“You are amazing. You are beautiful.” Sparrow knelt down, and spoke from her open heart. “You are an incredible creation, a miracle, and your growth inspires me.”

The tomato plant she was speaking to didn’t reply, which was good, because talking vegetable would be much harder to eat from an ethical standpoint. Satisfied that every plant in the garden was vibrating happily with positive energy, she said, “Thank you for contributing to our household and our bodies. I honour your offerings.”

With a small bow, Sparrow moved forward and began to harvest, humming a soothing tune under her breath.

Kimble, her longest-standing housemate appeared on the back step of their dilapidated home. It was six am and already he smelled of weed. She greeted him merrily. “Morning!”

“Hey, Sparrow.” He rubbed at his shadowed eyes, then tucked his hands into the pockets of his worn fisherman pants. “Meg is on the warpath.”

“What’s up her arse this time?” She reached between the prickly leaves and snapped another zucchini off at the stem.

Kimble sat on the outdoor couch. It wasn’t outdoor furniture, just a ratty couch that used to live in their lounge room until the smell grew so bad, they threw it outside. He sighed deeply. “She’ll tell you, I’m sure.”

“Sparrow! Sparrow, we have a problem!” A screechy voice echoed through the house.

Sparrow steadied herself, imagining a perfect cloak of white light around her, protecting herself from negative energy. “Out here, Megs. What’s happening?”

Meg emerged from the house, slamming the broken screen door on its hinges. The pretty girl waved a white piece of paper, which stood out like a pale banner against her black clothing and dark, bookish hair. “This! This is happening, Sparrow, and much as you might like to pretend the outside world doesn’t exist, it freaking does, and ignoring shit until it explodes in your face is idiocy!”

She thrust the sheet at Sparrow. Wiping her dirt-encrusted fingers on her long skirt, Sparrow took it and read out-loud. “To the tenants, something-something, owner inspection, potential for sale, something…” She looked at Meg and shrugged. “So?”

“So? So!” She inflated like an over-filled water balloon. “Sparrow, look around! You guys have let this place go to shit! You’ve ripped up the garden to plant a goddamn farm, there’s five cats living in our kitchen, the whole place smells of pot and feet, my room has a hole in the wall from our last psycho housemate, Utara’s ripped up the carpet in the lounge so she can ‘feel closer to the earth’, or whatever that means, people come and go – I don’t even know who the guy living in the back bedroom is, there’s graffiti covering the whole front hall...” Arms akimbo, she glared at Sparrow. “I can keep going.”

“Please, don’t.” Sparrow passed her back the letter and moved to the snow pea vine, where she began to pluck the sweet green pods off one by one.

“I’m on the freaking lease, you guys! And unlike you hippy losers, I have a real life waiting for me back in Melbourne, one which will require me to have good rental references to find a place to live. How do you think it looks for me if we get evicted for trashing this place? What owner is going to look at this shit-box and not want to immediately sell! Where are we going to go then?”

Sparrow smiled inwardly at poor Meg, stuck between two worlds. Meg had moved out to the beachside town of Bateman’s Bay three months before, a blogger from the city with a grand idea about writing a brilliant series on giving up everything material for a year, then turning her writing into a best-selling book.

Unfortunately, she’d never fully embraced the bohemian ways of her housemates, choosing to study them rather than dive in. It made sense; Meg still had something left to lose. The rest of them didn’t have that problem.

“Megs, try not to worry about the Haven,” Sparrow told her, searching for the biggest pumpkin on the sprawling vines along the fence line. “It’ll be fine.”

Meg brought her taunt fingertips to her temple, then flicked them towards Sparrow derisively. Spinning, she rounded on Kimble. “Do you hear this? ‘It’ll be fine.’ Based on what? What does it take to get a reaction from her?”

Kimble shrugged, mellow and melding into the couch. “You know Sparrow’s philosophy.”

In case she’d forgotten, Sparrow spoke up, “’Look at the birds of the air: they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet our heavenly Father feeds them.’”

“You’re not an actual freaking sparrow, you know that, right?” Meg’s pale face was scrunched and incredulous. “You’re not even a Christian!”

“I believe in God,” Sparrow replied calmly, dusting off her hands and layering the vegetables she’d picked in a large basket. “Something always takes care of things for us.”

