A Line in the Sand

She clicks the mouse, and the laptop comes alive in the gloom of her kitchen.

It looks at her, knowingly.

“Yes, I am awake and ready for action, but you, you are set to spend another day procrastinating,” it accuses, as the home screen blinks open.

She flicks through the news – more US politics, something to do with the appointment of a new Attorney General who had been overlooked by the previous administration; an earthquake in Indonesia; more on the efficacy of vaccines. Meryl Streep ageing gracefully – see how celebrities are staying young – she knows better than to go down that rabbit hole.

Coffee is what she needs. She grinds the beans and packs the on-stove espresso maker.

Strong coffee.

A month ago, she had opened an article about simplicity and organisation. It seemed so doable. Eliminate chaos, clear things away, tidy up and your life will flow, your Qi will balance…all stumbling blocks will recede.

That week she had been productive. Her underwear draw had never been so beautiful, everything folded in neat rows. Her towels were immaculately stacked in the linen press, her bed made as soon as her rested feet touched the floor.

She had begun to walk every morning and yes, it felt incrementally better.

She had bought a notebook. Black with a lux cover that felt significant, as though it would hold solid every aspiration she wrote in its pages. It smelt serious – that whiff of fine paper and leather.

Affirmations she had learned from the article, need to be written in the now – My home is a sanctuary; I am trim and fit; I have a great job; I enjoy a loving relationship; I am travelling to the Bordeaux.

And there they were in the first few pages of the notebook – bold, upright capitals, full of determination and promise.

But months on, the notebook is jaded – weary with the weight of her expectations.

It has lived in her handbag as a trusty companion like Ruth - “wither thou goest, I goest” - the theory being that when inspiration struck, she could fill its pages with words, ideas, the genesis of a great novel.

She opens it now and finds coffee rings, rambling cursive scrawls, incomplete to-do lists, phone numbers scribbled on page edges, whole pages of nervous doodles, some serious sketches of strangers from the local café, the odd business card, and three lottery tickets.

She feels sad about it, as though in some strange way, she has let the notebook down.

Putting the lottery tickets aside, she goes to close the notebook. There in her own hand is a quote from an author she once read… “Even drawing a line in the sand is writing”.

She mulls over the words, closes the book, and pats its cover as though comforting a friend.

She brushes her hair, puts on some lipstick, and grabs her car keys. It was five minutes to the beach and now the sea air wraps around her carrying her to the shore.

Ignoring the dog walkers and joggers, she leans down and with one firm hand, draws a line in the sand.

Standing quite still, she clears her mind, breaths deeply, and crosses the line.

She walks back to the car and drives to the newsagent. Taking the three lottery tickets from her pocket she scans the first one…this is a non-winning entry, better luck next time…then the next…this is a non-winning entry, better luck next time.

As she puts the final ticket in, she feels the sweep of her hand in the sand, sees the bunched piles of displaced grit either side of her hard line, reimagines her step across the line.

The ticket scans and there is the boom of the electronic happy tune - she has won something.

The attendant smiles blandly and takes her ticket.

“You’ve won $20. hang on a minute…oh wow! You’ve won…$20,000,” he whispers, worried others might be listening.

That day, she went home and wrote. She wrote about winning. She wrote about lines in the sand, about holidays in France, about meeting someone special, and about the essential value of a good notebook.