“You know, if you want to avoid me, you should stop coming here.”

Lea stirred from her daydream and looked around nervously. Who… ? The guy in the other seat stared out the window. The driver concentrated on the obstacle course ahead.

“Over 2.3 million passengers. You know, you’re the only one I talk to.”

The left side of Lea’s top lip twitched. Again. She could feel herself frowning. Perspiring.

“So, you got nowhere. Are you taking care of yourself?”

Lea’s sunglasses started to slide down her perspiration slicked nose.

No-one else seemed to notice the conversation opening. Lea squirmed. The question hung in the air. Someone or something, was trying to talk to her.

“This is crazy. No-one speaks to me on this bus. I am going home. Alone. As usual. Nobody likes me. I am completely alone, and no-one is talking to me now”, Lea hissed under her breath.

The bus lurched and continued to grind up the hill. Lea pushed the stop alert button, and the driver pulled in to the curb.

Lea swiped her bus pass over the monitor, and stumbled out and away without looking back.

“You know,” said the Driver, turning to confront the monitor, “My orange friend, you’re a real laugh; but you’re so damn mean to those single girls!”

There was a moment of silence. They both laughed as the bus pulled away from the curb…

Manifesto
24. Every day is a journey. Not a destination.
28. Every day you will be tested.
32. Every day have a laugh.

Many writers have opted for the lyrical approach – that nature is somehow getting revenge or there’s an evil master plan. I think that’s just some fluffy, infantile effort to put humans at the centre of the universe. And then there’s the act of god people, and I think that’s just as fluffy. And finally the news casters – the best I’ve seen was the young Japanese lad giving his English translation of the television broadcasts, seemingly from a studio set up in his bedroom – contrasting the local interviewers who, desperate to get a story (amidst the story of their life) kept asking people what did they do immediately after the person had just explained what had happened and what they had just done. Yapping like a puppy. Anything to fill the silence.

I think that what has made the real difference in these events, the untold story, is far too intimate to be caught by broadcast. Far too human.

It is in the countless tiny, simple stories that are played out everywhere, every day, all around the world.

I have my friend, my loved one, once again. I see. I touch. I hear them, taste them, smell them. I know that they are ok.

After the silence that rings deafeningly, I have them back, and I breathe, and I can hear my breathing.

For some, however, the silence still continues to ring.

Manifesto
06. Every day you make choices.
10. Every day connect with somebody.
18. Every day express love. Some people need to hear it. Most people need to see it. Don’t take it for granted.

You can only become truly accomplished at something you love. Don’t make money your goal. Instead, pursue the things you love doing, and then do them so well that people can’t take their eyes off you. — Maya Angelou

Our first day back at work. There’s really only one sensible response. At lunch time we burst out of our offices like school kids finally off the leash and we scamper off to the art supply shop and buy canvas.

One of the ways we can manage the every day stresses is to create – we paint, print, doodle, make books, collage, write, draw, make photos, play music, and cook.

The secret is to transform and adorn the canvas of our lives – to craft the way we want to think and the way we want to live.

Manifesto
09. Every day learn something new.
19. Every day make time for yourself.
23. Every day retain your personal power. It belongs to you. No one else.

From my roller-coaster life I absolutely salute anyone who can hold down an intense job and home life and photo/write every day – it’s a big ask. If you are that person, can you at least not be slim, beautiful, have a great personality, rich in every respect, and love orphan kittens? If so I may have to remove you from the gene pool.

My mind is not entirely made up about what next for Fresh New Day – I want to explore some stories in greater depth, and I have a couple of other projects I’m considering as well, some ideally a little more collaborative. Meanwhile I’m set in my routine of making at least one photo a day, and ideally, writing in the same flow.

Some days I wonder if anybody is even faintly interested in what I’ve seen in the day, much less read my thoughts. And then when you least expect it, you trip over someone who talks about your work – likes it even – and suddenly you can go another day. Thank you all for your contacts, contributions, encouragement, and support.

Manifesto
01. Every day is a fresh new day.
20. Every day say thank you.
25. Every day your light shines for others to see.