“Look around, Sparrow! There’s no god taking care of us here! The power has been cut off twice since I moved in, we never pay the rent on time, we can’t afford any bathroom products, everybody is wearing thrift-shop clothes, and not in a way that would make Macklemore proud!” She gestured around wildly at the house and their general state. “Do any of you think about, I don’t know, getting actual jobs? Re-joining society?”

“Society is over-rated,” Sparrow said. “I’m going to the beach markets to sell this lot; I’ll see you guys later.”

Leaving Meg to bluster uselessly at Kimble, Sparrow strapped the basket of produce to her rickety bicycle and pushed off along the path at the side of their house.

Meg’s words had left her feeling analytical; Sparrow began to log details about her home as she skirted around to the front of the property. Sure, their house was about aesthetically appealing as an infected bug bite, with its ugly yellow bricks and tiny windows, but the blocky two-storey building was framed by sprawling gum trees which gave it a sheltered feeling. The huge yard at the back was a flourishing organic vegetable garden, and inside, they gave refuge to anyone who needed it. Their home had good vibes; Meg just couldn’t see it yet.

Sparrow cycled away down the road; theirs was the last house at the end of a dilapidated street, but from the backyard, there was an overgrown trail that led directly to the beach. They were a secret pocket away from the world, the perfect place to hide, recover, withdraw – hence why the house was known by its inhabitants as the ‘Haven’.

But it was Saturday, which meant Sparrow had to leave the sanctuary of home and join the world again briefly. The farmer’s markets ran twice a week and the few dollars the vegie crop brought in helped to pay rent. They all shared the market duty, and today was her turn. Tilting her face to the warm sun, she pushed down on the pedals and headed for town.

Bateman’s Bay was a small community, where a wide river met the ocean. Being only a few hour’s drive from Canberra, the nation’s capital, meant that many of the luxury water-front homes were owned by wealthy politicians, who escaped to their beach houses on the weekends. Her best customers were their wives; bored, perfect-looking women with too much money who adored the eclectic variety of the markets.

Pulling up onto the boardwalk by the delta, Sparrow had to navigate the bike around the scattered stalls, with their brightly coloured marquees and lovingly crafted goods, selling every from hand-sewn clothing to scented candles to edible delights.

“Hey, Sparrow!” Vinnie, the organic baker who shared his stand with them greeted her jovially. “How’s life at the commune?”

“Hi, Vinnie. Life is good!”

Quickly, she spread her wares around the side of the table Vinnie kept clear for them. She pulled out the rolled canvas sign from her basket and hung it above her head while she sang softly.

As the sun rolled higher through the sky, happy holiday makers poured through the market, exploring the stalls. Sparrow chatted easily with the people who stopped at her table, giving compliments and sharing jokes.

By midday, most of the food was sold and she stretched her arms overhead, feeling blessed; the cash she’d made should appease Meg for a few days. Closing her eyes, she thought, if only she could see that the universe always provides what we need at the exact moment we need it.

“Good Vibes Vegies.” A deep male voice read the words on her sign out loud.

She opened her eyes to see an urbane man about her age. Sparrow immediately pegged him as a politician, trying to relax on his weekend in his own awkward way. He wore bone-coloured cargo shorts, but his legs were white, as if they rarely saw the sun, and underneath his white linen shirt, his gym-sculpted chest showed hours of time spent on repetitions with no thought to balance.

Above the collar, he was clean-shaven, with his short hair trimmed in an expensive style cut. He removed his Oakley sunglasses, which would have cost more than a month’s worth of rent for the house she lived in. He was corporate and serious and clearly wealthy, and represented everything Sparrow didn’t believe in.

Still, there was something about his face, so pinched and worn for his age, that tugged at her heart. She knew that look, the haunted gaze of someone stuck in a rat-race that controlled their every waking thought and invaded their dreams.

She’d made a pact with herself years before to be as warm and open to the universe as possible, but a special stir of compassion spilled from her as she engaged with him and answered, “That’s us. Every plant in our organic garden get a daily dose of positive energies, either from singing or affirmations, which we believe infuses our produce with good vibrations.”

His silver-blue eyes narrowed in disbelief, as if she’d just suggested the earth was flat. “You’re aware that plants don’t have ears, right?”

