The leaves are starting to change colour.
The days are getting shorter.
The sun feels cooler, less harsh, and its warmth is more like warm bread on a Sunday morning than the furnace of hell we were treated to across January.
The seasons are changing, and there’s nothing we can do about it.
Summer ended five weeks ago, but the start of April always feels like its last gasp before it begins sinking away for another year.
I always find the change refreshing. Despite all the life and death, love and loss across summer, the huge life decisions and restless nights, the Earth — Gaia, God, whoever you think is flying this rocky spaceship — doesn’t care.
It’ll keep hurtling through space, and time will keep on passing.
This week I sat on the back verandah in one of those hanging, egg-shaped chairs that as a kid I always imagined one day I would essentially live in, and just paused.
It’s been some time since I’ve done so.
I heard the neighbours arguing, and the faint sound of Wyndham St buzzing. The trains — back after weeks? months? of silence — rumbled along the tracks.
I followed their tracks to the lake and the river, and wandered along its banks in silence for the first time since the floods.
At the intersection of the Goulburn and the Broken rivers, I sat and watched the sun cross the sky.
At the risk of sounding like your horoscope, or your doctor, or a priest, or a mix of all three, Easter has come at a perfect time to stop, take stock, and breathe.
Some people won’t be able to take any time to reset, because they’re doctors or priests or horoscope writers, but if you’re lucky enough to be able to sit in the sun — it’s absolutely delightful.