I was flicking through the pages of an old notebook. This is what I stumbled upon from September last year. It’s lots of disjointed thoughts. But an accurate snapshot into my life. It is more questions than answers.

There is chaos that clings to my thoughts like algae on a river. I pull myself in many directions. I have ideas, so many ideas. Some glimmer, form and unform. Some make it into the world and take on a life of their own. Some retreat back to the dark spaces of my desk drawer.

This year, I want to bring more projects into the light.

This year, I want my creative waters to run clear.

I write to you now from Christchurch, New Zealand. My writing desk is on the borderlands of an estuary. There are a dozen houses or so before my street ends and wetlands begin. Within walking distance are two river mouths, Avon and Heathcote. But there is still distance between me and nature.

Oh, self-reflection. Oh, mirror of my mind. I’ve noticed a few things about myself. I’ve developed a fixed mindset. I am a statue carved in stone and my chisel is out of reach. I’ve heard about this elusive state called the growth mindset. I know about it in the same way I know about mythology. Magical deities have power as along as we believe in their existence

Two dogs roam the room. I am their temporary keeper. They bark and bark, maddened at the movement of the birds. There are scratch marks on every door. Beyond that, an olive tree. Wherein, a magpie chases two blackbirds from the branches.

A slice of life from a full time digital nomad in New Zealand.

Writing can be a reflective practice. A way to heal trauma. Or an invitation to explore the imagination. It can be a vice and a vocation. Sometimes, I write noise that should have been music.

I came late in life to the works of Mary Oliver. There are some books, some authors that I have always intended to read but never quite have. It’s like we had been standing at opposite ends of the same library and all I needed to do was walk over and pick up her book.

I woke up in a grassy paddock, on the edge of a beach. The nearest town has a name that I cannot remember. I’m in a backwater campground. The caretaker lives in an old Bedford truck. There are iron beams growing from the bonnet to a bedroom above. It’s a house on wheels with a sign hanging from her backdoor, “boss witch lives here.”

I drift. A life gets caught in a current and carried out to sea. Somewhere there are islands, inlets, landmasses. It takes an act of will to rowboat back to shore. Who among us has a boat? It is the way of least resistance to see where the waterflow will take me.

I am writing this in an oceanside café. The sun rises on the other side of the street. Hot water steams in a jug. The barista is busy serving takeaway customers. My bus will leave soon but I am ensconced by the cozy, corner table. There is so much to tell you.