God is a concept,
By which we can measure,
Our pain,
I’ll say it again,
God is a concept,
By which we can measure,
Our pain,
I don’t believe in magic,
I don’t believe in I-ching,
I don’t believe in bible,
I don’t believe in tarot,
I don’t believe in Hitler,
I don’t believe in Jesus,
I don’t believe in Kennedy,
I don’t believe in Buddha,
I don’t believe in mantra,
I don’t believe in Gita,
I don’t believe in yoga,
I don’t believe in kings,
I don’t believe in Elvis,
I don’t believe in Zimmerman,
I don’t believe in Beatles,
I just believe in me,
Marica and me,
And that’s reality. — John Lennon (mostly – sorry, John)

When we started Fresh New Day about a year or so ago, I just had lots of high hopes and dreams. I didn’t believe a whole lot of any thing back then. Things worked out different – better in some ways, worse in others. We reached out and found other people – new ideas and new friends. Wonderful and very worthwhile.

Thank you one and all.

Manifesto
01. Every day is a fresh new day.
20. Every day say thank you.
49. Every day is a good day.

The thing I like most about daffodils is their robust reliability. No matter how foul the weather has been, come Spring, daffodils are up and flowering. They make such great role models. It’s easy to feel down in the dumps, especially if things are not going as we think they should. I suspect that at any given point of the day there are at least three of our plans not going to plan. I’m sure this is true for daffodil plans too – however, they manage to take all of this in their stride and just get on with making a success of themselves on their own terms. Enviable clarity.

Manifesto
16. Every day looking at the order of things gives you power.
28. Every day you will be tested.
34. Every day focus on your dreams.

Mud kicked off Eddie’s boots stuck like brown shit to the bleached strainer post. With one eye on the leaden clouds he flicked himself over the rusting wires with practiced ease. Walking back towards the two naked light bulbs in the packing shed’s mouth, he worked the words over in his mind. It wasn’t that he wanted to leave his Mum and Dad’s world, or the other kids; he was 19, he just wanted to see what else there was beyond the grinding market gardening life. Every day Eddie would straighten up, aching, and look towards the distant hills. Long rows of cabbages converged into a grey-green haze, and beyond that, the railway line. On still days Eddie could hear the call of the tracks.

His uncle got the train home over Easter, bringing oranges and Easter eggs for the kids. Eddie and Uncle got away to the beach for a couple of days, staying at the old shack. They fished and walked, and on the last night, while they cooked up kahawai and some kumera, they hatched a plan. Eddie could come and live with him, in the capital. Eddie could get a job easy, and Uncle would have someone to share the bills with, have a beer with, meet some girls with. City girls eh? They both giggled. Uncle played the guitar and Eddie sung along.

The war had left Uncle with raw nerves and sleep haunted with dreams and terrors. His woman had decided she couldn’t wait for him and found the Yanks far more to her liking. Uncle got home to find one of them had knocked her up, there was a big argument, and she found a place and the baby went away. Too much drink, too many fights, and when things got too hard she booked a passage to Sydney. Uncle spent nights alone behind the barbed wire with his dead comrades, a half G of beer, and the howling southerly winds. He kept a loaded .303 in the wardrobe ready for the Japs. He spent his days driving the trolley buses and never let his conversations stray from the job.

With new shoes pinching and his tie feeling uncomfortably tight, Eddie and the whole family sat waiting in the station. It smelled of creosote and carbolic, and the big clock ticked like a heartbeat. It was suddenly sad to kiss Mum good bye, and Eddie saw a new shine in Dad’s eye as took Dad’s strong hand. Eddie wished the kids hadn’t sung ‘Po Atarau’, and when every one joined in he wanted to jump off the train and never leave. “God, I hope I haven’t made a big mistake – the fields weren’t that bad.” He sniffed, and tried to be invisible as he looked out at the landscapes racing past. People laughed, played cards, smoked cigarettes, and comforted crying babies. In just over an hour, the train roared down past the harbour, alive with the twilight sky, and towards more lights than Eddie had ever seen before. Uncle was waiting on the platform. He looked him square in the eye.

“You been crying, boy?”

“No, Uncle, too much smoking on the train.”

“Yeah, true. How’s my big brother? And your Ma? And the ratbags?”

