A Moment from the Past

 

Years later, when I’d forgotten much else about those early, exhausting student days, I would recall the handsome stranger who showed me that, within the sea of humanity in which I struggled to stay afloat and in which I felt mostly alone, there are occasional souls who are kindred spirits for each of us. ‘Perfect’ in our eyes, in that we resonate, somehow. But we need to slow down enough to notice them, and appreciate how truly unique and special they are. They’re the hidden jewels of life; the real treasure we can spend our lives searching for - but which remain elusive until we stumble across them, or they finds us.

For me, David was the first person, other than a single especially close friend at high-school, who really understood me, and I him. However, unlike anyone I’d met before, he would become my guide ushering me along an amazingly colourful and interesting life-journey. His world was, and still is, one filled with art, books, words, ideas, music, adventure. That was a shadow part of myself, too, which I hadn’t yet discovered. Maybe that’s part of the excitement, in meeting such people - they’re catalysts for self-insight and allow us to blossom into the people we were destined, or simply had the potential, to be.

That summer day, so long ago, my life changed in a single, outwardly banal moment when he walked up to me – a tall, young, green-eyed stranger – and made a now forgotten comment which had me doubled over in laughter (I wish I could remember what it was). He didn’t even say Hello. He just made the comment and, for me, that became one of the major turning-point of my life, pivoting in a single moment, and veering my life off along a different road. 

Maybe, that's what fate looks like: seemingly nothing, until years later - when the pieces of your life puzzle form a more complete picture - and then it finally all makes sense.

A morning walk beach walk, early spring.

 

My feet pound the footpath, and the wind off the ocean is brisk and cool. Few people walk along my street. Workmen hammer away, building, working, pushing on through early mornings and long days. Their radios play advertisements and dull forced conversations of morning DJ’s. I reach the Esplanade and cross to the walkway, which extends down the coast in both directions: disappearing south towards Marino and the headlands, glowing orange in the morning sun, and north to Glenelg with its iconic jetty and foreshore entertainment.

The sky is cloudless and bright blue. Ocean waves are white capped and boom rhythmically on the sand and rocks. A high tide. Warm sun-rays take the edge off the chill in the air and carry the promise of warmer, longer spring days reaching towards summer. I reach the walkway over the sand-dunes. Clomp, clomp, my feet speed along the wooden boards. People buzz and flit around me. Black lycra-covered, power-walking, pushing strollers, talking on invisible phones, chatting together: ‘You tell him … you tell Mark …’ I move past a young couple and know that the dramas with Mark will never be known to me. I’m pleased, however, that these two people support each other. I feel a oneness with these other people who, like me, have thrown themselves out into the world to exercise by the beach.

Reaching the al fresco cafe, I register that it’s almost deserted. On weekends, it’s crowded and people sit and stand and chat and catch-up with friends or family, as they wait for coffees on the footpath outside the shop window. Today it’s cool and windy and a weekday, so it’s a different place. The umbrellas are down, at the scattered white tables. I pause and face away from the cafe, leaning over a wooden railing as I look down across the beach and out towards the horizon. Wind whips my face and reddens my cheeks. I’m alive with the restless, rocky ocean pounding the rocks beneath me. The day waits for me, still. It’s only nine in the morning. This is a lovely pause from activities and distractions. I am here, in this moment, observing my life and life in general. Good.