Today ...

Today you feel the need for some fresh air and cool shade and decide to sit calmly, pensively, on the bed of pale-brown fallen needles under the majestic spires of your favourite grove of Casuarina, atop the headland. The summer afternoon sea-breeze is cresting the cliff-top and whistling, sighing almost mournfully through the branches overhead. You let your gaze wander as it will across the broad vista, resting for a while as it encounters various objects, occurrences, or even absences, in the familiar scape. A small yacht under spinnaker cleaves with ease the gentle ocean swell on its journey south, perhaps heading to the safety of the harbor for the approaching evening – reminding you of the joys of piloting just such a small craft across the numerous bays, inlets and open reaches of your childhood adventures. A bright scar on the adjacent headland’s precipitous vertical face encourages your gaze to explore the sands and lapping waves at its foot – confirming your suspicions when you spot the scattering of sharp-edged boulders – a rock-fall overnight occasioned perhaps by the previous week’s heavy rains. A familiar cackle of bird-call from behind makes you turn with care to glimpse the mottled breast and yellow cheeks of a wattle bird, regarding you with cocked head from a low branch, just beyond arm’s reach. And it is only now, your gaze brought to this new viewpoint, that you notice, almost hidden in the shadow of one of the larger tree-trunks, a small and delicate tower of smooth and rounded pebbles of diminishing size. Someone has brought them here, most likely selected with care from among the multitude in the shore-break below, and with a focused mind and a steady hand, arranged them with precision and simple beauty on the rich, damp humus – there to remain, or not, at the mercy of the wind, rain and passing creatures. With a soft smile and a lifted spirit, you stand and retrace your steps to the pathway leading home …

Today you sit in your home studio, a gloriously blank and stark white sheet of paper on the drawing table and a favourite soft black pencil in your hand. With, at first, a little hesitation – an almost tentative gesture – and then with increasing assurance, you lightly commence describing some outlines, nascent forms, across the paper’s receptive face. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the skeletal strokes gain flesh – surface, contour, texture, outline and shadow – they gain, almost, life. A creature, unnamed and perhaps unnamable, mystical and unknowable, has been born on the page and seems alert – poised to leap from its two-dimensional realm and scurry across the table to the freedom of the open window. You gently lay the drawing aside and commence anew. As the clock’s hands silently describe circle after circle, in mimicry of the sun tracing across the vault of clear blue autumnal sky outside, you continue to give birth to numerous such beasts and beauties – a veritable menagerie of wonderful yet previously unseen expressions of an almost impossible diversity of life-forms. Almost impossible. The thought crosses your mind that given sufficient time and circumstances, the blind and stumbling beasts of genetic mutation and natural selection could easily make any number of your speculative critters flesh and blood – or indeed, perhaps they already did …

Today you are wearing thin the polish on the kitchen floorboards, describing numerous paths between and around the various benches, sink, fridge, oven, cupboards, pantry – as you prepare a range of dishes for your guests. You have set a menu that includes many of your own favourite foods but which is therefore time-consuming to prepare. Hence the pre-dawn start and your welcoming of the warmth provided by the oven to offset the chill winter’s-morning air. The bread will need time to prove so you start with the flour, yeast, salt, water – precisely measured and gently combined in your best, bright, shining, hemispherical stainless-steel bowl. You scrape the sticky mass onto the cool marble slab and commence the lift, slap, fold – lift, slap, fold – lift, slap, fold. Working the dough and building the air and texture into the embryonic loaf. You enjoy the sound and rhythm, the almost pungent smell of the yeast and the perceptibly changing texture of the mass in your hands as the gluten develops and builds plasticity and silkiness – until, sensing it to be just right, you stretch, fold, press and caress to craft a small and soft dome – returned to its bowl to rest under a flour-dusted cloth. You next consider crafting an haloumi cheese – you delight in its tart saltiness and the almost comical squeak as you bite into the firm and hot, pan-crusted fried slices but decide instead upon the simplicity of a ricotta. Having put the milk on the stove to heat – lumps of cream floating in lazy circles and slowly transforming into bright yellow droplets across the surface – you reach instinctively at first for the vinegar but then a glance outside to the as-yet dimly lit garden confirms your thought that perhaps there’s a lemon or two on the tree and you decide to use their bright acid juice instead to commence the chemical magic of transforming the milk into the curds and whey. As it always does, the Little Miss Muffet nursery rhyme of your childhood drifts into your conscious mind from some remote corner of your brain – numerous neurons firing their electro-chemical messages across countless synapses to bring you this small recollection of simpler times. A bright, diagonal, tangerine beam of dawn sunlight suddenly bisects the kitchen work-top and you look up sharply – not wishing to miss this most glorious heralding of a new day – to catch sight of the solar orb rising with silent majesty from the cold grey mass of the ocean’s horizon …

Today you feel almost ablaze with energy and instinctively know that only a solid hour or more of pleasant physical activity is going to be adequate to the task of restoring your usual serenity. It’s almost noon but the sun’s heat is yet to penetrate the vibrant, new, spring growth crowning all the ash trees which fringe the bicycle path. The mobile phone in your back pocket has vibrated and warbled a number of times since you sent the text messages prior to leaving home, so you are confident that at least some of the usual Saturday crowd will be gathering at the café for their weekly lunchtime catch-up over fruit juice and fat, toasted sandwiches, strong coffee and buttery cakes. You anticipate with joy the various junctions along the path where they might be waiting to join the slowly growing ‘caravan’ of bikes and riders – wending their way collectively to the centre of town like the traders of old returning from their arduous journeys along the silk-road. It is the simple commonality that you all seem to enjoy – different occupations, diverse families, varying politics, faiths, wealth and sexuality; none of it matters – the shared passion for cycling and the shared table and conversation is what unifies you. All are welcome. All are generous. All are shown respect. All relax in this brief hour of ‘community.’ All are refreshed and renewed upon departing again to return home. You are proud and honoured to belong to this casual and ever-changing family of friends. It has confirmed your belief in yourself, and in the choices that have brought you to be alive, here, now …

Today you …