Field of dreams

On this splendorous winter’s day, I rode with my laptop in my wicker basket, to a favourite deli an hour away — where I intended to get some writing done, far from my messy house. I forgot my USB stick, however, and no writing was accomplished. Passionfruit slice and coffee was had, as inducement to return to my messy house.

I also made sure to call by the tiniest opshop in town, and found three fabulous new-to-me dresses, including a Collectif vintage pinup dress. That alone was worth the two hour round trip.

But the sublime highlight of my day was a detour I took by the little villa which had been our honeymoon house, overlooking a sea of sugarcane. It was there my first book and baby were conceived, and both have grown up beautifully over the succeeding years.

I stood admiring our quaint villa for the longest time, eyes on the window beneath which had sat my writing desk. I spent many an hour gazing out that window at these sugarcane fields, dreaming up stories…

For a moment, I fancied I could see Young Averil sitting there —wholly unaware Not Old Yet Averil stood beneath those towering cane stalks, looking right back at her, loving her; for everything she’s dreaming of, and believing in, and is about to work so hard for, over many years.

It’s a simple but profound gratitude: I would not be here now, if she had not begun then.

Forget merely looking back at her unseen — I wanted to slam open the front door, tear up the stairs — whooping! — and fling my arms hard about her, twirling her round on the spot.

You wrote it, young dreamer.

Instead, I turned my bike away, a little teary, and rode home through the forest with ABBA playing in my earbuds — see that girl, watch that scene, digging the dancing queen — grooving away on my seat for the amusement of Sassy Old Averil, watching me from there.

xx Ave