Eddie laughed, for once he wasn’t one of the ratbags. Uncle was the baby of his generation, Eddie the oldest of his – they were more like brothers, brothers-in-arms. Eddie shivered outside the pub while Uncle bought beer, and then with a nod and a wink to the driver they were on the bus home. “Driver’s perks eh.” Eddie nodded and hung on tightly to the lurching beast, casting shy glances at the exotic-looking office girls. These were not the Cantonese-speaking potatoes from back home. Makeup, jewelery – these girls were like butterflies. Uncle gave him a flip on the back of the head. “Put your eyes back in, we’re here!”

Eddie got a job in the market, thanks to a letter from Mr Chong, and soon, instead of planting cabbages and cauliflower, his days became filled with the loud confusion of the auction business. Oranges from Gisborne. Onions from Pukekohe. Kumera from Kaitaia. Boxes of cabbages from home – Eddie recognised his Dad’s handwriting on the boxes. The months flew past. Eddie liked the work. More people to talk to and have a laugh with, and, despite the early starts and long days, it was clean and dry – much better than working in the fields.

He used to get the bus home – as often as not driven by Uncle. He’d put in his meal order with a laugh, and Eddie, being the first home, would make the evening meal. One wet afternoon, when the bus was particularly crowded, Eddie was standing, dreaming of the summers on the beach back home. The bus lurched suddenly and a young woman stumbled and fell against Eddie. He was flustered, and the girl smiled and apologised. Eddie looked up and saw Uncle laughing in the mirror. Eddie grinned back foolishly. The bus had faded away before he realised that he had forgotten to get her phone number or address. Did she even have a phone? He thumped his chest with frustration.

Uncle was jovial when he got home, and his good humor did little make Eddie feel better. “What’s up, boy?”

“Nothing.”

“Bad day at work?”

“No, nothing.”

“You should find yourself a girlfriend. Like that one who threw herself at you today.” Uncle laughed, his eyebrows jumping up and down.

“Hardly throwing herself at me, besides, how can I see her, she’s gone.”

“No she’s not, she gets the same bus every day. She’s a regular. If you got the same bus tomorrow big chance she’ll be on it.”

Eddie made sure he was on the bus at the same time the next day, and, sure enough the girl was there. He stood back, looking to make sure it was the same girl. He burned her face into his memory until he could shut his eyes and still see her face. He wanted to say something but his mouth was too dry to speak. As the bus faded away from his stop he clapped his hands and rubbed them together. Tomorrow!

The next few days the girl was not on the bus. He looked at all the faces. Eddie’s pain and frustration was palpable. “Don’t worry boy, she’ll be back.” A couple of days later she was, and Eddie lost no time. “Hello, I’ve seen you before.”

“Really? I don’t think so.”

“Yes, here on the bus. You fell on me a few days back.”

“Oh yes. Sorry. Hope I didn’t hurt you.”

“You did actually.”

“What? No…”

“Yes, you did. My foot was crushed, my arm was almost broken, bruises, very shocking – the hospital said I was lucky to be alive.”

“Eh?” There was a look of concerned disbelief, and then she laughed. Beautiful. Her laughter sounded wonderful, and Eddie was transported to the river back home – that place where the cool water that flowed under the willows. He wanted to go – right now – and swim with this girl – this woman. “I’m Eddie.” “Hello,” she said, “I’m Miriama.” They smiled at each other.

Miriama’s study at the Teacher’s College was coming to an end. Eddie’s love for her deepened daily and he asked her to marry him. She cried and it made him cry too, and they both knew a good marriage would flow from their love. They would get married the following April – Easter Saturday. “Get the most of harvest over.” Uncle was delighted and kissed Miriama on both cheeks. “Keep it down, Uncle, I still have to ask her old man yet, and we got to talk to Mum and Dad too.”

Miriama booked to take the Christmas Eve overnight train home, and Eddie would follow a couple of days after, in time to be with her and to ask her Father on New Year’s Eve. “He’ll be happy then, and the whole whanau will be together – all the aunties will want to inspect you that’s for sure. Don’t worry, they don’t bite, and they’re what you need to protect you from Dad. Besides, we can tell him we’ve invited Queen Elizabeth to stay on for our wedding. Think of those presents.” She laughed.

