skipping this early morning writing session that I have carved out for myself. No way. But for ten minutes, I let myself lie there, dreaming about the things I want to write and document. 

At quarter past, I send Rick a text message: Any chance of making me a coffee before you go out? I know he’s been up for some time, making sandwiches for the boys before he leaves. I half-suspect he’s already out, but I hear the coffee machine go on, and my heart leaps. I get up and reset the bed, folding up the blanket like a giant origami piece. I also pop my ear plugs and blindfold back into my sleeping kit and return my books and book light to the bedside drawer. I smile warily to myself, as I muse over how strict an art form sleep has become in my forties.

Moments later, my phone lights up with a message, or, should I say, a haiku:

coffee is ready
its aroma fills the air
wakefulness awaits

I smile and race downstairs. I see the coffee on the dining table and rush over to the front door. I open it in time to see Rick standing at the end of the driveway, looking down at his phone. He glances up, and we wave to each other. ‘Love you!’ I call out, just as he turns and jogs back towards the front door. ‘Thank you so much,’ I say, as he leans down for a quick kiss. He beams at me and leaves.

Back upstairs, I close the bedroom door behind me, take my coffee into the walk-in wardrobe, and set my cup down on the little writing desk from Kmart.

I open up my laptop. 

I take a sip of my coffee.

I sit.

I exhale.

And I write.

____

It is the fourth day of our summer holiday. We are at Frenchman Beach in La Perouse. We’ve had lunch at The Boat Shed, and we’ve already been in the surf at CongWong Beach. The sun is low on the horizon, and the boys and I are enjoying our last dip for the day while Rick watches on from the shore. I’m wearing my Akubra and my sunglasses still, but the boys have happily discarded their rash tops. 

The water is clear, cool, and shallow, and the sun is warm on our backs. Ewan spies schools of tiny fish darting here and there, weaving the most beautiful pattern between our feet. We all squeal with delight and try to hold them with our hands. Jake manages to catch one, and we huddle around him for a closer look. The fish is miniature and almost completely transparent, except for its big round eyes. ‘It looks so funny,’ Lenny says. Jake lets the fish go, and we play tip. I wave to Rick, and he waves back. The older boys swim out to the deep waters, and I follow them.

For the first time in months, I feel relaxed and content. 

I gaze up at the sun, then look around me at each of the five boys.

Remember this, I tell myself. Remember this feeling. Remember their faces.

Remember this moment.

_____

It is Sunday, and I am driving. We are on our way to church, and we’re listening to jazz music from my playlist. Jake comments on how unpleasant the saxophone sounds and how jarring it is. I glance at the name of the song and see that it is called ‘Lonely Woman’. ‘The song must be about her loneliness and her pain,’ I say. ‘Maybe that’s why it sounds like that.’

Without skipping a beat, Lenny (the youngest) replies, ‘This is pain.’

For a moment, we are all silent, caught off guard by this quick-witted comment. 

But a second later, the car erupts with laughter, and we can no longer hear the painful notes of ‘Lonely Woman’…

_____

Every day, I walk. 

I walk out the front door, put on my sneakers, and walk down the driveway and up the road along the footpath. I turn left, then duck my head to avoid the large overhanging leaves of the big tree that stands in the corner of the swale. I wind my way round the bend, then pause to smell the jasmine hanging from the neighbour’s wooden fence. Further up, I cross the road, looking left and right, then left again. For a suburban road, it is a dangerously busy one, and every day it baffles me that there is no safe way for pedestrians to cross. 

Once on the other side, I begin my daily pilgrimage up the hill, then down the hill, then up the hill again. I do this on repeat, until I’ve completed the loop five times.

Don’t you find it boring just going up and down the same road? My husband often asks me this, and my answer never wavers: Not at all, I love it. 

The truth is, walking has become a lifeline of mine.

When I walk, I have space to think, to ponder.

When I walk, I am reminded of the people I love, and that I am loved.

When I walk, my mind resets, perspective returns, and in a flash, I know the things I need to discard and the things I need to grow.

When I walk, the noise fades, allowing me to see clearly, even whilst I’m walking in the dark...

_____

Over January, I attempt to document our life on video. Inspired by Past Lives, I decide to seek out the moments of stillness, of beauty, and of joy and capture them as moving images. For two to three weeks, I keep this up, keen to see the results.

Afterwards, however, I realise that in endeavouring to capture a moment on video, I missed the actual moment myself. I missed all the moments. Because you cannot be in the moment and also video the moment. Not really.

This, I see now, is the paradox of vlogs. Yes, there are many who are willing to video snippets of their lives to share them with us. But in doing so, they have essentially given up those moments—moments that they can never get back. It is a high cost to pay. And it’s a cost that I know, with absolute clarity, I am not prepared to wear.

And so, I return to writing—to journaling.

And in doing so, I return to the joy of words.

Because to capture a moment in words, one must first experience it; to be fully immersed in it. This is the first joy of words.

Then one writes, records, documents. This is the second joy.

Finally, one reads, and one remembers. This is the third joy of words. And it is one that lives on, no matter how much time has passed.

And so, I return to writing.

And with that, a commitment: to experience, to document, and to remember.