The firelight on the dry blue-gum timber

Dear Delyara, The wind coming off the Antarctic ocean is howling across Tasmania tonight, rattling the iron roof of my workshop and pushing freezing rain against the small glass panes. I spent the whole day hand-sanding a dining table made from a fallen slab of ancient Huon pine, working the timber until the grain shone like gold under the lamp. I sat down by the wood stove with a hot mug of cider, put my boots up on a bench, and just watched the flames dance behind the glass door. My shoulders are pleasantly tired, my fingers smell of natural pine resin, and inside my chest there is no hurry, no anxiety, no lingering fear about tomorrow. Just a good fire, honest work behind me, and a warm room while the storm blows outside.