Everybody left work early on Christmas Eve. Eddie met Miriama under the clock at the station. They were both excited about the next few days, and not a little sad too – they’d seen each other every day for months. Miriama’s luggage was crammed full of presents for her family – toys and teddy bears for her brothers and sisters, jewelery for her Mum, and books for her Dad. They had a cup of tea out of those thick railways cups, and a sandwich.

“Eat up,” Eddie said, “Last feed before Taumarunui.”

Miriama smiled, but looked sad. “I don’t want to be apart from you.”

They hugged and kissed standing on the platform. Miriama held her thumb to his jaw and rubbed her lipstick off his lips with her finger, stroking along the bottom lip, then across the top. He grabbed her hand, kissed her fingers, and gave in to the tug of the train pulling away.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be looking for you!”, Eddie shouted, running after her, “I love you!”.

Eddie stood on the platform and waved until the train was entirely out of sight. “I love you”, he whispered. The buildings and colours blurred as tears ran down his cheeks. He walked aimlessly through the streets crowded with the shoppers desperate to get the last minute gifts, past the drunken office workers, past the lost and lonely, the religious and the homeless, and started to wait for a bus home. After a while, feeling irritated, he decided to walk home. He hadn’t gone more than a hundred yards before the bus went past.

When he got home he was a little surprised to find all the lights on. Uncle was pale and very agitated. “Where have you been? You’re late!”

Eddie was surprised, angry – “I saw Miriama off, and I missed the bus so I walked home! What’s it to you?”

Uncle staggered forward a little. “Haven’t you heard?”

“No, what?”

Uncle rolled his lips inward together, pinching the blood out between his teeth. “I heard it from a mate on the railways. The Auckland train’s been lost. Crashed into a river about 10:30. People are dead! Maybe Miri…” He stopped, shook his head, and choked back a sob. He slumped down at the kitchen table and held his head in his hands.

Eddie’s world began to disappear.

First it was small things. The pigeons in Pigeon Park flew away. Music and laughter – gone. The pictures on the wall vanished, and then it was the walls themselves. His job. People. Colour. Time. Each moment fell like a snow flake. Eddie could look upwards and watch the tiny flakes falling, drifting down towards him. Silent.

Eddie woke with a start. He was in a bed, in a room with oatmeal coloured walls. His head hurt, his muscles ached in a way they’d never ached before. ‘Have I been working? Planting?’ He felt his teeth move when he unclenched his jaw. His muscles twitched. He shut his eyes and imagined he heard the sound of a pumpkin leaf being cut off. As a kid he discovered hollow pumpkin leaf stems, and he’d cut them and use them to blow bubbles in the cow trough. When he sucked water up through a stem it tasted of raw pumpkin juice. The door opened, and a nurse walked in. “Eddie, there’s someone to see you this afternoon.” ‘Afternoon?’

Uncle walked in. He looked really old. Eddie didn’t understand this. “Have I been asleep for a really long time or something?” He rubbed the burning feeling on the side of his head. He could hear distant cicadas buzzing in his ears. A taste of raw pumpkin juice was in his mouth. Was something wrong? “It’s ok, boy, come on, it’s time to go home.” Uncle helped Eddie off the bed and got him dressed. Eddie felt happy – or would have felt happy if he could remember what he was doing there. Or even where he was. He frowned with the effort of trying to remember.

They got in Uncle’s car. “When did you get this car, Uncle?”

“The Chev? About a year ago I guess.” Uncle looked at Eddie for a sign. He sighed and started the car.

They drove out of the hospital gates and began winding around the estuary heading north. “You won’t want to go back to Porirua again eh boy?”

Eddie smiled and wondered who the person was who was looking back at him from the sunshade vanity mirror. Going home. Someone was going home. He didn’t know who, but he felt good about it.

After about an hour they turned off the highway and headed out towards the coast. The unsealed road was fill of potholes and dust wafted up into the car. The sun had almost entirely dipped below the horizon when they arrived at a shack. “Give us a hand boy, help me get our stuff out.” They unloaded the car, and put away the food and the rest of the gear. “Looks like someone’s going to be here for a long time, Uncle.” He just smiled and nodded. They pulled a mattress out by the fire in the big room – “We’re going to have to share like the old days.” Uncle cooked sausages and eggs, and they ate with slices of white bread and tomato sauce. Uncle made them a cup of tea. They drank it sitting on the verandah, watching the waves, and the stars coming out. The moon rose over the hills behind them, and the wave foam glowed. “Uncle, I – I feel like I’ve forgotten something. Something – I can’t explain. There’s something missing, empty. Something’s gone.”

