A day begins with purpose. The sun rises; it knows what it’s doing. My alarm clock sounds the call; it knows what it’s doing. My pillows disappear off the edge of the bed; they know it’s time to get up. My to-do list rests heavily on my desk, whistling while it waits. If I get up early, I’ll have the whole day to tackle it.
I roll out of bed and Baloo, the loveable lab, has his nose at the flywire and expectation in his eyes. Are we gonna, are we gonna are we gonna go walk now? Walk now? He seems to be demanding, “Walk Boo?” I ask, and watch him begin to jump excitedly. Outside in the park the birds are busy about their lives, aside from the odd dog-walker; it’s just Baloo, me and their squawks. Out of the park and onto the street towards home is about when Baloo decides it’s time for his morning poop. He seems most inspired by a busy street corner and even though he tries to hide behind a bush, its clear what he’s up to. Meanwhile I’m busy deciding whether I should pretend I don’t have a plastic bag to pick it up, so I don’t have to feel its warm mushiness between my hand and the plastic so early in the day. Scanning around there doesn’t appear to be anyone watching, and it’s not on the footpath, so who’ll care if it stays there... but the threatening glare of the lady in her dressing gown watering her garden inspires me to be a good citizen, and so the day begins with carrying poo.
Over toast and tea I switch my computer on, I have an hour before I head out for the day, time to fit in some research but first I’ll just check facebook, read the news headlines, browse One Sentence and contemplate the face reflected in my teacup until it’s time to go.
I hit the road in dads old car with my good friend Ruth, for a brief sojourn into the dusty countryside. We cruise past colour leeched fields, white gums, red earth, scorched bush and dead looking, dusty, dry hills. After an hour or two we arrive at the Benedictine Christian monastery of New Norcia, a place where monolithic stone colonial buildings arise suddenly on each side of the highway and tell the story of Christian missionaries, monks, nuns, boarding schools and many, many chapels. It seems somewhat of a ghost town, where bizarrely castle like buildings dominate the Australian farming landscape. But at the same time it’s a working monastery, a place of contemplation and God. We wander its dusty, leaf strewn pathways learning its stories and the day passes steadily by. Perhaps I think, as we turn our noses direction home again driving back over the hills as the sun sets, taking the productive day with it, I should be a monk.
***
A day begins with purpose. The sun rises as it should, the bird’s sing, my alarm clock demands, my legs follow and my to-do list coughs and splutters in the corner. Breakfast is the search for my tea cup, eating the last of my cereal and strolling to the shops. I approach my desk and find it bathed in the early morning sun, which shows the dust manifested on my papers and book shelf. Industriously I take charge of the shambles of my room and dust, fold and shuffle the mess away.
Eventually I sit down at the computer and open a word document, the search engines and my notes, read the essay question and follow the links to something unrelated. The Pope and his anti-condom mumbo jumbo again, Kevin Rudd and world politics, Miley Cyrus and her innocence....I stumble across an online version of Walking by Henry David Thoreau, which is kind of about the environment, so I gleefully decide its almost relevant to my question on conservation and begin to read
“ In short, all good things are wild and free. There is something in a strain of music, whether produced by an instrument or by the human voice -- take the sound of a bugle in a summer night, for instance-which by its wildness, to speak without satire, reminds me of the cries emitted by wild beasts in their native forests. It is so much of their wildness as I can understand. Give me for my friends and neighbours wild men, not tame ones...”
I make another cup of tea, black with sugar for a change, and momentarily mourn the time I’ve wasted, and the mountain of research in front of me. What is it that makes it so much easier to do the non-pressing things first? Its Thoreau’s fault, the monks did it, you’ve had too much damn tea! I think and shake my head at myself. I march purposefully back to my computer, push my essay question away and begin to type furiously... and the day begins with the story of not doing, once again.
“ Live free, child of the mist...”
{Thanks to Ruth for the awesome photography skills}
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