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Just a short step away from the centre of Kerikeri is a walk that has the ability to transport me to another world. It follows the flow of the river, and once you’re on the track, the town and all its industry melt away.  

If it happens to be at the right time of year, you’ll walk past a natural pond carpeted in hundreds of pink waterlilies, their rubbery green leaves shiny and round. Venturing closer here, you can peer down through the water and see the thick, graceful lily-stems anchored deep into the mud below. You may feel, as you look downwards, past the muted and rippling reflections of the surrounding trees, that a kind of magic is about to take place.

Venturing further, you’ll reach an incline in the pathway where jasmine cascades like Rapunzel’s locks—heavy, flower-laden skeins of it hanging down over the river below. If the river is full, this section can be a white, raging froth running powerfully over dark rocks that create an appealing contrast.

The songs of birds now start to increase. This bushland is full of them. Kererū wings whistle past high above, pūkeko strut, and tūī cackle and gurgle their tunes. It’s a sweet and lyrical cacophony.

You’ll reach a place soon after that I have dubbed the Emerald Forest. A friend of mine calls this stretch Jurassic Land, so it obviously evokes feeling in others too that make them want to give it a name. The terrain changes as soon as you enter this forest, and you are greeted by a large, bobbly-covered tree that seems like a sentinel. It’s dark, damp and sensory in this stretch. Thick green mosses cover huge, ancient-looking rocks. If you are willing to walk here while it rains, this turns into a breathtaking experience. Rivulets of water will create what feels like a billion mini waterfalls around you. It’s all twisted trees and vines with dark-green foliage—and a dense canopy above that lets only a little daylight squeeze through.

Coming through to the other side you’ll see the two Dancing Trees (another name of mine). They reach together as if in a twirling, eternal, ecstatic embrace. High above, where their branches meet, a giant natural beehive sits in the crevice they create, buzzing with its industrious inhabitants as they rush around collecting and depositing pollen.

Supplejack grows up, through and around the many other trees in this part. You can look out for the tender, supple end-shoots and snap them off cleanly to eat. They taste like green beans. A fallen trunk to the right, seasonally dependent, delivers a banquet of brown, velvety fungi that is both edible and nutritious. Its layman’s name is Wood Ear or Jelly Ear, and I was interested to learn that in the fifties it was cultivated in New Zealand for export to China.

Soon after the Dancing Trees you’ll hear the sound of water beating down, and rounding a corner you’ll see the Wharepuke Falls. This is a wide, not particularly high waterfall that spills over a lip of flat rocks.

The water lands in a rounded section of pooled river water—a good place to swim. Swallows nest here, generation after generation. They dart and swoop around the place territorially. Sometimes you will see a regal grey heron standing above the falls in statuesque stillness, waiting to catch a fish wriggling by.

And yes, there are many small fish and eels in this river. 

If you choose to veer off track a little on a summer’s day, dipping your toes in to cool off, you might just see an eel slowly make its presence known, thinking your feet are dinner. This is both thrilling and terrifying.

Next place of note is the Fairy Pools (their true designated name, not my own invention). These swirling eddies are like a natural spa. It’s another place to bathe, if you dare, though their true beauty can really only be experienced from the other side of the river. Then it becomes a world of wildflowers and long grasses that tumble downwards to the water’s edge.

Further we go, and we will likely see a family of black swans gliding about. I remember when there were only three fully grown swans; then a terrible thunderstorm arrived, shaking everything up, taking tree branches down as if an angry giant had stomped through the land, and flooding the river. Only two swans remained after that, and I presumed the third to be a casualty. However the next year I was delighted to see several fuzzy grey cygnets following the pair that had remained unscathed.

The Rainbow Falls are close now as you continue to wind through tall, straight trees. You’ll start to hear in the distance the thrumming of water cascading down. Turning a corner, you’ll see mists funnelling towards you, the effervescent spray coating your face. 

The mists curl up, veiling the large, impressive falls. Finally you are there, and if the sun and mist are just right there will indeed be shimmering rainbows suspended in the air. You have reached your destination, and a simple wooden bench allows you to sit and take time to gaze into the falls, and perhaps contemplate for a while the walk you just had.

From a personal perspective this walk has provided an endless scope of inspiration. I’ve written poetry and vignettes using the terrain as backdrop. In my mind it lends itself to mythical and magical creatures—it’s very easy to imagine it being a portal to a phantasmagorical world of dryads, nymphs and sprites, of oracles and talking trees, with perhaps a taniwha buried deep in a watery cavern alongside the eels.

