I am frequently paralysed by 
    the choices of the modern world:
    from how to spend $50 
    to how to spend my own life
    which streaming service to keep?
    which show to binge next?
    Leaves me flailing
    on my back,    
        like a slater

Perhaps this has always been a problem        
on some level,
    no doubt exacerbated,
    by optical fibre
    but, how do you choose what you do 
    with these ticking hours? 
Mary Oliver phrased it beautifully; 
    ‘What is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?’
But sometimes I want to say back to Mary
    ‘What is it you plan to do with this one wild
    selection of Netflix originals?’

Of course, 
    Mary Oliver,
    Saint that she was,
    probably wouldn’t have made the first choice
    to even entertain the notion 
    of the Netflix scroll
She was just choosing which flower        
to write her next poem about
    and would probably
    gently encourage me 
    towards the hum out the window
    of life pulsing electric
    through stardust and soil

Ghost Mary reminds me
    the choice was never just
    whether to rewatch the Matrix trilogy
    or try something new
The choice was (and is)
    to show up and write
    some words on this page
    or to distract myself,
    from myself    
    catching up to 
    myself.

Of course you can watch movies 
    and show up 
    to your creative life
    (arguably, it’s essential)
    but I know when my own scales
    are tipped.

So Mary, 
    here I am
    beneath a thumping fan in the kitchen 
    writing.
    I want to write the poems,
    like you. 
​

It is happening just like they said it would:
    they are growing up fast

I used to hold him like a football
Yesterday he kicked one over the fence

He used to know no words
Yesterday he told me he could see 
‘The soft-feathered wings of the day’
    6 and he already spins better poetry than me

His brother,
    dresses up like a pirate
    like a paramedic
    like an astronaut

And I’m still wondering
    is he dressing up as a 4 year old?
    or has that much time actually passed
    since we first met? 

They are growing up fast

And you find yourself uttering that phrase
    even though you know how cliche it sounds

And I wonder, 
    if it is just an easy-to-reach-for substitute 
    for things that are more difficult to say

If you pause too long to ponder
    the volumes you’ve already forgotten
    the mispronounced words
    the day before walking
    the night after coming home
    it’s dizzying to think about
    the rollercoaster tracks in the rearview

And when I say 
    they’re growing up fast
I think what I really want to say
    is that I’m horrified by how casually
    I am passing through this gift shop

And I know,
    it’s easy to be sentimental
    when the household is asleep
    and you are writing poems in the quiet hour

And I don’t want to romanticise
    the slog of it
    the shit of it
    the thousand little deaths of it

There are honestly days when I fantasise about
    going back to before
    back to morning sex
    and midday movies
    and deciding to go to the beach
    and then just going, straight away

And, maybe
    this is what horrifies me
    more than my kids growing up

It’s the curse of casually spending every season of your life
    wanting to space-jump
    backwards or forwards
    when the miracle, in all its bloody wonder
    is always and only ever happening
    where you are now. 

And you casually let it play 
    like background music. 

You are skim reading the body of your life
You are swallowing without chewing your life
You are driving on auto-pilot through the rich landscapes 
    of your one life, 

Sometimes I feel
    like every poem I write is the same
    I only really talk about
    trying to be present 
    trying to see the wonder
    trying to live and give
    from a deep well of gratitude

I write about it so often
    because it is 
    as important
    as it is difficult

And the best things are often so
    like raising these kids
    who are growing up
    at the pace of growing up

And maybe all you can show them
    is that none of it is casual
    none of it is granted    
    none of it is cheap

Every time oxygen fills those God-given tanks
Every beat that is thumped from that drum in your chest
    every blink, 
    every tear,
    every word, 
    every touch 

It is all more dazzlingly wondrous 
    than any Sci-Fi reality anyone’s ever dreamed of
    
It is nothing to be casual about.

This everyday miracle.