The Lighthouse Keeper

Kia ora and welcome.

My name is Kepler and I am so humbled and happy to have you here joining me tonight.

This is the second night-time story of a series I have written centred around the wild and natural beauty of my home country,

Aotearoa,

New Zealand.

Tonight we head to Tiritiri Matangi,

A small island off Auckland in the Hauraki Gulf.

A lighthouse is standing stoically at the head of the island,

Watching high over a treacherous passageway from the vast Pacific Ocean and guiding ships and the souls they carry safely toward the mainland.

Now you know where we will be heading,

Let's get settled and comfortable,

Ready to clear our minds for our journey back in time.

Wherever you are,

Make sure you are lying down or reclining in a position that feels most comfortable for you,

Especially for your head,

Neck and shoulders.

Consciously notice your body settling into itself,

Feeling the nothingness of effort in your arms and fingers,

Legs and toes.

Now move your attention to your breath.

Notice the rhythm of your breathing and feel the rise and fall of your chest as you inhale and exhale.

Focus on the internal sound of the air being drawn in through your nose and then again when your breath is released from your mouth.

We are going to complete three intentional box breaths.

This is where you breathe in slowly during four counts,

You hold that breath for four counts,

You exhale slowly during four counts and lastly hold your lungs empty for four counts.

That is one box breath and we're going to do three.

If you use this technique regularly as part of your sleep routine,

Your body will get used to the message of going to sleep.

You can also use this breathing technique if you are having a moment of anxiety.

It lets you bring and hold your attention inward for a few moments,

Which can help reset and calm your mind.

Let's breathe.

Breathe in,

Two,

Three,

Four,

Hold,

Two,

Three,

Four,

Exhale fully,

Two,

Three,

Four,

Hold,

Two,

Three,

Four,

Breathe in,

Two,

Three,

Four,

Hold,

Two,

Three,

Four,

Exhale,

Two,

Three,

Four,

Hold,

Two,

Three,

Four,

Breathe in,

Two,

Three,

Four,

Hold,

Two,

Three,

Four,

Exhale,

Two,

Three,

Four,

Hold,

Two,

Three,

Four.

Now you can settle your breath back to your natural rhythm,

Acknowledging the change as your innate systems take over for you.

In this story,

You are the lighthouse keeper,

And this is your lighthouse.

The year is 1880,

And there is a hive of activity on the mainland.

European settlers are arriving in their droves on large sailboats,

Remote areas are becoming towns,

With tracks being cut into roads,

With new churches going up,

New schools being built.

Small towns are becoming cities.

Crude wooden structures are making way for robust concrete buildings.

In Auckland,

There is a hustle and bustle on the dirt streets from sunrise till sunset.

Meet hanging in butcher windows,

Long skirts and petticoats rustling with the rhythm of bonneted ladies walking arm in arm,

Paper boys calling out in the streets.

The smells are a mixture of fishmongers and bakers,

Tobacco and cologne,

Sweat and horses,

And smoke that hangs low in the cool air.

Saloons are full and clunky piano music is spilling out onto the road.

But you live on the island.

In the evenings,

You can sometimes see a slight hazy glow in the night sky above the pre-city that seems too busy to sleep.

But other than that,

And the irregular visits from the steamboat that brings you supplies and the occasional piece of mail,

You live in a peaceful bush-clad sanctuary,

Surrounded by rocky cliffs,

Pebbled beaches and the ocean.

Your days are spent far away from the busy and ever-expanding town.

There is your vegetable garden to tend to,

Hens to feed and eggs to collect,

Wood to chop and stack,

This along with all the intricacies of your specialist role as the lighthouse keeper.

It is good,

Honest work and you take immense pride in the trust beholden to you,

To keep the travellers safe while I navigate through your waters.

This afternoon belongs to a day in early winter.

You are wrapped up in a few layers,

Including a large warm jacket and a knitted hat and scarf set.

Your sturdy boots and soft woolen socks help keep the cold at bay,

As you make your way carefully along the rocky shore,

Hopping from rock to rock.

The ocean breeze is starting to bite on your cheeks,

Which are rosy and cold to the touch.

