Writing. Is writing a skill or is it just a means of expressing ones thoughts? For example, is writing really a way of expressing one’s inner self?  Do you self talk? I do. I find it helps to have a good self talk. Yes, I ask myself all these painstaking questions. See I’m an inquisitive bastard when it comes to myself. So I say “Hey Sandy, what are you doin?” “Nothin much” I reply to myself. “Who ya gunna vote for?” “Dunno” “What ya havin for tea?” “Food, I suppose” I’ll reply with total disdain.

So yeah, I have deep and meaningful conversations with myself constantly. In fact it helps me pass the time. Time you ask? Time only occurs when there is motion. So I have this theory, lets just stop moving and we can all live forever. Right? Well maybe not and it goes without saying that this theory has some serious flaws. But who gives a zark, not this broken down parish priest. Anyhoo, that’s another story.

So writing is a group of letters that one strings together to form a sentence. But a sentence can also be a punishment, a verdict, a conviction and condemnation. So if I write a sentence am I condemning myself by verdict to convicted punishment? Gees arse, all these rules with words, this is worse than maths.

I’d like to tell you a story. A story of a country drive. For us city dwellers, the lovely Belinda and I, we need country drives, believe me, I mean I’m a priest after all.  So here goes…..

The valley stretched out before us, gradually disappearing into the distance that concluded with the looming mountain range. The sun was kind to us today as usually here in the deep south the summers are hot and dry. Today is cloudy and  rain is falling, gracing the ground with delicious nutrition for the soil.

The road, gravel of course, winds through the hills and vales crossing brooks trickling with water. Livestock dot the paddocks interrupted occasionally by crows and magpies searching for a feed of insects.

We pass numerous homesteads enwreathed by trees that provide both a windbreak and shade. Most have abundant outhouses and some farm machinery some of which are beyond their use by date.

We ascend to the top of the small mountain as the wind starts to lift. We stop and admire the 360 degree vista. We watch the rain clouds drift across the valley creating a patchwork quilt of colours and textures that stimulate the senses and purgers the soul. The wind and rain make us cold to the bone.

A vacant rotunda sits in the park. We dine under its protective roof on antipasti, dolmades, olives cheese and crusty bread. All washed down with a glass of wine. It doesn’t get any better than this. This should be everyday, should I wish for it to be my groundhog day?

Driving back home our colloquies diminish and we let the music stop on the CD player. This allows us to cherish the sounds of the rain and allow our senses to absorb the beautiful smell of water and dust and the birds. All of us enjoying the effects of the rain.

Our thoughts become reflective as we re-live our day, out in the country. We’re returning to the concrete jungle. The noise, the traffic and the congestion. This doesn’t mean it’s bad or wrong it’s just the countryside makes me feel so free and so open while the city closes me in.

The drive continues as we wind down through the hills and back to town. Other motorists are unaware of our relaxing trip and our connection with nature. The other motorists kept their aggressive driving styles while we idled through the streets in relax mode.

We return home to find nothing had changed except ourselves. Forever now, a memory of the Bremer Valley, the vista, the winding roads and the diverse  bird-life.

Life’s like that I guess!