There’s a difference between ‘lubricating the wheels’ – helping someone progress on their own path versus taking over and preventing the person from developing in any way for themselves. My Dad had knack of helping where he would tell me, show me the first few steps, and then watch me do the rest of the task, stepping in to advise if necessary, but otherwise letting me get on with it. Even making a mistake or two. I didn’t recognise it at the time – I was too busy making sawdust or pruning the grapes or whatever – but how liberating. For the both of us.

By showing me how to cut a straight line with a handsaw Dad didn’t retain any power or control, he willingly passed that knowledge and power to me. In exchange I believe his mana was increased because his son can now put a (mostly) straight cut through wood. Dad could’ve made the cut himself – it would definitely have been faster, straighter, ‘better’ – but in doing so he (and I) would have been subtly diminished.

How loving. How trusting.

Manifesto
15. Every day make a difference to yourself and others.
18. Every day express love. Some people need to hear it. Most people need to see it. Don’t take it for granted.
38. Every day be brave and give things a go. Use fear to trigger you into action.

Dad parked up and rushed out of the rain.

He asks this palangi, “Is this a smoking zone? Oh, no, it’s not, there’s the sign.”

He’s running to get out of the rain, he wants a smoke, we’re parked in the No Waiting space. Dad doesn’t want to pay for a park. Mum says no smoking in the car.

The palangi grins and points down the way.

Dad giggles and pulls out a smoke and bends over to light it.

The palangi grins at me and I grin back and I hide down, sneaking a look out the back window. I laugh at Dad hunched up against the rain, trying to keep the smoke dry. I hate them. They stink.

I wish Aunty Sefi would hurry up.

Hope we still have the barbecue tonight. Everybody’s coming.

The palangi wanders off.

Manifesto
10. Every day connect with somebody.
21. Every day seek the support of others. You are not alone.
49. Every day is a good day.

Wrinkles are the tattoos we wear made with ink mixed from blood and charcoal made from the tree of life.

How often in life do you ever get a genuine second chance? I was so happy to see my Mum today – she was in fine form and told us about how she’d had a marriage proposal while she’d been in hospital.

“Marriage?”

“Yes, pft, he was a much younger man.”

“Uh, Mum, how old do you think my new Daddy might be?”

“Oh, probably in his 70s – he was a nutcase, so I told him where to go!”

Despite this, Mum seemed quited chuffed with this – I guess when you’ve got it, you’ve got it; especially when you’ve still got it at 93.

Meanwhile, Mum has finally been able to enjoy the long awaited for cup of tea. Given that just over a couple of weeks ago we were discussing funerals and such things I am amazed by the restorative powers of tea.

I asked her what was her word of advice as a result of this experience – without hesitation she said, “Don’t wait, it’s later than you think. It’s always later than you think.”

Manifesto
20. Every day say thank you.
37. Every day fight for what’s worth fighting for. Pick your battles.
49. Every day is a good day.

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.

Mum some how seems better this morning. This doesn’t make much sense, because she’s had a stroke. She somehow is hanging in – winning her war. I don’t understand why the hospital is refusing to give her any tests. Nothing makes sense. Mum is at least getting some fluid (but not the cup of tea). We leave because we can’t think of anything more to add to the situation. I feel ok – my sister from Sydney is a warrior so I’m comfortable that Mum will be protected by someone who will ask questions and wait for answers.

We drive back home – three hours spent mostly in my head – thinking of 101 questions I never asked Mum and now these questions seem like the most important questions in the world. What’s your favourite song? How did you meet Dad? Stupid questions kids ask their parents.

I stand in the shower weeping until the water runs cold.

We all got through another day.

Manifesto
26. Every day take action. Every small step counts.
37. Every day fight for what’s worth fighting for. Pick your battles.
40. Every day give things a chance to work out.

Mmmm-mmm — Chilean guavas. I love fruit, and I’ve always had a particular attraction exotic fruit. As kids Mum would never buy us fireworks for Guy Fawkes – her position was that Dad worked too hard for the money to simply set fire to it. At the time I didn’t really have an opinion either way, but I really respect her for that decision now. We didn’t miss out a treat though. At about October/November pineapples and coconuts would come into the shop – very seasonal – and Mum would buy us one of each.

They’d be shared out among us all – the sweet spikey succulence of the pineapple, the unusual exotic flavour of the coconut milk, and the firm coconut flesh was enjoyed and commented on. School mates were envious of our packed snacks, and we didn’t miss the fireworks at all.

The Chilean guavas are on their way to becoming jelly and chutney – the jelly is just the most beautiful rich red colour and the flavour is superb – slathered with melting butter on hot scones – just divine. I’m not sure if these are genuinely guavas, originating from Chile – they are from our tree at home – we’ve grown them for years. They, and the subsequent jelly, are part of the family tradition.

Manifesto
06. Every day you make choices.
14. Every day the ordinary can be the extraordinary.
18. Every day express love. Some people need to hear it. Most people need to see it. Don’t take it for granted.

I come a family with a long tradition of preserving food – bottles of jams, jellies, marmalades, sauces, chutneys, and pickles. Bottled sunshine. Essence of labour, and of love. Dad would maintain the fruit trees and the vegetables, and Mum would bottle the harvest surpluses. I didn’t fully understand it at the time – it was all part of the flow – but Dad’s expression of love was in the richness of the crops, Mum’s in the beautiful artistry of the preserves. Together, in winter, making toast on the open fire, enjoying each other’s company and the bottled sunshine.

Manifesto
18. Every day express love. Some people need to hear it. Most people need to see it. Don’t take it for granted.
30. Every day use all your senses. Touch. Smell. Taste. Hear. See.
50. Every day has an ending.

