I carry the heart of an explorer, the mind of an adventurer. Snapshots of another world when I was the tender age of four, then the hallowed journeys to sun-soaked shores, mini golf and paddleboats later on. The ritual of exploring and delighting in different surrounds has burrowed itself deep in my veins.
It has become a tradition. A return to the past. A forging of the future. Every year in September, my family gathers together in a house on the Mornington Peninsula.
A panoramic view over the bay in Mount Martha occupies our attention and we watch the ocean shift and change – from glass-like and emerald on the first day, to charcoal and choppy on the last. When the lights twinkle in the darkness, we stand and shiver, watching the traffic lights blink in the distance.
Family stores memory. It is the unfolding of ourselves, in spurts and layers. Sometimes the shrouding shrinks us, in others it holds out grace. Our children are echoes – of our choices and values, mistakes and triumphs. In coming together, we find truth renewed.
Food is a comforting tether. A centrepiece and circling point. It provokes memories, occupies dreams.There is always cheese. We carry that tradition on faithfully, the most fervent follower now being Harvey who continually pleads for just a little more ‘cam-e-bear’. ‘What are we having for lunch tomorrow?’ begins before dinner has even been cleared. Hearty borscht, olive sourdough, the scent of dill. Veins of blue sharpening and crumbling. Spinach and pinenut sausages, fat in their casings. And, on the last night, a happy jumble of ingredients settling together in an antipasto bake. We savour the velvet taste of chocolate tart while the little ones dance outside in the twilight – all dripping cones and tumbling feet.
The daylight hours are endless. Toes in the sand, crumbling castles. Hours spent in the sun. Piles of treasure, counted out. Cousins holding hands as they run. Ninja feats and basketball heats. It is perfectly imperfect. Wonderfully flawed. An alternating tide of sorts.
When the last pages are read to heavy eyes – rhythmic breathing sounding peacefully – the table is cleared for the evening battles. Cards are dealt with solemnity, the crinkling of wrappers surrendering their loot. Comments turn into hoots of laughter. Ambiguous rules provoke impassioned dissent. We are gladiators, team mates, in sequence.
Family is the kintsugi vessel of becoming. We fight against it, embrace it, wonder at it, create it. It is the archaeology of being. When worlds collide and memories spark we hark the echo of our past…and continue – towards an infinite beyond.
