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the something more

the something more

I spent much of this walk around

Queen Elizabeth's Park

with my head down, in deep conversation with a girl, miles away from her home in Berlin. She spoke with passion about all the things she had left behind; a broken relationship, a city apartment, a promising career in film. Landing in Australia with two back-breakingly heavy suitcases, she eventually wound her way to New Zealand, shedding most everything she'd taken with her and ending up here, in our tiny island country, with one backpack and restless feelings.

At a picnic in a park with a honky-tonk band on stage, I'm eating cherries from a container and swilling wine from a red plastic cup. A friend's girlfriend is talking of her hometown in Japan, the days she would go to work and come back home. She talks of an unshakeable sense that there had to be something more. Five years later, she sits with me, petting my dog, laughing, living that

more

 she sensed in those years of trailing back and forth from work.

My best friends are masters at wrestling with, and subduing

 more

. One has been a lawyer and now a teacher and in the future, once done, she'll be a dancer having already auditioned for a dance school but put it off. The other lives in an A-framed house five minutes from the beach with a vege patch her husband waters at sundown. She works a couple of days a week and the rest is spent writing novels, crafting words and sending them off, with high hopes, to editors. 

These girls, these women, these dreamers. Impatient or unconcerned or puzzled with the tried-and-true paths that appear to beckon everyone else. I'm finding these women everywhere. Some have been in front of me all along. I like to gather their stories together and I like to channel them. To help me with my something

more.

to you and yours

to you and yours

ramen and cake

ramen and cake