Kingfisher

The moment was just after 4pm, sitting out in the quiet of the sleepout (I just can't call it a studio, it sounds too...pretentious...)

It's spring so there's that gorgeous spring smell of various flowers all mingled with warm grass (a smell not encountered for a while). Lots of birds, but kingfisher calls always catch my attention with memories of other places. My grandmothers house on the Hokianga Harbour, the unique mangrove smell - salty humid clay, kingfisher calls, snapping shrimp. But also holidays on Great Barrier Island, summer, walking along narrow clay paths next to mangrove swamps, humid salty air and the water lapping around the trees, on a mission to finish a long walk, or, closer to home, paddling down the Puhoi River.

There's a certain spot here over the wood shed where our Kingfisher always sits, looking down searching for skinks (methinks...) over white streaks of kingfisher poo.

When..?

Typical of me, I'm analysing when these pauses in time, moments, occur.

They're usually associated with something multisensory, involving nature in some form.
Or, my children or memories of childhood, or complete immersion in something sensory that is not visual (eg. smelling a familiar pleasant scent, eating a meal, listening to certain kinds of music).

Too much on my mind lately to really recall any particular moments - I guess you could say this is precisely when I should be stopping and noticing them!

Who is this person?

This moment occurred during breakfast when I had one of those rare beautiful moments of seeing one of my sons as not my son but as a funny smart gorgeous person...It's a really delightful experience.

It is tricky to explain, but it's similar to the visual example of when you try and imagine you've never seen yourself when looking in a mirror to appraise this unknown person (usually to answer something mundane  like 'do I look frumpy in this?')

Dawn choruses

My brief moment today was probably very early (again).

Lying in bed with my eyes closed, listening to the chorus of thrush and blackbirds with the occasional late-to-bed morepork. I'm normally out running or doing something equally absurd at this time of the day so to be still lying in bed is unusual. I'm usually not so aware of the sounds.

Morning Chorus (mp3)

Listening, I realised that the sounds of these birds are identical to when I was a child. That early morning choir is then one of the few constant thing throughout my life I suppose. I would hate to live somewhere for long where I couldn't hear this.

Texts & gales.

The first moment today didn't start until around 7.30am on a crowded bus into town. So many damp bodies crammed into the 881; at least I have a seat. I checked my phone and there were my first ever texts from the smallest son. They took me out of the damp noisy bus and into my own thoughts for a while with a big smile on my face.

Busy morning. Then, sitting in studio on the 5th floor, with a glimpse outside at the rain (only a glimpse, yep, don't get me started - they're huge double height windows but covered mostly by external shade louvres).  The rain was so hard and the wind so strong that the roof opposite looked like it was being brushed with waves of rain, almost like smoke curling down.

Sounds of home

This moment started at 7.15am, lying in bed on a Sunday morning with the faint scent of freshly made tea, knowing that I don't have to be anywhere or do anything in particular this morning.

(I'd jumped out of bed to look at the weird yellow light outside with hail and a rainbow, made my smallest son look out of his window as well - 'Gee mum thanks for making me share that with you'  - then made a quick cup of Dilmah).

The view through the open curtains gives me kanuka, rewa rewa, nikau, but mostly spindly tall tea tree trying to reach the sun, dark and slightly ominous except for the flashes of sunlight, glimpses of sky and darting waxeyes. It's a better view now, friendlier than it used to be because I know it so well but also because the trees now let me see through them, they're grown up and are too busy reaching the sky to be shy.

There is such a thing as a too quiet house. I'm glad this house is not very soundproof so the subtle sounds of my family can reach me. I heard my smallest son making noises in the kitchen - is he making a cup of tea? The faint 'ping' of the jug, maybe. The clunck of the microwave door, the door to the garage opening to collect bread from the freezer, the scattered spluttering sound of the old fashioned egg beater he likes to use for scrambled eggs. Burnt toast and the urgent woosh of the kitchen extractor (urgent, before the smoke detector knows what's going on). I know exactly what's going on.

He made me breakfast in bed!

Except, I got up but that's okay.

We both agree that we can't eat it all anyhow, so the blackbirds and strange grey pigeons will get English Muffins this morning.

Marmalade

The brief moment in time was at 7.56am (yeah, too early to be up and dressed on a Saturday).

Quiet house ....only sounds are the rain and wind outside, traces of 'The Acoustic Album' coming from the kitchen, the smaller boy singing in the shower - at least he's no longer singing old Whitney Houston songs....

Small achievements already ticked off (making the bed, getting dressed)

Fresh fragrant strong hot-but-not-too-hot coffee, yeasty chewy bread toasted (but no colour), real crust, crunchy and golden like a landscape, homemade lime marmalade*

...always reminds me of  mum who used to keep me well stocked with her marmalade
But writing this also reminds me of when I had to make lists of things I was grateful for just to get through the day. This time I'm just doing it to capture moments so they don't slip away, ensure that I don't become oblivious to this moment. Now. Life is too short.

*I finally took up the challenge a few months ago and used all those Kaffir limes no one knows what to do with. Strangely satisfying slapping all the labels on still warm jars full of my labours that day. The rich golden colour (not for marmalade purists) with suggestions of what is lurking in the gooey sugary gel.