My morning routine usually starts with coffee and a short walk, but today, I walked longer, taking what I thought would be a different route. It started off the same—a creamy coffee, a moment of contemplation (some may call it meditation), then a walk down under the apple trees.
I checked on the chickens, my plants in the potting shed, and the vegetable gardens, picking small yellow tomatoes and placing them into plastic bags I had brought down for freezing later. I meant to move those pesky pukeko on from the pond paddock but paused—stretching my body, breathing in the morning air, preparing for the pruning, watering, and preserving that occupy my mornings.
Standing in the middle of that dry, dusty paddock, I did yoga under the vast blue sky. Then, I walked further—down past the pond, under the Australian gums standing like warriors, shedding long slivers of bark, unfazed by the heat.
The walk became more than just a walk. It became a journey through time as I walked down the long drive and turned right onto the road.
The Power of Health and Vitality at 80
At 80, I am still moving, still working, still connected to this land and my body. I have spent more time in this place than I ever planned, yet it still holds me, shaping my days, my strength, and my sense of belonging.
At 24, I loved my new introduction to motherhood, embracing the exuberant life of milking cows and living within our beautiful extended family.
The Beauty of the Present Moment
As I continued, memories surfaced—walking past where I built a home, past where I once lay paralysed on the roadside after a fall, past the tanker track I knew so well. New homes, sheds, and robotic lawnmowers now dot the landscape, yet the land still holds echoes of the past—the house I built with Kaipaki women, the garden I once tended as a teenager, the green shed where I marveled at my father’s creativity and quiet care.
The white horse, the old apricot tree, the hydrangeas, the ancient ginkgo trees, the blackberries ripening on the roadside—all of them hold pieces of time. The children who once ran past in prams and strollers I pushed, racing between their grandparents' home and ours, escaping rules in favor of joyful freedom—where are they now?
And yet, at 68 years of age, I am still walking.
A Lasting Thought
The road may be familiar, but I am always discovering it anew.
Life continues to shift, but in these moments—in movement, in nature, in memory—I find strength.
This is the world I live in. This is the world I cherish. I will continue my walk, not necessarily in the same place or time, but always with the people who have shaped my journey—past, present, and future...