Uncle made a strange noise, coughed, and stood up. “Come on boy, let’s go for a swim!” He peeled off his clothes and ran down the beach naked. Eddie could see him in the moonlight running back and forth into the nearest tiny waves, playing and laughing like a child. “Come on boy!”

Eddie peeled off his clothes and ran after Uncle, splashing him and whooping as he ran past. He dived into the waves and stood up, dashing the water from his eyes. “How far can you swim underwater, Uncle?”

“Further than you that’s for sure.”

Eddie just laughed, “Come on then, show me!”

They both laughed and spluttered, swimming and catching the waves. Eddie felt the aches ease out of his muscles to be replaced with genuine tiredness. “I’ve had enough, let’s go.”

Uncle wrapped a towel around himself, and lit candles. He gave Eddie a towel to dry off. “Wrap up in this when you’re dry,” pointing to a blanket. Uncle stoked up the wood and coal range and put a pot of water on to boil. “I’m going to make you some tea, boy, special tea my Nanny taught me. You have a rest, I’ll bring it when it’s ready.” Eddie lay down on the mattress, pulled the blanket tighter and closed his eyes. Turning his attention to the pot, Uncle began to karakia quietly, and sprinkled leaves, bark, and berries into the boiling water.

Uncle’s chant changed to a song. Eddie stirred and sat up, making room for Uncle on the mattress. “Sip this, boy, while I tell you what happened, see if we can’t call you back.” Eddie grimaced and choked a little at the taste. Uncle smiled, “Just like Nanny used to make. Now drink it.” Eddie sipped again, sniffed, and took a big swallow. He gritted his teeth and the potion stayed down. Again, and he set the cup aside with a shudder.

Uncle pulled a blanket up around himself. “Boy, you’ve been lost, walking between the two worlds. Your body never left, but you went looking for a spirit. Do you remember any of this? No. That’s ok, it’ll be ok. Eventually everything about you got lost and they took you into the hospital and shocked you, and that’s why I came to get you back today. We have to get their poison out first.” Eddie stared at nothing on the other wall for a long time. A shudder passed through him, and another. Quietly, and then ever louder he began to wail like a wild creature, thrashing and sobbing. Uncle pulled Eddie, weeping and shuddering to him and held him to his bare chest, rocking gently like he held a baby. Uncle quietly recited protective karakia until Eddie subsided into sleep, and then more until he himself felt safe to rest.

Not all of Eddie’s memories returned. Some tried to – they were like reflections in a pond that when you tried to reach them rippled away. It was better to not try to remember, and then one day the memory would be there. He would find himself on the railway platform staring into the faces of the passengers trying to remember something or someone. He knew there was something special about someone, but always the reflection would shatter and go.

Uncle’s mate in the railways got Eddie a job on the platforms. Eddie’s workmates sometimes wondered about his unconscious habit of looking at the departing trains while holding a thumb on his cheek and rubbing his finger around and around his lips – like he was rubbing something in. Every December 24 he’d go back to the beach and stay in the shack. Mum, Dad, and the ratbags would come too. Uncle never remarried. The years began to run in together, blending, healing.

Manifesto
05. Every day is now. The present moment.
10. Every day connect with somebody.
18. Every day express love. Some people need to hear it. Most people need to see it. Don’t take it for granted.

I love it when I’m working and things just start to flow – I get so involved in my work – writing, for example, that I get lost in what I’m doing. I don’t notice the passing of time and I find I can get deeper and deeper in the work at hand.

The more quickly, and more successfully I can can enter the flow, the better and more productive I can be.

Manifesto
09. Every day learn something new.
16. Every day looking at the order of things gives you power.
23. Every day retain your personal power. It belongs to you. No one else.