There is always that one place that you hold near and dear to you. The place you go to when all else fails, the place you go to because it makes you happy. There could be many places that spark the joy within you, that give you your best ideas and allow you to seek the freedom you desire. The Christchurch Botanic Gardens is my place. Whatever day, whichever season, it’s the one place that is guaranteed to make me happy. 

Every time I go for a wander down the stone-covered paths I am entrapped by the beauty surrounding it. Each step provides a different motive to keep going forward, and even when you think you have seen it all, a new path will pop up, one that you haven’t explored yet. While most of the tracks are pretty straightforward, there are some that cross over and leave you slightly lost. Though that is half the beauty of the place. 

The best thing about this area is that it’s a stone’s throw away from some of the city’s biggest attractions, so even if it’s not in the itinerary of visitors, it can still be appreciated by them. The tram and the Christchurch City Cathedral are only a 7-minute walk away, the museum is located at the fountain entrance, the art gallery is across the road and some of the more historic features and buildings that Christchurch has to offer are conveniently located on the surrounding streets. 

My favourite entrance is ironically through the noisiest one—by the playground—because this gives me the longest route of walking to get to the best destination. The walk starts off at the beginning of the street; if you drive in, it’ll start at the car park, but then you’ll miss half the beauty. The street entrance takes you down a man-made path along the Avon River. Big trees encase you onto the track, and if you’re lucky enough to go in autumn, the colours are an outstanding shade of orange and rust, helping to make the river look so delicate under the sun’s lighting. As you crunch your way to the park’s official entrance there is nothing but silence, punctuated by the occasional runner, transporting you from the hustle and bustle of the CBD to the makeshift forest’s quiet, where it seems sound has been forbidden. It’s a welcome change that allows even city dwellers to enjoy peace.

The maze of the garden trails is a juxtaposition of the straight, flat roads that make up the city. The park is very open, almost as if it was designed for fresh air and foot traffic. While the entrances provide most of the population of the park, during your stay, it’s almost as if you could have the whole park to yourself. The locals are extremely friendly, which makes the place feel even more spectacular. With every passing person, a simple smile or a cheerful ‘good morning’ will be experienced, nothing more than that needs to be said in order for you to feel like the place is homely. 

The rose garden sits in the centre of the park and is host to many a rose bush, but the unique thing about this particular part of the botanics is that it’s closed off to the rest of the greenery. The wooden arches create an almost door-like entry to the bushes. A garden inside a garden, with the only difference being the colours it has to offer. Walking through the middle of the rose garden is as symbolic as releasing doves at a wedding, the colours of pink, red, yellow and orange pushing the serenity of the peaceful place. There are four entrances into this area of the gardens, and right in the centre lies a beautiful fountain. Which brings comfort to both the foreigners and the locals.  

The one focus point that brings me back time and time again lives past the duckpond, right at the beginning of the car park entrance. Its flowers attract the attention of many, and there is no way that if you were to visit the gardens, you would miss it. The spring season is when it is in its prime. This cherry blossom tree is a single reminder of the beautiful world we live in. It is beautiful from any angle so everyone can appreciate it without the need to wait until other people move out of the way. With the changing seasons, the beauty of this tree changes, and at each visit you will be treated to this difference. Autumn is one of the better seasons, when the leaves are dying and falling, but the tree always remains ever so elegant.

The paths are made up of different terrain, with each step being a welcome reminder that you are no longer in the city, almost as if you have been transported to another world entirely. The water fountain that sits at the museum entrance is the only indication that time is still moving. 

There are many secret spots in the gardens where you can fully isolate yourself from the outside world. I have enjoyed many summer and autumn days sitting in this garden, reflecting on life and writing some of my best poetry. Something about the open freshness of the place inspires me to get into my artistic groove. If art isn’t your thing, there are so many other things that you can be inspired to do. People watching is an excellent example. Since the garden is a main tourist attraction, you come across a variety of different people, making scenarios is never a dull moment with the international scene that is offered. 

While the pathways symbolise freedom and difference, it is also a great place for downtime, exploring, and having some fresh air, and above all it provides an amazing opportunity to get fit and be in touch with nature—something we often took for granted pre-COVID times but now cherish. 

This here is an Introduction to the mind of M. A. Phoenix. I wanted to write something funny, something witty and exciting that would have you rolling around the aisles and chortling with delight. Unfortunately there is no room in the aisles of my mind – it is far too cluttered and muddled.

