The Trough Of Ordinary

Winter has come to Bondi. The violent heat of only a few days past which left so many dead subsided to a light grey boring drizzle. Apart from our first shark attach at the beach in 80 years, the days have been uneventful. It's that period in between the successes; the weary trough of ordinary in which job rejection letters are more frequent than love notes and motivation wanes into frustration.

Valentines tomorrow. I wonder what it holds for me. My girl is not the wet romantic type, preferring garden-cut frangipanis to long-stemmed roses. Not that this should bother me, right? A low maintenance woman a man's dream. Yet part of me yearns her to be more engaged with me than she is. I feel part of her retreat at times.

I've been single for a number of years now. Perhaps disenchanted by the whole situation during a university relationship. So I've felt somewhat of a newcomer to the dating scene. I discovered a whole arena new to me - the "I'm seeing this girl..." arena, of mutual limited commitment - of which I was previously unaware. I was raised rather black and white. Whether through direct instruction or perceived expectation, it was either "thunderbirds are go" or nothing at all. Post-uni took me a number of years to recover. Only recently have I felt relaxed enough to tamper with the opposite sex. But love is not where I began this post.. I'm sidetracked.

The trough of ordinary is an essential part of my life journey (so much less exciting than love goss - sorry!). I'll cut this short: between the high points of success lies the daily routine of discipline and repetition - the ordinary. My work in the media on TV shows or modeling can be very exciting, but there are frequent moments adjacent requiring consistent planning, doggedness and commitment to the task. Amidst this I also need to identify times to pull my head out of career mode and appreciate the present moment around me. Go for a run. Surf (maybe in the sharkwaters). Delight in the motor-mechanics of my body.

My grandfather lies on his deathbed unable to move or speak. It's a sobering forecast of my own future. I visited him this week for the first time since Christmas. In just over a month his decline in health was astounding. He's a mute corpse limited to facial expressions and hand gestures to communicate. I know his time will be soon and it's OK. But it does inspire me to be thankful for and make the most of what I call my golden years. My parents describe their twenties as such, and I would also. Young, healthy, free, unburdened. My grandfather's present condition is one of those events in life which refocus your drive. It's what makes the simplicity of the surf so joyful.

The world lies before me and only self doubt can restrain me.