Tiny Stories

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 hea...

My mother tells me I turn Japanese when I meet her friend in the sleepy streets of Taradale. Her friend, a diminutive, black-haired woman is a company wife, marooned in a strange company. But she is strong, and shares her love of embroidery and quilt making with my mother, language less important when the hands are busy.  I am 30 or 35, or maybe 40 years old, and yet I immediately go into role, bowing, covering my face with my hands, so unlike the Sandy that is bold and assertive. I chuckle to at myself, knowing that empathy and mirroring are part of my skill set.  Ah, this blog is starting to take shape. Tiny Stories is for me, for you, for us. My stories, a channel for creativity, a chance to share. But also a learning place, a place to discover new things. The world is endless, the stories of others so rich and free. I have midnight musings, and Japan is on my mind ... Mastuo Bashō  is famous, the haiku his genre of choice. I search him out , and find hundred...