I am at Bundanon.

Surrounded by birds, cows, kangaroos, wombats, bush, river, sky.

I spot an echidna on my morning walk.

Twice.

In the wild.

How lucky am I?

I sit on my verandah.

I work at my desk.

I walk across paddocks.

Wombats play statues in the grass as I pass; black-coated cows chew and stare.

I immerse myself in the river like it’s the Ganges, washing off the outside world.

‘This residency is like a sanitarium for me,’ I say to one of the other artists. ‘Or is it sanatorium?’

She looks at me strangely. I’ve forgotten how to talk to people.

‘Whichever isn’t the Weet-bix brand,’ I add, unable to remember. ‘That’s what Bundanon is for me.’

Creative recovery.

Time to think, to write, to dream, to plan new projects.

Time to write poetry … and I don’t even write poetry.

Time to read Animal People, which Charlotte Wood left in the Writer’s Cottage recently.

Time to notice a lemon tree in the bush by the side of the road on the way up to the gate.

Time to pick up a dried-out snake skin to add to my collection of found objects.

Time to remember who I am.