Picking up the threads

It takes me days to settle. That’s not quite right. Start again. It will take me days to settle. I know this from previous experience. This feeling of flitting, of running to the next thing, will go. I will sink bank to earth. I will be grounded. Right now I’m distracted by the knowledge that the ute needs to be at the mechanic in town by 10am and it’s already 9.15 and I’m still slopping around in the trackie pants I pulled on to feed the animals in when I got back from the beach this morning. Two things there, two tangents I could follow the thread of and write something about…

But I’m distracted and can’t settle to words. I have a workshop to give at the Armadale Writers Festival this Friday and I am not prepared and it is fully booked so there are people planning on being there, on hearing something, on learning something and there’s a small panicked voice inside me screaming that I have nothing to offer. But I know (again from previous experience) that later today I will sit and think and bring together the fragments of thoughts and ideas for activities and ways of telling and the workshop will be okay. Chances are that in the moments of it, I will actually enjoy it. But right now there is a voice inside me screaming why on earth did you say you would do this?

Back to those two tangents. 

I swam this morning, in the cold southern ocean. Home after holidaying in Far North Queensland (another tangent there that I could follow and write something about, something I tried to write about yesterday but instead fell down rabbit holes about butterflies. Because we saw those most spectacular blue Ulysses butterflies. My rabbit hole research revealed (many times) that the Ulysses butterfly has been co-opted by the Queensland tourism association as a symbol of the tropical north but did not reveal how or why it got the name Ulysses. Did Ulysses like blue? I wonder.)

I swam this morning, in the southern ocean. I waded out until waist deep, the cold lapping around my legs, my toes in the sand. I waded further, into the patch where the sand bar makes the water slightly shallower. I walked across that, trying not to hold my breath, trying not to walk on tiptoe in the way I do to kid myself that I can keep myself out of the cold water, and from there, with the water hip deep, I dived forward. There is a moment after I have dived, when balance and gravity conspire to a point of no going back, when full immersion is inevitable but has not yet happened. In that moment I think, oh, I’ve done it. Because the moment before there was still doubt. A wondering of how on earth I would do it, how on earth would I willingly dive into the cold water. Followed by the acceptance that I would. Followed by the thought that there is no point waiting. Followed by the moment of inevitability. Then there is the cold slap of the water on my face.

I swim fast. Overarm. A ragged breath every fourth stroke. Arms and legs moving. I count my breaths as well as the strokes. After ten breaths, I change my rhythm a little, breathe on every second stroke. For another 20 or 30 breaths. Then I am acclimatised enough to the embrace of the cold water to stop and look around. A few strokes of breaststroke, my head out of the water, watching the rocks, the gulls, the sky. I roll over and backstroke, looking at the sky. The sun is almost up above the ridge. It is a golden splodge sitting atop the dark green of the vegetated hill. I roll away from it, back onto my stomach and freestyle again. The current pulls at me as I approach the rocks on the other side of the bay. I turn and head back.

I stand on the sand drying myself, surprised that I am not at all cold. There is no wind. Back home I have a hot shower, followed by a cup of tea. Suddenly I am cold. This is the thing called ‘the drop’, where your core temperature drops as your blood returns to the body’s extremities and skin. I need movement. I don a beanie, warm socks, boots and jacket and head out to feed the animals.

This is the second tangent.

My old horse Floss, now my only horse (and yes, it’s not ideal that she doesn’t have other equine for company but for now this is our lot and she’s doing okay), nickers at me. I could tell myself that it’s love but it’s really about food. Cupboard love, as my friend Lisa calls it. Floss wants breakfast. I give her a bit of carrot and a rub on her nose and tell her I’ll get her bucket feed in a minute. 

I get grain from the shed and throw it, along with the kitchen scraps, to the chooks. A quick head count while I watch them peck and eat. Two, four, six, eight, ten. All present and accounted for. Back in the shed, I mix up Floss’s breakfast and put goat muesli into a bucket. Floss paces the fence as she waits for me. Nickers again as I put the her feed bucket down next to her.

I carry the goats’ food into their paddock. Cinnamon runs around crazily, frisky and full of exuberance. Nutmeg waddles, her belly swollen with kids and her udder huge between her spread back legs. She is due to have her babies in the next couple of weeks. She is large and round and clearly uncomfortable, but it’s too early yet. I rub my hands over the tight drum of her belly. I see a flicker of a kid kicking. “Not long now girl,” I say to her. She lifts her nose to me and I scratch under her chin. I’m full of nervous excitement about the coming birth, but that’s going to be a whole new story.

And all of that was yesterday. The ute got serviced, the groceries got bought, and I pulled together the workshop I will deliver at Armadale Writers Festival on Friday. (It’s called Facts, Quotes and Anecdotes - the craft of narrative non-fiction and I’m happy with how it has come together. I’m looking forward to it now that I’m organised, [apart from a few tweaks and some photocopying.])

This morning, Nutmeg still has a huge round belly full of kids. Cinnamon in still frisky. Floss wants to be let out to graze (“mow”) the lawn. The ten chooks are present and accounted for. And I feel a lot more settled. Sinking back in. Picking up the threads of life here. Grounded. 

See you outside,

Jill