I am lucky. I have a house that stands on a hill so I can lie in bed and see trees and sky and the horizon. I can talk to the birds in the daytime. And the bats flying passed my window at night. I can see the stars turning.
As children, my friend and I would climb up and over everything – the fence, the garage, the trees, the roof of our house. We felt so grand and powerful, gazing out over rooftops to the thin blue line of the sea 20 kilometers away.
When I’m stuck, or need some space in my writing, instead of going for a walk, I go upstairs. I stare out of the bedroom window into the distance. There is a little white Victorian house surrounded by trees where cockatoos flock. It’s a long way off but I wonder about it. I wonder who lives there. I wonder where it is and if I went driving around would I be able to find it. Or I might look at the tall palm tree and imagine I’m in a tropical place. And while thinking about that house and warmer climes my thoughts untangle.
This morning, before a torrential rain, a storm cloud rolled over the house. The sky turned a deep steel grey.
I do enjoy standing in my tower looking out over a small corner of the world.