You have spent the second half of the day down on the beach at the jetty,

Enjoying the winter sun.

As you need to light the lighthouse lantern before sunset,

You are heading away from the jetty and up onto the rocky shore.

Your eyes focus on one and then two rocks ahead of you,

Planning each step with timing that comes only from practice.

There are bands of old seaweed,

Turned brown and crisp from the elements,

Caught between the rocks as they were pushed up higher and higher until the tide left them there.

There are broken branches and leaves that have fallen from the trees up on top of the cliffs,

And the occasional pocket of water,

Held in the hollowed out rocks that reflect the sky like a mirror.

To get to the top of the island where the lighthouse stands,

The easiest way is to walk around the back of the island,

Toward the mainland,

And climb up the shorter side,

Where there is a cut out path of steps,

With ropes in the steeper places to help you scale the incline.

You are young,

Fit and healthy,

And this journey is one you have taken almost daily with ease.

Once you reach the western edge of De Plateau,

It's a 15 minute walk through wind-blown shrub,

Along a grass-lipped path to the eastern side of the island.

You see the top of the lighthouse burst,

As it slowly rises and pulses above the horizon that match your steps.

The lighthouse is painted completely in the colour of the sky,

Completely white,

And because it is high up on the island,

There is no need for it to be tall.

This lighthouse is solid,

Round and only three storeys high,

If we are counting the lantern room.

As you enter the lighthouse at ground level,

You light a hand-held kerosene lamp,

That you have waiting by the door.

The lamp hastily awakens the dark and settled room.

The bottom floor is your living quarters,

Compact but functional,

With dining table and chairs,

A wood stove for cooking and heating,

And a well-organised food storage area,

For all the preserved items that keep you nourished and sustained while on the island.

The polished wooden stairs that you approach,

Spiral up alongside the circular walls,

And take you to your sleeping quarters.

Here on one half of the room sits your bed,

Between a small bedside table and a wardrobe.

The other half of the room is a contained area that has its own wall and door,

For the lantern supplies,

Including fuel and cleaning materials.

Carrying your lamp,

You climb the second and last set of stairs,

Onto the third floor,

The lantern room.

You take a moment to absorb the view.

It took your breath away the first time you looked out from here,

And the feelings,

Even now,

Are still the same.

Looking through the triangular set windows,

There is nothing but raw and wild ocean.

You can see the waves moving in groups,

With some rising,

Some falling,

And some swirling in an arc shape.

The tops of the waves seem to want to grow higher,

But gravity pulls them down and pushes them over in cascades of white angry froth.

Seabirds battle the high-altitude wind to plummet into the water like spears,

Catching fish from the unsuspecting schools below.

Looking west towards the mainland,

The sun is nearing its final exhibition for the day,

Causing the horizon to look as though it is made of molten embers.

You turn to the large lantern in the middle of the floor.

Your first job is to clean and trim the wick,

For a good,

Clear flame,

With no smoke.

You then check the fuel reservoir and clean the lenses that convert the light from the lantern into two piercing beams that travel far out to sea,

Sweeping over rocks and other small islands surrounding you.

You strike the flint once,

And the wick is set ablaze.

You note in your logbook the time of lighting,

And then wind the oversized clock mechanism to start the lenses rotating for the night.

Having your evening tasks completed,

You carry your lamp back down to the lowest floor of the lighthouse and carefully stack kindling in a pyramid shape over some paper.

In the wood stove,

And set it alight.

Once the kindling has taken to the flame,

You add bigger pieces of wood until you have a roaring fire.

On the wood stove,

You have a large cast iron pot that holds a perpetual soup,

In which you add a few more vegetables and herbs and bring to the simmer.

Sitting at your table,

You rip chunks off the bread you made earlier in the day,

And dip it into the hearty soup,

While reading your favourite novel in the light of your lamp.

You are warm,

With a full belly and ready for sleep.

You stoke the fire one last time and head upstairs to your bedroom.

As you lay in your bed,

You feel an overwhelming sense of peace.

You can hear the swirling waves,

Gulls shrieking in the rhythmic hum of the rotating lenses.

All is well,

All are safe,

As you drift off to sleep in your lighthouse on the island.