Letters from Neverland

Where to start, where to start?

Here? Beside the fireplace where the embers of last nights blaze send the streamers carelessly thrown in dancing amongst a sudden plume of smoke? A spark re-lit and gone as suddenly as it appeared.

Here? Beside the old suitcase with someone else's name on it, it's days of wanderlust now weighed down by a haphazard display of logs and tinder. Re purposed. Recycled. Redundant.

Here? In the crisp air of a valley town, trapped beneath the grey cloud of strange weather occurrence's, where days blanketed by inversion wrap layers of merino and melancholy around the usual smiling faces and spectacular scenery. Hidden, hibernating.

Here? Where on mornings when blue sky breaks through, the mountains rise and the horizon stretches up so close to the heavens themselves that clouds seem to drop lazily to rest on the slopes. Where looking up and around will cause the breath to catch on some sight so Surreal, serene, and sublime that existence feels liberatingly small.

Here? Where the curious feline eyes of a creature beyond ownership gazes upon these skittish fingers hesitating over the keys, undecided whether to pounce or purr. Derisive of such human indecision. 

Here? Where the determination in her eyes prevails daily over the nerves that make her steps an almost undetectable dance of confident stride and momentary pause. Ever so slightly, the small tug on a backpack a telltale sign of the internal voice that encourages her wavering body to pull it together. Independence, anxiety, awareness- a child on the precipice of change.

Here? Where the bonds of brotherhood ease a transition that may not have been so smooth without the comfort of a familiar face. Where new challenges have been met with a steadfast, one thing at a time faith, and the flimsy assurance it will all be okay- just give it a try. Where the cold days are made for escaping in blankets and books, and alternate with the warmth and open spaces that beckon holding a mischievous promise of invention and adventure.

Here, experiences have been so new, so overwhelmingly awe inspiring that the sentences used to describe them are like the lenses limited to a snapshot incapable of capturing the entirety of a moment.

Here, they have all surprised me as I watch quietly for the first time in a long time, with no place to be and nothing to do. A strange mixture of despondence and delight. A vacuum of chaotic thought and resounding silence.

Here we discover that we carry family in the warmth of open homes and open hearts, that the ties that bind us slip easily into a rhythm familiar and intuitive despite the years and distances in between.

Here is where we are.

Today we are waiting for the promise of snow, the cold nips at windowsills and slides under gaps teasing the possibility of magic. A dusting of icing sugar on a landscape already so rich in sight and sound- it lulls us to look and listen and to forget the fears that maybe  we cannot stay here as long as we'd hoped.

That practicalities and boring things like finance would soon remind us - we are just visitors to this kind of life, luxuries with an expiration date that need to be savoured and consumed before we are the ones that are tossed out with Wednesdays recycling. Just one of many thousands of stories that have all been told before. We lived there once. It's a beautiful town.

The future though, is kind of like the mountains that my fear of heights will only allow me to admire from a safe distance on the ground. So far in the distance that i'd likely never reach them.

I will never know what the view is like from up there and only see the things possible in hindsight -but I do know- right now...

We are here and the paths before us are lined with the hues of a summer we barely touched before it was gone- fallen from the branches in a last explosion of confetti colours that decorate the hillsides. Each curve and undulation a punctuation on their daily stories- breathless and brimming with urgency, humour and discovery- voices full of tales of the days adventures clamour over each other to carry us along our increasingly brisk walks 'home'.

Home has always been a fluid, where ever we sleep, wrapped in the favourite parts of the hours we've lived. This is home. 

They were growing again, despite my desperation to hold them still. So I scooped them up and ran away from home, because Peter had the right idea. Pixie dust mixed in snow, happy thoughts in memories, stir it up and kids, if these days are doomed to fly, then we may as well soar with them.

So I watch them as they run headfirst, arms outstretched off the gravel pathways, lost in half conversation- half screaming

And I am reminded of the lyrics...

'Neverland is home to lost boys like me,
And lost boys like me are Free...'

my heart holds the scene, their laughter an acapella soundtrack to the day.

Here we are. So Here, we start.

With light, with love, with letters From Neverland.