The warm body I left too soon

You can miss a place as you miss a person – with heart-held longing and aching arms. Stretching toward the place you were, the person you were back then.

Nothing stays the same, they say, but I’ve never met a memory that didn’t know better.

Some part always stays.

(You’re the warm body I left too soon, the granite rising in my dreams. Metaphors mixed and heavy as I feel you under foot, reading your roots like braille).

My roots. The way it rains. Everything – I remember.

Home NP

swinging from branches that were made for my frame …



An island fished up out of the sea.

At once ancient and brand new. Where even in the withholding, in the barren of winter, there is a hint of what is to come. Some burst of green, some glance of red that survives the night.

This is what I come from.

The clouds don’t threaten here. They open up and reveal what’s inside. Here, it rains for days. The skies turn the skin to a river, to gorges and valleys that overflow. Deep pools made in the hollows where you can dive right under and sink right through.

When you break the surface your lungs fill up with the salt from your lip, and the dirt in your hair (you need just enough breath to fall back in).

You can taste this air. It sits on your tongue, expands in your throat. It fills your mouth and nose with the heady promise of damp soil, with the flesh of opening flowers.

Here even the prettiest grow wild (they were never told they shouldn’t).

There are fields over-run in which you can lay. Cover yourself with their bloom and hum. They will carry you straight back to the sea when you close your eyes, they will take you back to your beginning.

To the place that hasn’t forgotten.

You want to live somewhere else entirely.

You want your safe harbour and its politely waving sea. The calm surface that lets you skim your stones and never throws back what lies beneath.

There are no quakes and faults to your body allowed, no collisions of rock and sea to alter your course. There are no jagged formations that burst right through, that make themselves known and change your view.

You would keep your landscape dormant forever.

But I have broken you apart a thousand times all the same. Crashed against you, cracked through your surface and swum in your veins till we drowned. I have been your natural disaster, your flood and tempest, the violent wind that scattered your bones. I have held you under and pulled you back up, submersed you for a different salvation.

I have conquered your landscape and surrendered you mine.

There is a place that hasn’t forgotten.

(Have you ever noticed how the sun willingly splinters itself on the water, my love? Not everything has a desire to be whole) …

New Zealand Landscape


Mauri is a key component to understanding wairuatanga or Māori spirituality; it literally means ‘life force’ or ‘life principle’, and as such, everything has a mauri. Mauri applies to both animate and inanimate objects; plants, rivers and mountains all have a life force, as well as people.

This life principle teaches us about the need to respect and care for all things on earth; its existence does not elevate people above their natural surroundings, but makes them equal. Mauri acknowledges connectedness and the way in which all things on earth are in some way interrelated and reliant on each other.

Home (Part 2) – A land both ancient and brand new

During a recent trip home my town suffered a terrible loss when two young men and an instructor drowned after being washed out to sea during a coastal rock climbing exercise. I had been thinking all week about the landscape of my hometown and how it has shaped so much of my identity – and indeed my writing –  so when the tragedy occurred I wrote a little piece as a tribute to both the land, and the notion of coming home …

It is what I look for when that little plane begins its descent. The mountain with its near-perfect peak, and the way the hills slope down to our black-sand coast. As other landmarks come into sight – the distinctive Sugar Loaf Islands, the jutting rise of Paritutu Rock, it is how I know I am home.

When I tell people where I come from I always start with our landscape. We have a mountain and the sea, you know. It is something special to have both at once. Like those rare mornings you catch the moon hanging out with the sun, I have always loved looking from our coast to the mountain and back again. It feels so elemental.

It is a world away from my crowded city life, with her stagnant bay and shiny high rises. A morning run at home is something of a cross-country compared to my well-tailored track around my adopted city’s Botanical Gardens. I arrive home from a Kiwi run muddy and exhilarated because here is the other thing about where I come from: it is just a little bit wild, this place. The landscape is both beautiful and unpolished; it can make you feel a little ancient. And a little brand new.

I often joke that I come home whenever I am wounded. I come home to heal from love affairs, from issues with career and finances. From love affairs. I get my strength back, breathe in the fresh air and then head back to the city for more of the same.

But on this trip it is my town that nurses an incomparable wound, suffering from the tragic loss of two of its own and one newly adopted son. Three members of our community who I imagine loved the landscape as much as I do. Three men doing what so many have done before them, honouring the adventurous Kiwi spirit and celebrating our natural environment, before something went terribly wrong.

It is hard to know what to do. This is not just life going a little off course. You can’t just breathe deep and keep going. Instead you have to stop and sit with the pain. You have to take your time. The helicopters flying above provide an incessant soundtrack. Like the young man with heavy shoulders etching the word “Hope” into the sand we all feel the weight of it; everyone looks out to sea now.

Grief can connect a community; it reminds us of how closely we are aligned. But as we stare at the horizon it is a lesson we would rather learn in other ways. I can only close my eyes when the sea washes the word “Hope” away.

We are all here for just a moment. If we are lucky this life extends into twilight. But nothing stays. This is perhaps the only thing we can be sure of. So on this trip I do something I haven’t done before, I extend my leave to spend just a few more days at home. I take my time. I look from the mountain to the sea every morning, and I make sure to look – really look – at my parents. From dad’s blue-grey eyes to mum’s gold and brown I memorise the human landscape that I love.

I believe that nothing is ever truly lost to us. That like our landscape, we are a people at once ancient and brand new – in this way we endure and we revive. And with both the mountain and sea as our lodestars, I have to believe that in time we all find our way home.

Landscape at body, remember

(The above piece was published in our local paper last week and I wanted to share it with my readers here. Thank you as ever for stopping by!)