We are now nine weeks beyond the shortest day Down Here, but still into Winter with snow on the mountains and an icy chill in the air. This river is snow-fed and extremely cold. But not far from here, as fearless teenagers, we swam in the irrigation channels fed by these mid-Canterbury rivers. The sissies smeared their bodies with petroleum jelly first, but I doubt it really made a lot of difference and would have been a mess to remove. The secret was just to keep moving, swimming fast to the end of the mile, the annual challenge for the hardy types that we were back then. Would I do that again today? No, I doubt it. The mid-winter dips in the sea with the carnival fanfare of community participation have not enticed me yet. Better to stay snuggled up cosy in my possum/merino layers of woollies and watch as the others shiver instead.

In the background are the foothills of my favourite Southern Alps. When visitors to a Maori marae (meeting place) are given the opportunity to speak, they introduce themselves by naming their tribe (or giving their whakapapa - genealogy) and their mountain and river. I have only once ever done that, and liked the idea especially of naming my mountain and river, as though they are mine. They are indeed the land to which I relate, my home turf, that with which I will identify when away from home or needing to feel grounded in my being. This is not my river, but the mountains are mine - greedily the whole chain of them, the rugged backbone of the South Island of New Zealand. These mountains are a view to gaze upon and be still, to drink in their might, majesty and grandeur. They were there well before me, and will be there long after I am gone. I am nothing to them, but they are a symbol of stability and permanence to me, and they whisper the words that describe the character of the Creator… I am here, I am mighty, I am majesty. I will look to them and beyond to the Source of my being, He who is my sustainer and stronghold.