I had a plan. I had a very clear plan for what I would be writing about in my self-imposed solitary retreat. But here I am, sitting on the terrace of the small house, situated in the heart of Puhoi Valley, and my thoughts are completely elsewhere.

I am surrounded by giant ferns that look like palm trees to newcomers. Just outside grow Tōtara, Pūriri, Nīkau and other native trees. Behind them are fields, more woods, and hills. And far at the back, I can see a silhouette of a volcanic island called Rangitoto.

Tui just flew by. One bird that I can recognise easily because of its distinctive throat tuft, resembling a clerical collar. I hear the persistent songs of cicadas, the occasional buzzing of robust flies, and more birdies chirping in the distance. Otherwise, it is perfect silence and stillness.

“A slow sort of country!” said the Queen. “Now, here, you see, it takes all the running you can do to stay in the same place. If you want to get somewhere else, you must run at least twice as fast as that.”

Yes, Your Majesty! I know exactly what you are talking about! But there is more to life than increasing its speed in order to get somewhere! Especially when one desires to hear the promptings of one’s soul—which revolves ever so slowly in comparison with thoughts, feelings, and incessant physical movements.

As I sit here, sipping my coffee slowly, I am beginning to feel outside of space and time. I can feel profound insights rising to the surface. I am a vehicle for the text that is flowing through me.