Donny would sit after the scurry of the morning mail was sorted and eat his sandwich alone in the mail room. He didn’t like the lunch room – it was loud and linoleum and leering men and lusty girls – Donny could not be more out of place. He spent his time carefully and neatly tearing the stamps off the envelopes. Mr Philips, the man who’d given Donny the job had done this, and he’d been on the job for 50 years. Donny had followed exactly as Mr Philips did. Mr Philips had kept the stamps in boxes on the wooden shelves in the archives. Mr Philips died not long after, and Donny was told to clear the boxes full of stamps out of the archives. Donny wanted to respect Mr Philips memory, so took the old boxes home. He took his own stamps home, and soaked the stamps off and dried them, and then he put the stamps carefully in a shoe box until it was full. Donny loved the little pictures, and over the years amassed quite a collection. The living room was full of shoe boxes. Floor to ceiling. The side bedroom was full. The back bedroom was full. At first, Donny had some misgivings about putting boxes into his Mother and Father’s bedroom, it was private. Donny started with putting the boxes under their bed. In the wardrobe. By the time the wardrobe was full he felt he could start a small stack in the corner. When the stack started to sway he started another, and another.

Donny’s hair was mostly silver when the computers arrived. A tear rolled down his cheek when his manager explained how the mail room was going to be scaled down. Donny wasn’t sure what he would do next – he couldn’t imagine how working with a computer would be good. At morning tea the girls ate their gluten-free chocolate biscuits and tried to reassure Donny. ‘You could go on a cruise, Donny, dance naked, see the world’, they said. ‘Get laid’, they thought, ‘As if. Poor Donny, he’s never going to do anything.’

Donny’s leaving card was one of those big ones that everyone signs. People hesitate before they write – they wonder whether they should write something funny, or meaningful, or, a polite lie like ‘Stay in touch’. It took Donny over a fortnight to even open the envelope. It was one morning. The sun was shining on the refrigerator and the over-sized envelope cast an odd shadow on the wall behind. Donny thought the shadow looked a bit like a building – a big house maybe an apartment. Donny made a cup of tea, and got a chocolate biscuit out of a tin with a duckling and a kitten on the lid. He read the card. Everyone had written something, there was even a couple of extra pages. Some people seemed quite sad to see him go. Others seemed to long for his new freedom. Some said, ‘Stay in touch’, and ‘Thank you for all of your wonderful work’, and ‘Best of luck, kia kaha!’

One comment did stay with Donny over the next few days. Weeks, actually. Someone had said, ‘Love on you, time to do something you’ve always wanted to do.’ They hadn’t signed the card, just left the message. It wasn’t just the message that tugged at Donny, it was the handwriting. It was familiar, but Donny couldn’t place it. He’d look at the message and sip his tea, and nibble a biscuit meditatively. The odd thing was all of the other messages were written in blue, or black, or even dashed off quickly in red biro – this message was written in ink from an old fashioned fountain pen, and the ink was dark sepia. It was quite some time later that Donny’s thoughts moved from the author on to the message, and it took many more cups of tea and chocolate biscuits from the duckling and kitten tin and even then Donny had no real idea about what he’d always wanted to do.

Donny took himself back into the city, and out of habit walked up towards his old workplace. The old familiar paces and places, and Donny smiled to himself and it felt good. It was home in a way, a good way. Waiting to cross at some traffic lights he noticed a building with bright pink ‘for sale’ signs. His curiosity was tweaked. At home Donny couldn’t get the building out of his mind and after a restless night he called the company and found himself inspecting the building that very afternoon. ‘Inspecting,’ Donny smiled to himself, ‘I’ve never inspected anything before in my life.’ Donny felt love grow deep down in his gut and swell up through his heart, and he knew what he wanted to do.

The auction house described the stamp collection as ‘One of the most comprehensive collections of stamps to have ever become available’, and ‘An impressive collection spanning 100 years’. Donny laughed to himself. Little did they know this was just from the living room. Donny helped the salesman take down the signs and moved into the apartment on the top floor. He moved the remaining shoe boxes full of stamps into office space on the next floor down. He used the money from the sale of the old house to paint the building chocolate brown. The floor below the stamps he rented to a nice young designer and her team, and together they made a plan to sell stamps online. The next floor down became home to some quite respectable accountants, and they helped take care of Donny’s business. On the ground floor some friends from his old workplace set up a cafe, and Donny liked to help them out. They served cups of tea and chocolate biscuits for morning and afternoon tea, and Donny felt at home. On one of the walls he hung sepia photos of his Mother and Father, the ones that they had given to each other on a wedding anniversary. While cleaning the glass, Donny noticed his Mother’s photo had a few words written across the bottom right corner. ‘Love on you’, it said, and Donny could see then it was his Father’s hand writing.