For years I was led to believe my disorganisation, social miscommunication, and meltdowns, were indicators of an inherently wicked, undisciplined and lazy character. I became conditioned to assume my thoughts and desires were selfish unless they were endorsed by the authorities around me. I have since learned that my struggles were not from being born a bad person, but because I think differently. I am Autistic, I have ADHD, and because of trauma and many socially devastating experiences, I also have Social Anxiety Disorder.

Reading often changes my world from something frightening and scary, into a place I love. But more than being just an enjoyable experience, it unintentionally became a way for me to learn social skills. How to love or be loved, how to identify and try to modify behaviours that others are likely to view as odd, and – even more importantly for a person who views the world in a very black-and-white manner – how to understand and accept that people are never all good or all evil.

When I was a child my imagination knew no bounds and I would enact these imaginings as long and as far as I could while there was still light in the sky. Once the sun went down and I was confined to my room for the night I eagerly turned to my books.

As I grew older, I discovered with deep dismay that acting out my imaginings with others was no longer acceptable. Now it was only acceptable to delve into a dream world if the dream was about the hottest guy at school. Since I attended an all-girls school, this was somewhat difficult.

The most serious form of reading that was openly endorsed by my peers were Girlfriend and Dolly magazines. Oh, how little that extended my vocabulary. However, their purpose was not to extend the mind and enrich my life, but to provide endless opportunities to talk about boys, promote staying slim, offer tips on how to be popular and tell me what beauty products to buy. After years of trying to fit into this niche that I could never be part of, I returned to my first love. A love that had never abandoned me but had been waiting patiently.

That first time I lay on my bed and listened to the sigh of my fingers stroking the spine of my newest acquisition. I heard a soft creak as I slowly peeled back the cover and exposed the body of the book. Reading through the first few pages, I became enamoured.

Magic, sorcery, loyalty, and intrigue were thrust into my mind following the turmoil of a young lad’s unfolding tale. I identified with his awkwardness, frustration and insecurities, and was emboldened by his certainty that he would one day soar to great heights. On this memorable day I fell in love with the fantasies that had spilled out of the mind of Raymond E. Feist. His book, Magician, took me to places I had never been before, where I mastered spells, fought wars and spied on evil.

Licking my finger to turn the pages, I could taste the essence of the book ­– its ink-blood mingled with my flesh and the musty flavour of the pages. This was more than just reading a book; this was a full sensory experience. My mind was stimulated, my body tingled in anticipation, my breath caught in my chest awaiting the return home of loved ones, and tears caressed my flushed cheeks at both joyous and devastating news. Goosebumps appeared on my flesh as I wandered through snow drifts in stormy weather, and my eyes sparkled when I gazed into a black night littered with the jewels of the sky.

I was overcome, completely swept away by my raw and urgent need for more, and when the last page was turned I hoped against all hope that this would not be the end of my sweet love affair. With heavy heart, I trudged back to the library and tenderly returned my Magician home. I stroked his spine and whispered, “Farewell.”

And then my heart fluttered with excitement. There, right next to where my love resided, was the continuation of all I had just experienced. As I explored further, I discovered many more stories from my love. That night I slept, deeply satisfied and secure in the knowledge that my new pleasure did not have to end. This was no one-night stand; it was the beginning of a lifelong love affair with the written word.

When I was a child, I explored the world in a childish manner, including the words written for me to enjoy. As an adult initiated long ago into the joys of exploring the fantasies spilled from the minds of others, I have learned to savour each word and am therefore deeply dissatisfied by a limp and flaccid tale. The tones and hues of my life are made richer and more vibrant by the books I have been blessed to experience. Reading is not just a hobby for me, but a way to experience the world the way most neurotypicals do. And just as it does while I’m reading, when I’m back in the real world, living my own story, my mind tries to adapt the storyline while the real-life characters flex and flow around me.

I have yet to determine if I am the wicked protagonist or the lovable antagonist in my life story, but since the final chapter has yet to be written I shall continue to grow and learn from my experiences. I believe that is all any of us can do.

M. A. Phoenix

My mind isn’t anything spectacular—just a large hallway, the light dimmed, and little green and red flecks frolicking about. I take a deep breath before walking onwards. There’s lots to explore, but an image suddenly appears in front of me, bringing me to a halt. It’s a glow-in-the-dark image of the burger and fries I ate for lunch.

Hmm, I wonder how many calories that was?

Initially, the thought is inquisitive, not really a big deal. But as usual, more intense thoughts emerge…

I bloody made a promise that I would eat healthy: salads, smoothies, vegetarian nachos, avocado toast. A pork-belly burger and fries from The Burger Shack definitely doesn’t count as ‘healthy’. And I’ve eaten badly for the past week pretty much, so my skin’s probably looking crap and I bet I’ve gained weight. GOD, I haven’t seen my friends for a while—what will they think when they see me next?

