The strongest memory I have of contemplation was on a road trip to Mittagong as a teenager. I was listening to Flying Lotus' album Los Angeles through headphones in the back seat while my mum drove and my brothers were beside me. The desolate trees along the Hume Highway perfectly matched the lo-fi and boomy world of the music. I was in my thoughts, with a musical and visual accompaniment. At that age, it felt like contemplation knocked often and revealed the meanings of my experiences.
Living alone in my apartment now, contemplation takes the shape of rumination. It's like a wild dog that haunts the corner of my living room, back arched up, teeth slightly showing, reading my energy. If I'm anxious, it barks. In the weeks where things are making sense, that tension eases. It lets me pat its head but watches me intently, ready to ark up if there’s a change.
When I moved to Melbourne's northern suburbs five years ago, I needed to find the contemplation that guides you, and I eventually did - in the eateries and markets around me.
These spaces share certain qualities. They're tied to a specific culture (or many, such as Preston Market). They're affordable and unpretentious, no architect-designed fitouts that usually come with unfriendly staff and the feeling that you don't belong there. The longer these spaces have operated, the deeper their roots are felt by you. They feel like the type of home I grew up in.
On Sydney Road, Lebanese bakery/grocer combos with this feeling line the top stretch. The closest to me is Al-Alamy. I've gone there many mornings before work, sat out front with a Zaatar flatbread and Lebanese coffee. There are usually two or three men smoking at the table nearest the door, talking in Arabic. A few tables back, there's an older man who asks me for the time. Someone picks him up around 9am, but I've never asked where he's going. There's a competing pull between wanting to get to know him, and being content with our arrangement. Maybe it will shift in an unexpected way on a random morning in future, when I ask him a question.
When I visit on a weekend, I sit inside eating Fatteh, facing the door, watching the coming and going. I've never liked the term people watching. It's not a leer or a judgement. We might not be breaking bread on the same table, but we have a shared belief in the feeling of connectedness. I’m only visiting with the intention to eat, but then get to experience serendipitous moments and conversations with other people that feel like life itself.
This contemplation is an improvised theatre that's both active and passive. As much as I'm taking everything in, there's an internal reflection and meaning making that matters just as much. Self doubt becomes suspended in the first bite of a cheese & spinach triangle. The overwhelming feeling is that everything is going to be ok. The difficulty will eventually be overcome… but maybe if it keeps going on a while, I can look forward to the next cheese & spinach triangle.
Recently I got the train home after work and went to Afghan Charcoal Kebab, also on Sydney Road. The young guy at the till took my order with that particular mix of warmth and confidence that cuts through any emptiness you may be experiencing post 5pm. I sat at the back table facing the wide entrance and glass windows, watching the last of the sunset fade into night. I’m grateful to be here. An older man started constructing my kebab with the measured tempo that comes with years of experience. I don't know how long I sat there, it might have been five minutes or twenty. I genuinely couldn't tell you.