It’s important to have a part of your day that is a ritual. When you write all day it is very easy to spend your time sitting, typing, drinking coffee, researching, reading and so on. It’s great for getting the work done but not so great for your body, or for your mind, for that matter.
After days of working like that I find I have covered a lot of ground writing-wise but that I am very tired in an I’ve overdone it way. My mind is also dull, slower, and I find I don’t write with as much of a flow. I have set a deadline in my head (which is partly based on dwindling finances) but is also the result of me tending to run like a bull at a gate with regard to things I am focused on. It’s good to be motivated but it’s also good to appreciate the value of establishing a daily ritual that involves switching off.
When I was working full-time I walked every day, usually in the evenings. listening to music and going hell-for-leather because my work schedule was so intense I could only spare an hour to walk. Can you imagine life being that rigid that you predetermine how long you can exercise for? My previous walks were part of a routine, not really part of a ritual.
When I used to walk in the evenings I barely noticed my surroundings. The walk was just something else to tick off my To Do list. Now I have a ritual, a walk that lasts at least two hours where I look around me, take in the view, so to speak. I am very lucky in that I live close to Sydney Harbour. I walk there frequently. It is a beautiful walk.
Standing near the sea wall I feel the wind on my face. The smell of salt catches in the air. The water is a garden of nodding blue lilies, darker at the tips of the waves the way the petals of the lilies are. The bridge is the focal point as always with its four granite pylons and an arch that sweeps the sky. The bridge is a prime example of appearances being deceptive however, because it’s not the pylons that support the bridge, it’s the arch that provides the structural support. The pylons are there to provide a sense of grandeur and permanence.
Whenever I see the bridge I think of the strength of arches and the way they convert downward forces into compression along their curve, pushing weight outward rather than letting it bend or snap the structure. The very first arch dates back to the 4th millennium B.C., probably built by the Romans. It is mind-boggling that such a sophisticated understanding of engineering and physics was in evidence at that time. Human innovation really is incredible when you think about it.
I am always happy when I encounter a Sydney ferry on one of my walks.
The ferries have been running since 1789 in many of the Sydney waterways, including the Parramatta River. They are a great way to get from one side of the Harbour to the other. I have noticed that most of the passengers on the ferries are smiling and have a spring in their step when they disembark, unlike their downcast bus or train counterparts. I think it’s due to being on the water – the fresh air, the sights and sounds, the way the sunlight touches the waves. I feel that sense of being uplifted too when I see a ferry. It is something from another era that in many ways is quintessentially Sydney, and seeing one makes me value the past and feel grateful for the more modern iterations of it.
Part of my ritual involves a few minutes of contemplation. I sit on the pier and watch the seagulls fight over fish. There is something soothing about sitting there, hearing the waves lap. I watch the colour of the water change as it gathers around the legs of the pier, turning moody green, seeking shelter from the sun.
The time on the pier can be only a moment but it is enough to reinstate my purpose, to ground me and to remind me that although I am often isolated I am still a part of things. I once saw a tiny lizard on the pier. I wondered how he got there but realised that if you were a lizard and wanted to reach the perfect place to bask, you would find a way. A man starts up his boat. It immediately froths up the water like an espresso machine. I watch as his boat pulls away, leaving a cappuccino foam in its wake. The moving clouds make the sunlight flicker like tendrils of hair in your eyes, the tide shifts, elongated murmurs, and I head for home.