I should really get to studying, though. This new voice is quiet and feeble, barely cutting through my drilling thoughts.

Maybe I could skip my next meal?

Now, that’s just ridiculous. I’d be miserable and wouldn’t be able to focus on anything. Hmm, maybe a small egg salad could hold me over?

Just ignore the food thing—it doesn’t matter; it was just one junky meal. The thought pretends to be sturdy and determined but it’s a fraud, still weak and quiet.

I’m holding my smartphone, so I put the torch on, shining it around the hallway. There are all sorts of doors: family memories, friend memories, school, TV, movies, music, politics, and in the distance I see a door labelled ‘Study’. I take a couple of steps in that direction, but the hallway begins to tighten, making it harder for me to move.

The image of the burger and fries appears again. I squint at the meal, deciphering every aspect of it.

First, there’s the brioche bun. Maybe around 200 calories, considering the melted butter. Then there’s the pork belly bites—probably around 500 calories, give or take. And there’s the coleslaw, avocado and sweet chilli, most probably 250 calories all up. So, 950 calories for the burger.

Not too bad.

But there’s also the large container of fries, which is probably around 400 calories.  So, 1350 calories for one meal.

Geez. I punch my arm in frustration, and the thoughts come in.

How the fuck can I ever burn that off. That’s just way too much of the wrong calories. For. Fuck. Sake. I hate this.

A reassuring notion comes to me: Just exercise—a home workout can sort this issue. I exhale in relief. Finally I can get rid of these compulsive thoughts.

My physical self starts a 60-minute Zumba class, but the hallway’s still too constricted. With each move I feel my limbs pressing against the walls, the pictures in the frames sneering at my efforts.

Do you really think one Zumba class will make a difference?

My body feels too big for the hallway, which fills with the upbeat Zumba music until I’m choking on it—walls tightening, breathing becoming harder.

I take another deep breath, ignoring the way it catches in my throat. I focus on the exercise and force the hallway to give me enough room. The walls reluctantly expand. My body has room to move. With the ache in my muscles proving that I’ve burned off at least some of my meal, the hallway finally opens. 

I need to study; I need to work on my project. If I fail that then I might as well drop out of the paper. The thought is blunt and sobering and I’m reminded of my goal.

The study room is once again in view and I start to head towards it.

But I’ve barely taken a step forward, and there it is. Perfect and wholesome as could be: A Dog Meme. Glorious and so out of nowhere, framed on the wall as if it were a Picasso.

I grab my smart phone and go onto Facebook. I want to share it with one of my closest friends from college who used to always share cute Dog memes with me. But then I notice that she has deleted me as a friend. What?

At first I choose to look on the bright side.

She could have done it by accident.

Nonetheless, I still get hit by a plethora of frantic thoughts.

How can someone ‘accidentally’ delete a friend? Maybe she doesn’t like my posts. ᴚBut I don’t think I’ve posted in ages. Or maybe it’s because we don’t stay in touch as much? Though I don’t detect any problem when we talk on Messenger. Maybe she found out I talked badly about her that one time in year thirteen? Or what if she doesn’t really like me, and has just been nice cos she feels sorry for me?

I’ve been down this type of route before, and I’d rather not go down it again.I push forward, but once again the hallway’s become smaller.

I want to get away from this, but I can’t. I must stay here and sort the problem out.

I look through my profile to see if there’s anything ‘annoying’ that I’ve posted. Nothing. Haven’t posted since February. Then I look at our messages, checking if I’ve sent something upsetting. From the first read I don’t notice anything, so I analyse the messages I’ve sent, line by line.  

Oh, damn. There is the fact that I forgot to message her back when she sent a Happy Birthday message in July. Maybe that’s it. But I messaged a couple of weeks later, saying sorry for the late response, and she didn’t seem to care.

There’s a familiar taste in my mouth – bitter, metallic. It’s the typical worry and self-punishment, as toxic as ever.

I DM my best friend, ranting about my problem. She responds with: Ohh don’t worry about it—she does stuff like that all the time. Pretty sure she’s doing one of those social media detox things. You’ve done nothing wrong, you’re always super nice. Just ignore it and live your best life—you’re over-thinking it.

She’s right. Just ignore it. I don’t need to get worked up.

I turn my phone off and let the taste in my mouth disappear.

The constricted hallway opens again, and I can finally move forward and focus on other things. I exhale deeply and jut my chin out, feeling determined and free.

