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.

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.