Morningtown

A golden glow spreads across the horizon, as I shake the nightmare from my head. I can hear her deep purring now, and know my bubble buddy is safe, her fur already carpeting the floor a snowy white. It is spring, and she is shedding the heavy coat I love to bury my face in.

Hot, sweet coffee in hand, I am suddenly aware of the rumble, and gaze out my window. The iconic Norfolk pines standing tall - long after they were planted in 1888 - and there, threading between them, the illusion of the train, its silhouette as magical as Hogwarts Express. The road is higher there, and it’s my early morning treat: ubiquitous utes, container trucks, concrete mixers, shadow shapes with tiny drivers at the wheel.

“Are you settling in?” they ask, kindness tinged with politeness. I wonder what being settled means, or if I ever want that feeling. I have moved from the metropolis, the busy roads, the crowded malls, to find stillness. The irony of Level 4 Lockdown in Auckland does not escape me, and my heart goes out to my friends, my son.

As 2021 arrives, I pledge to develop to create a habit, a habit of creativity. The discipline that requires has deserted me, and the blog is as occasional as the previous two. My energy is poured into exploring, into saying “yes.”

Behind my house, the paddocks spread near and far, and I follow the orange cones and dusty gravel towards the retirement village. As I pass, an old man is standing there, the reflection on the glass distorting his image. He raises his hand, and we wave, a brief touch of humanity between strangers.

I mask up for the party, a two year old’s whose chubby cheeks are irresistible. I wonder how much longer he will let me hold him, snuggle into his warmth, his unconditional love. He is surrounded by trucks and diggers and sweet treats, a decadent cake with Oreo soil. There are toddlers, their innocence and still-alabaster skin reminds me of the power of the sun in the Bay, the power of youth. The prime lens captures their smiles, their curiosity, the crumbs around their mouths.


The work is sparse, but there are lawns to cut, boxes to unpack, shattered phones to repair. I meet neighbours, their generosity wrapping around me, as we exchange favours: odd jobs, home baking, a lemon or two, photos of the kids.

I am 16 when I leave for Japan. The trains are a novelty, clean, fragrant carriages packed with blue-suited business men, women in kimono, giggly school girls with Hello Kitty bags. Pushing through the throngs, I am different with my blue eyes, an observer in a land of dark-eyed Nihonjin. And yet we are all visitors to this place, our footsteps leaving the same marks in the sand.

It is morning, and a song pops into my head. It is The Seekers, and I am suddenly a child again, listening to the stereogram, as the record spins on the turntable:

Rocking, rolling, riding out along the bay,
All bound for Morningtown, many miles away
Somewhere there is sunshine, somewhere there is day
Somewhere there is Morningtown
Many miles away

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