Manifesto
06. Every day you make choices.
11. Every day do something for someone else.
18. Every day express love. Some people need to hear it. Most people need to see it. Don’t take it for granted.

I’m feeling a bit sad tonight. After a great weekend, and an ok day at work, I come home and find some words that left me feeling empty. There’s a story here. It involves you too, now. It’s a long story and you’re now part of it, because you’re reading this posting.

When do stories ever start? When do they finish? I believe they’re all already started and they never finish – at least not while there’s a story teller, and someone to tell stories to.

This part of the story starts back in about 2003-4. Marica told me about blogs. Blogs? Woss a blog then eh? I didn’t really get it – as much as anything because most blog writers didn’t do anything for me. C.R.U.S.T.Y. Crusty. Didn’t have anything to say. Didn’t say it very well. And then one day, I found a blog written by a guy who could string two words together, and, best of all, could draw and illustrate what he had to say. Actually, it was the other way around. He drew, and wrote about his drawings. And he encouraged other people to do the same. Some of us did. I went off and did some life drawing – you know – staring at nekkid chicks and make drawings on paper. If you’ve never tried it you should have a go.

I found he was a pretty normal sounding guy with a great eye for colour and line, and through his blog we came to know his wife who’d survived a bad accident and was wheelchair bound and their son – a pretty cool kind of kid who grew up on the blog. And their dogs. And the interesting things that were kind of humdrum but fascinating in a domestic kind of way, a drawing a day kind of way. Beautiful stories about everyday matters.

On the side of his blog site he had links, and, from time to time, a bit of a review, and one day I slid down one of links to another illustrator/author’s work. This guy did these cool kind of pen and ink and water colour cartoon-y kind of illustrations, and he focussed on uplifting themes, with stories about kids with cancer and kids facing personal trauma. I became a regular reader. I didn’t tell Marica about this blog – we’ve got this kind of issue in our own home and I didn’t want to kick off any scabs unnecessarily.

Fast forward a few months and I’m inspired by the drawing and writing and I’m starting to write, draw, and make photos a bit myself. We’ve both become fans of the trauma guy’s blog, and we go to BlogTalk Downunder in Sydney. We become inspired and decide to run a blog conference – BlogHui – here in New Zealand, and, after trials and tribulations that still make us laugh whenever we have a cheese sandwich, we got it off the ground. We invited the trauma guy to speak at BlogHui, never fully believing he’d take us seriously. He – Trevor (and his wonderful wife) did. We fell in love with each other. Our lives change forever.

Turns out our new pal Trevor is not just a link – he’s friends with the first artist/writer I’d read consistently – even been to visit the guy and his wife and son in New York. They were collaborating on a book together. I’m secretly envious. No. I’m envious.

Fast forward to earlier this year – March 18. Patti – Danny’s wife, Jack’s mother, is killed in a horrible accident. Thousands of miles away from people I’ve never met, I feel numb. Shattered. I manage to catch up with Trevor online and we have a clipped exchange – sharing a few words of a story – we’re both gutted.

Today. Tonight. After a great weekend, and an ok day at work, I come home and find some words that left me feeling inspired. There’s a story here. It involves you too, now. It’s a long story and you’re a part of it now, because you’re part of the telling. Danny continues to write and draw, and today was wondering what immortality might be. He proposes we make a drawing or a cake or a dress and to share it with others who’ll be inspired to do something nice and creative of their own. And to think of Patti when you do. He notes that he has no idea what impression he’ll make on the world, or how long the ripples will last.

Danny, you might be surprised. While we only ever see some of the connections, there’s a chain, and it’s unbroken.

Manifesto
18. Every day express love. Some people need to hear it. Most people need to see it. Don’t take it for granted.
39. Every day trust that there is a bigger picture. You are a part of it even if you may not know what it is.
42. Every day celebrate. Who you are. What you have achieved. Things that matter to you.