I’m behind in my project schedule and if I don’t pass I’ll fail this paper.

The study door beckons me and I push myself to walk faster. Soon I can wrap my fingers around the golden handle, pull the door open. I’ve made it. I’m here. Finally, I can start what I came here for.

But… What does she mean by ‘live your best life’? Am I wasting my life?

Should I be doing more?

Am I behind in life?

The gust of self-doubt tugs the door out of my hand. It shuts with a click.

Locked.

Self-doubt’s biting wind then wraps me in a familiar hug. Like a friend.

Until even that disappears, and I’m left alone.

So, yeah. This is it; this is my mind. This is my hallway. The hallway that I struggle down, my goal at the end, all the way battling the trials that my own mind sets to trip me up. 

By Ayden Dugmore

 

It was the 23^rd of March, at approximately 2pm when Prime Minister Jacinda Ardern announced that New Zealand would be going into Alert Level 4 Lockdown at midnight on the 25^th of March, just two days later. As an avid movie lover, I felt this was surreal. The scenario seemed to have been plucked right out of a Hollywood studio, only there was no Will Smith, and this wasn’t a movie.

Thoughts raced through my mind as I went to pick my son up from school for the last time in a while. I had some silver-lining thoughts like Maybe I won’t get behind on my homework for once, and Maybe I can catch up on all the movies I’ve wanted to see. But mostly I worried—not necessarily for myself but for my son and my at-risk nan and aunty.

My son got in the car and like most eleven-year-olds he seemed to not have a worry in the world. I figured he probably wouldn’t know what was going on, so I told him everything.

“I know,” he replied ever so nonchalantly.

I was taken aback. “Okay. Well let’s go home.” As I started to drive off, I received the inevitable text message.

We need some things from the supermarket.

I sighed heavily and changed course. On the way, I remember hoping that maybe people were already home, bracing for this new experience we would all be going through as a country.

I couldn’t have been more wrong. The supermarket was jam-packed, and people were acting as though COVID-19 wouldn’t affect them until lockdown was in effect. There was no social distancing to be seen. You might even call what was happening “social narrowing”. To be fair, this would be the most excitement any of us would see for the next month.

In the days that followed I took in all the news I could, whether by way of Jacinda’s daily press conferences or the internet. This Lockdown was unexplored ground for me—and nearly everybody else—so I wanted to be as informed as possible. But after a week it had become this juxtaposition of being both overwhelming and too much of the same. For something that was so different, it didn’t take long for it to feel a bit like Groundhog Day.

Around this time that I stopped taking daily notes too. There were only so many ways I could write, “Slept in. Went for a walk. Ate. Ate some more. Ate too much. Went to bed,” although I would spice up the odd day with a trip to the supermarket. In fact, I probably went to the supermarket more than the average person in Lockdown because we had a large bubble. For the first week there were eight of us, one being my twenty-year-old cousin who consumes the same amount of a food as a panda, except instead of eating bamboo, he eats everything in sight.

One interesting thing I did note from my frequent supermarket trips was the activity of other shoppers. The first couple of times I went there were very few gloves being worn and even fewer facemasks. After the first week though, you’d have been hard-pressed to find somebody not wearing them. Then just within the last week, with the end of Level-4 in sight, people seemed to be lowering their guard as I once again saw very few gloves and facemasks. Yet as the Lockdown rules changed with each different level, the one thing that didn’t change was people’s behaviour while shopping. Much like what I witnessed on the day the Lockdown was announced, shoppers inside the supermarket acted as though they were invincible. Social distancing? Gone. Common courtesy? Also gone. I witnessed a gloveless person handle a plethora of loose apples before deciding to buy pears instead. Needless to say, I did not buy any apples.

With no work obligations or school runs, the opportunity to complete plenty of writing was ripe … or so I thought. I hadn’t factored in the eleven-year-old boy. It turns out trying to normalise an unprecedented event like being on Lockdown due to a worldwide pandemic is time-consuming. Due to the lack of work I was getting done, I ended up getting pretty down in the dumps. But then I kept hearing people like parenting guru Nigel Latta and world-famous author Neil Gaiman say that our only obligation over this time was to get through it intact. Gaiman often talks about “walking towards your mountain”, meaning that your life journey should always be heading towards your main goal aka the “mountain”. In most situations, my mountain is becoming a full-time writer, but if I am to go by the words of Gaiman, Latta and other such experts then my “Lockdown mountain” would be making it to the other side. I made it to that mountain and I hope you did too.