understanding patterns; connecting dots

The most enjoyable steak I ever had was 10 years ago at a C grade restaurant (Country Comfort Motor Inn) in Coffs Harbour. The Scotch Fillet itself was surprisingly good, but what made it so savoured was what had happened in the two hours preceding. It was the first time we had towed our old caravan north. And in those days it was the trusty GQ Patrol so it was real towing; not the namby pamby stuff I do these days. Having made it to Port Macquarie we decided to push on to Coffs to make the next day's travel to Brunswick Heads a bit easier. It wasn't a great decision. It drizzled making the visibility in the dark pretty bad. And the Pacific Highway was a disgraceful approximation to a national highway with pot holes, undulating surfaces and rough shoulders. On one memorable stretch I ended up off the side of the road to save the life of a fool who overtook us into the path of an on coming truck. My heart didn't slow down from then until we turned off the engine in Coff

I rekindled my love affair with the north bound lanes of the Hume Freeway today. I awoke earlier than I wanted with childlike excitement for what has become one of my favourite days of the year - July in Byron Bay departure day. In the years we lived and worked for three months of the year in our caravan on the northern NSW coast, the excursion from Brunswick northbound held such deep joy. I developed an irrational love of roadhouses and monotonous bitumen because of what they they symbolised. Today I was on my own and apart from the pain of navigating peak hour traffic up the Princes Freeway and around the Western Ring Round, the trip up as far as Holbrook was defined by frigid outside temperatures (at Oliver's coffee stop at Wallan my weather app confirmed 'feels like 0') and heavy drizzle.  But in my warm drivers seat with Spotify's Aussie Rock Classics on loud - I was laughin'.  Then later in the day as the roads dried, I sought out the old travel

This post the last in a series where I'm recording the appreciative thoughts and emotions associated with various spaces in our house. For context, read my post  Thinking about houses . Salt water soaked skin, dust on our shoes, dirt under our fingernails, sand between our toes, sun warmed bodies. This space is the magic door that transforms us from urban life to the well cliched 'great outdoors'. In a past life I had an insatiable appetite for philosophy; keen to understand how we make sense of the world. In that season I read some French philosophy that described the difference between idols and icons in religious practice. Idols, as the argument goes, are essentially mirrors; they act as reflections of our own desires and pathological longings. Icons, on the other hand are 'doors'; they open us up to realities beyond themselves. I found that very helpful, and even though I hadn't thought about it for decades, I recalled it just now when I conside