I want to have a conversation with you. But you are here now, and I am here then...

I am here then, back when I wrote this, which is now, but won't be when you read this.

Me at Bay of Fires, Tasmania.

I want to have a conversation with you. But you are here now, and I am here then, back when I wrote this, which is now but won’t be when you read this.

The thing is, I’m struggling with our conversation. First, you are you, and that makes me want to bring forth the magnificence you deserve. This is no small task. I am only me, but I won’t let this get in the way.

Second, I haven’t had a conversation like this before where you cannot answer me in actual time. Where your side will happen as you read and might not make it back to me—well, it won’t before the cursor flicks as the silence becomes awkward enough that I decide to carry on.

My challenge is to talk as if I have heard you, to weave into all my articles what you and I have to say, creating words that sit between us. Some might say it is all me, but it would be very different if I wrote for myself. This would be a messy, incoherent book of notes, quotes, unfinished poetry, and ideas. I have many of these notebooks already. Writing to you requires me to distil down to the potent depth of conversation this discussion warrants.

You ask, What is it you want to talk about? Well, it is many things, all under the umbrella of living this life with all its brutality, beauty, awe and unfairness. I have found answers to some of my questions, possibly yours too. A big part of my contemplation is noticing my struggle to soften into it. It is in my resistance to what is and my feeble attempts to surrender, to soften. Is this normal? Do you also struggle with softening into all that is presenting as your unfolding reality?

Me at Bishop & Clerk on Maria Island, Tasmania

I want to let go of the desire to control the outcome.

Let go of all the lists, knowing it will never all get done.

How can we make time to rest and restore without having to schedule it?

On a long hike, I easily rest, catch my breath and eat a snack. I know I will get to the top with rest, fluids, and food. I relax into that reality on a hike but push against it in life.

I think about this resistance and struggle. I think about the times we can soften. And, I wonder about all that is between.

Living is the practical and the poetry, the song and the study, the sun and the rain, mess and clarity, birth and death, and so are my articles here with you, so are the notes my heart writes.

Tell me, you there now, the me when I come back and read this, what are the notes your heart writes to you about? What are you wondering?

Me, Tasmania’s East Coast.

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