Choosing Paths

When I was a kid I spent a lot of time in the wilderness. Our family, living only a short 40 minute drive away from some of Canada's most spectacular scenery (the Rockies), would take our little tent trailer and drag it behind the van into this camp site or another for a couple of nights. There are bits of memory now - the scent of pine, the sound of chipmunks in the trees, creaking tree trunks, crackling fire, soot smelling clothes, crisp night air, the soft squish of moss. My brother and I would hop immediately out of the car and head for the patches of grass and needles blanketed between the scattered poles of fir trees and spread out. Make homes in our mind. Wander.

The aimless wandering is something that becomes increasingly difficult as I age. There is a goal, and the goal is a path. It is no longer acceptable, to the world or to the mind, to not be going somewhere, or to not be finding a way. In the dense mossy dark of the forests of the foothills, paths only become relevant when you are worried about losing your way. But if you are just there for the moss, for the dark and light, for the smell of soil, paths hold little sway in your exploration.

In Manly, there are 20- and 30- somethings from all over the world huddled together in a little Edenistic limbo. They are all here, all enjoying sun and sand and sea, all drinking too much and working for not enough money and teetering on the edge of a decision - which path next. To stay forever...? Become one of the countless beach-bumming expats that have given up the gusto lifestyle of the North American, or European, or city-dwelling Aussie for a laggard leisurely life in the Northern Beaches. Paths here become hazy, save for the meandering boardwalk that kisses the beach from Queenscliff to Shelly, where Australian housewives pace rapidly behind baby carriages (as fast as it ever gets around here) so they can waste away the afternoon drinking Prosecco. Manly seems almost immune to the tension of the world right now - the recession only rearing its ugly head in the lack of tipping rather than the lack of dining. Life carries, or ambles, its way on. Even surfers continue to ride swells as the beaches open and close due to a flux in conditions and weather.

But I do not feel relaxed...not enough to justify attempts at residency here. I am not the type to amble away afternoons with plastic girlfriends and matching baby outfits. Life is a party here, but also a parade. People come here to flaunt, and flee decisions (at least some of them, and at least for a little while). Sometimes life is about sitting still...quiet. Still. But here, lack of decision making does not equal stillness. It equals enjoyable biding time, something that has its place...for awhile. And then one must move on.

Maybe I'm making sweeping generalizations that only warrant meaning in the context of my perspective. I am looking for a path, and maybe the point is to enjoy the moss...or the sand and sea. And the people around me. And the ever present party that is Sydney. Enjoy biding time. For now. But the wind is changing. Winter here is rolling in. Maybe it's time to go back to the forest and start again.

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