Knysna. Raining. Thick white sky. An uncertain emergence. The sun, like so much else at this stage shrouded by a heavy blanket. Could this blanket be lightened into the loving eiderdowns that line the twin beds of my grandmother’s spare room, under whose covers my sister and I slumbered so securely? Held by the combination of the weight and wonder of the eiderdown, and my granny Pearl’s deep care-filled energy that brought ease and release from the doing of the day, and an invitation to surrender to the unknown of the darkened dreaming hours.

 And beyond Knysna’s porridge sky, what is asking to be released, to be surrendered to on this 10th day of January 2021? To be entrusted to the soft comforting corners and puffy expanses of the eiderdown? The subtly anxiety-edged wondering of what work will come my way and the extent to which it will sustain me monetarily and meaningfully? An interesting sequencing – first the money, then the meaning. Significance in the sequence? A servitude to financial sustenance, or simply, pragmatism? The tight ticking of boxes of bills to be paid, but also the much-needed freehand flows of creativity and imagination that support heart, meaning, and contribution. One in the driver seat, the other the passenger? Or a balancing of both?

 But balance implies an even or equal distribution, and maybe this is too simplistic and un-allowing of the less defined and delineated way of the world, the more nuanced workings of nature. So, what about ‘blending’ rather than ‘balanced’? A mixing, a stirring together of money and meaning? Not one dominating the other, no distinct leader or follower, but a fluidity and dance between them? Not a simple sponge cake in 2021’s making, but generous spoonfuls of vanilla and chocolate that mix and meander to create the unstructured swirls and deeper stories of a marble cake.

 And what supports me in baking this cake? Waking up from my night, wrapped within the safety and acceptance of the eiderdown, and venturing down the soft green carpeted passage to the kitchen, opening the silver-handled cream cupboard, taking out my granny’s large Mason Cash mixing bowl into which I will spoon my effort and energy – effort and energy to which I trust the universe will liberally fold in many cup measures of her own special ingredients that will, with the necessary temperature and time, enable the vanilla and chocolate of my 2021 marble cake to fully blend and rise.

 And while I open myself to the mixing, and step gently towards the large beige and white bowl, I more immediately await the withdrawing of Knysna’s thick wet white blanket and the possibility of running-shoe’d feet quick-stepping along the lagoon-side, blending some much needed body to the so far heady being of this day.