He was a good man. A strong man. A hard working man. A loving man. A family man. A man fighting to eke out a living for his wife and ten kids. A man with limited education, limited options, limited support. A man who deserved better, but the times conspired against him – against them all, and nothing better was forthcoming.

The man eased the aches and pains of his heavy physical work and the soul crushing poverty of his circumstances with an occasional visit to the local pub. Easy to do – after a stinking hot day labouring – nothing sweeter than a nice cold beer and a chat with his mates. Easy to have a second beer. Easy to have fun, have a laugh, have a bet.

The man once bet he could carry a sack of coal the length of the main street of the town. A sack of coal weighed one hundredweight – 112 pounds (50 kg). The length of the main street – one mile (1.6 km). What the wager was doesn’t really matter. Yes, the man did walk the mile (up hill) carrying a one hundredweight sack of coal. Whether the wager was for beer or for money the end result was the same – the night ended in mind numbing drunkenness, boastful stories, and little food on the table.

The man’s wife raised the children as best she could. Some things were unchangeable. Food was cooked over a huge open fire, and this also provided any hot water and heating. The house was too small, too drafty, and the earth floor did nothing to improve the health and hygiene of the family. And when the man came home – finally – full of alcohol and bitterness – keeping quiet was the safest option. The kids often slept two in a bed – for warmth, because there was simply no other option, and for a couple of the boys there was some safety in numbers. It was nothing for the man to stagger home having lost his bicycle ‘somewhere down the road’ – and he’d chase the boys out of bed in the early hours of the morning to find the bike. Failure was not an option – out in the freezing dark with a kerosene lantern, no shoes – find the bike and get back home. The kids would grumble about the publican’s kids having shoes – their father bought them for them.

The pattern continued – relentless hard work followed by hard drinking, not enough money, frustration, anger, and eventually the abuse escalated to threats and violence directed towards the kids and his wife. One night, when the boys were aged about 10-12, the man’s inner demons could not be quietened and he set about screaming and beating his wife. He punched and pounded her. His temper and the alcohol took away all control and he attempted to push his wife into the open fire. She fought for her life, but the man’s strength and rage pushed her to the flames. The older of the two boys could take it no more and he punched the man in the jaw with all his force. With the surprise and the force of the blow the man went down, the woman was safe. The boy managed to force the bruised man out of the house, and with a rage fuelled by the years of abuse, gave the man a sound beating. The younger brother comforted his mother.

While he had saved his mother, beating his father was not something the boy was proud of. He was humiliated and hurt by his father’s betrayal. It’s impossible to say he grew up that day – he’d been more than an adult for years, caring for his mother and his younger brother. He left the family home and grew in himself. He met a woman; they fell in love, and raised six kids. He remained close to his mother until her death, and remained very close to his brother until his. He had compassion for his father, but he knew the source of the family’s pain and shame. He never drank alcohol claiming he knew all about it already. In spite of, and in part because of, his childhood experiences he was a hard-working, patient, and considerate man. He was a good man.

Manifesto
20. Every day say thank you.
37. Every day fight for what’s worth fighting for. Pick your battles.
48. Every day there are things you can’t change. You can change the way you think about them and deal with them.

I have a really torrid relationship with Agapanthus. At times it feels very personal and twisted. I love the flower buds, and the young flowers, but the love affair fades rapidly as the flowers age and fade themselves. I hate the spike-y corpses of the flowers, and as for the seed heads, and the profusion of seeds within – loathing would be a fair description. And as for dealing with the soil grabbing roots – urgh! Oh but wait, when the sun dawns on last night’s rain drops on the leaves, and the light shines through – how can you not just love them?

A torrid relationship…

The summer after my Dad died Mum decided that we needed to paint the house. She’d had quite enough of the weedy green colour Dad had liked, and it was time for a new colour scheme. We gathered up a team of brushologists and got on with it. Snowy white walls, grey footings, and agapanthus blue facings along the bottom of the windows. The flowers are not just one flat colour – if you look closely the colour is darker in the centre and lighter out towards the edges. To get the right blue colour I’d grabbed an agapanthus flower growing on the way to the paint shop and after some comparisons got the right blue-y mauve colour we wanted. We painted the concrete deck and steps in terracotta – the brick colour set off the whole very nicely.

As a finishing touch I planted agapanthus clumps along the road frontage. I’d carefully divided an agapanthus clump I’d found growing in the back yard. I figured people walking past would be able to enjoy the beautiful blue flowers against the white walls of the house. The flower stems rose up, and after what seemed like forever, opened. White. The flowers were white. How is it possible that the one clump I divided up would be a white agapanthus?

Torrid. Personal and twisted.

Manifesto
14. Every day the ordinary can be the extraordinary.
28. Every day you will be tested.
32. Every day have a laugh.

My Dad always washed the dishes in our home. His view was that he helped dirty the dishes, therefore he’d help clean up the dishes. And he did, faithfully, after every meal. He wasn’t a big talker, was my Dad, he was a get on with it kind of guy.

Maybe it’s in the genes, because I don’t mind doing the dishes either. I don’t have Dad’s rationale, for me it’s more of an opportunity to stop thinking about whatever and instead concentrate on the task at hand. Except I don’t know if concentration is the right word. When I was in high school I worked in a restaurant washing dishes and doing food prep. I would wash dishes by myself for hours – it never really worried me, and I didn’t find it dull. I could do the task so automatically I could fly my spirit away over the rooftops, over the hills, down the river and over the ocean. I’d come back at the end of my shift feeling tired from having stood for a long time, but feeling good – uplifted – from the flight. I welcome that feeling.

Manifesto
14. Every day the ordinary can be the extraordinary.
26. Every day take action. Every small step counts.
47. Every day you are responsible.