Author: Peter

If I draw a one kilometre square around my home, it is full to the brim. There are the university grounds, broad and green, with a lake where ducks paddle and students sprawl on the grass. The dog loves it there — it’s our favourite loop. There is a nearby forest where neighbours play badminton,…

She never knocks—just slips quietly into the studywhile the kettle hums in the kitchen.She catches me with pen in hand,unfolding thoughts into poetry,threading stories until they can carry someone’squestions without breaking. By the time we step outside,she has borrowed the leash from its hookand is leading me down the street,the dog’s paws whispering on wet…

I’ve never lived with a step-by-step plan designed to land that job or that promotion.No laminated roadmap taped to the wall, no red X marking the destination. Instead, I’ve tried to navigate by two compass points: curiosity and character.Curiosity keeps me exploring,asking “What if?” and “Why not?” when others are certain the path is fixed.Character…

I know awesome has been overused for years.It’s become a conversational crutch—a word we toss in to underline a point,when really, the point should stand on its own.It has drifted far from its meaning,like a balloon carried away from the party,losing air as it goes. I’ve known awesome.I’ve stood in the pure majesty of Antarctica,floated…

Peace doesn’t always arrive in stillness.Sometimes it’s found in steady footsteps,on a trail that winds through gum and wattle,hours into a bushwalk when the body is movingbut the mind is clear and alert. That’s when ideas come in a rush.By the time I get home,I often have to journal,spilling out the thoughts that arrivedbetween bird…

The profession I admire most is not one that seeks the spotlight, but one that leans quietly toward what is broken and begins the slow, patient work of making it whole. I think of bush regenerators — the ones who spend hours under the sun, removing weeds, planting natives, and trusting that the land can…

If I ever opened a shop, there would be no cash register.No stockroom.No “Sale!” signs. Just a wooden table, a pot of tea, and a small sign on the door:We trade in stories, not goods. Here’s how it works.When you come in, you take a seat with a stranger.One of you tells a story—any story.Where…

From a lone tree, somewhere forgotten They think I am the last.The last sentinel in a land that once danced with green.They see my twisted trunk, my cracked limbs, and call this place barren.But they do not know the names I remember.They do not hear what hums beneath. Beneath your bulldozers and your borrowed time,a…

I don’t remember the exact amount I paid. That’s probably for the best. What I do remember is that it was a lot—and it was for a dinner at Bilson’s, one of Sydney’s most respected fine-dining restaurants at the time. It was my wife’s birthday—a big one—and I wanted to mark the occasion with something…