At the airport, off to Sydney. Sadly alone, as it was patently obvious that Zee needed to rest for a few days. O well. Tai chi last night was better than expected, despite me being in a non-zen state of mind. It has happily avoided repeating the grand salsa disaster of crouch end 1997. That was not pretty.
At the pub before tai chi, i went through my current thinking of the “identity closet” with zee. I’ll formed, but roughly: All of us having a set of identities in our wardrobes. Some are old and badly fitting, while others are good for now, but they will eventually get tatty and ill fitting. It helped her understand that I was going through a wardrobe clear-out in coming to Melbourne, and that my initial attempts at new ones aren’t going that well! So far there’s been exotic cook and house cleaner, which have had variable success so far.
It got me wondering the other day as to why people take on obviously bad identities, like a maga acolyte. Maybe the temptation we all face to is to grab an identity that fills obvious gaps in our character (at least, in our perception). If I’m feeling weak (physically, socially, psychological, financial), and someone says I’ll make you strong if you take my offered identity (maga, Nazi, kkk) then it is going to tempting. We need to feel that our lives matter, that were part of something bigger than ourselves (however heinous). More thought needed….
Accidentally relevant reading while landing: rachell barr “make your brain your best friend”: “When a lifestyle, ideology or trend becomes intertwined with our identity, it makes us resistant to change, even when change is necessary”.
There’s a large area of beautiful flat cloud beneath, which is basically a huge duvet. Not perfectly flat though. Lots of bumpy bits throughout. And each one has a reason. A slight change in the temperature profile, a slight whiff of wind due to that hillock below. But it’s all got a reason, and even if someone concentrated for years, they’d never untangle it all. And this gives me pleasure. Just as it’s great to not understand how a magic trick is done, or how side 2 of abbey road happened, or how love happens, this is a delight to be savoured. The world is so much more than our puny minds can explain.
The Barr book is just talking of the power of delight, even when all around lacks it. I’m not at any bad place, but I experimented anyway. We flew into Sydney by the usual northern approach, coming down over Lane Cove and crossing the harbour. I’ve done it countless times, but this time, for the first time, I noticed the ripples. Everywhere! I turned off my high school and uni physics mind (we did of lot of wave theory) and instead just delighted in them, all playing together in one harbour-sized bath tub. And it was indeed delightful.
Egg bound in St Ives. The ’egg’ is the best name we came up with for the portable (luggable at least) covered communal thatched Balinese style seat that moved from Macquarie to here, at Zura’s house. It works better here, nestled in next to their little pool. Everyone is still asleep, so it’s a good time to catch up. Lots of suburban Saturday morning bush noises. I can hear teacups, a distant voice, the inevitable 737 overhead and various sneezes and snuffles. The widespread cacophony of the birds in the huge bushland opposite is not what I’ve become accustomed to in Melbourne. We are more suburban down there, so it’s less diverse and interesting. That said, I’ve enjoyed getting to know the purity of the Sally calls.
Dinner last night with kids and partners went ok, although the boys had worked hard during the day, and flagged early. It also meant conversation was hard to keep moving, even with Xanthe doing her lovely bubbly budgerigar impression. So we were all done by 830. Back to zura’s, and crashed pretty quick.
6am at bruce’s. I was up at 5, and slipped out for a walk, not nearly as noiselessly as I had hoped. So many things creak in these old houses. There will be apologies later. It was warm and humid, which was appropriate when i walked through a series of avenues lined with huge Morton Bay figs. It was a noisy exercise, as I unsettled the flying foxes peppered throughout. Later I came across the neighbourhood individualist’s house. It was all modified gazebos, shipping containers, and plants everywhere. For all that, it was relatively ordered, but still worthy of a neighbourly eye roll, I’m sure.
And cats. Easily fifteen, all no more than a year old, tearing around the place with glee. I briefly flustered them, but after a stopped and crouched down, and did the slow eye-close thing, life quickly carried on around me again. Now that’s joy: a dozen (near) kittens screaming around fences, tress and bushes.
I wondered who decided to plant this long avenue of figs, and that sent me down a rabbit hole. There is a documented tree from 1844 down in parramatta (sadly now orphaned among boring office buildings), and I was amazed to find that the size was the same as the ones up here (a few kms away), so probably similar vintage. The area has a chequered history of female convict barracks, prisons and lunatic asylums, so there’s certainly some ghosts walking these figs at night.