Sparrow noted his disdain, but also saw beyond his façade, the one he’d build around him to keep his world in order, and underneath, she sensed he wanted to believe. “You’re right,” she said, lifting up a ripe avocado and weighing in her hand. “But go deep enough, and all matter is made up of vibration, energy. Scientific studies categorically show plants grow better when they are exposed to classical music and positive words.”

Moving around the table, she extended her arm and held the heavy fruit towards him. “Tell you what; buy a loaf of Vinnie’s sourdough bread, and top it with this avocado, and if you don’t feel instantly more attune with the universe, or at least a little happier, come back and see me.”

Sparrow watched him absorb her appearance, and she tried to see herself through the eyes of a mainstream stranger. Her henna-dyed hair glowed a rich copper as it flowed loosely around her shoulders, which were bare except for the thin straps of an ocean-blue tank top. She was braless – underwear was expensive – and on her lower half, she wore a wrap skirt created from dozens of patches of cloth in bright, contrasting colours. She must have appeared as odd to him as a mountain man or a gypsy queen.

Still, something in his face seemed to lighten as he brought his fingers up to join hers around the smooth skin of the avocado. “Well, with an offer like that, how can I say no?”

“I like to say yes to as much as possible,” Sparrow said, grinning as she walked to Vinnie’s side of the stall and grabbed a solid loaf wrapped in brown paper. “You’ll never know where your life will take you if you say yes more often than you say no. That’s five dollars for the bread; the avo is on the house.”

Her new friend’s expression was torn between enraptured and total confusion as he dug for his wallet. “I’m Thomas.”

“I’m Sparrow.” She took his money and dropped it in Vinnie’s cash tin. “It was nice chatting with you, Thomas.”

As she padded back around the table, Sparrow expected him to move on. Instead, he was still standing there, like a forlorn boy. Occasionally, she’d get flashes into people’s lives; not anything psychic, just a clear insight about who others were and where they were at in their journey. At that moment, she had an overwhelming sense of clarity about the man in front of her, and it compelled her to say, “You’re lonely, aren’t you, Thomas?”

“What?” He blinked, his dark brows lowering like boom gates. “I’m sorry?”

“You’re here in town alone. I’m going to guess that your job is busy and important and you don’t have time for things like relationships or friends.” Empathy for his isolation rushed out of her. “You’re lonely.”

He blustered, puffing up as he waved his arms defensively. “No, I’m not. God, come to the markets to buy… something, and all of a sudden, you’re getting analysed by a wanna-be medium.”

Sparrow let his reaction roll off her. “What did you come to the markets for, Thomas?”

“What?”

“What did you need? What were you going to buy?”

“Uh… I was looking for…”

She watched his eyes darting around, trying to source an easy answer. Sparrow put him out of his misery. “You didn’t need anything. You came here to kill time, because it’s a Saturday and you can’t work, so you’re bored. When you’re at home, you probably work out on the weekends, but there’s no gym here, and no movie theatre, and you’re stuck in town alone, so you came here looking for something to do.”

His stony face told her she was right. She raised her hand and leaned across the table, wanting to connect with him. “It’s okay, I’m not judging, I was just going to say-”

“Whatever. You’re wrong, just so you know.” His chin jutted out as he tried to rally. “I’m not alone, and I came here to buy earrings for my girlfriend, so that’s what I’m gonna do. Goodbye.”

“’Bye.” Sparrow watched him go, a solitary figure among a crowd of couples and friends and families.

Half-an hour later, she sold her last tomato and it was time to go. She bid farewell to Vinnie.

“See ya, Sparrow! Hey, take some of this lot home with you, it’ll just go to waste.” He loaded her basket with olive loaves and rosemary rolls and flat Turkish bread.

She kissed his cheek. “You’re wonderful, thanks, Vinnie.”

“Oi! Sparrow!” The old guy across the way hailed me. “Do you want some cheese? I’ve got all these tubs of feta I haven’t sold.”

Marion from the Batehaven Knitting Association stall waved her down as she wheeled her bike back towards the road. “Sparrow, dear, I’ve got this jumper here - Eunice from our Tuesday group made it, but the poor dear is colour-blind, and no one is ever going to pay money for this. Would you like it?”

The woollen cable knit was a lime green so lurid, it hurt a little to look at. Sparrow loved it on sight. “Thanks so much, Marion! Tell Eunice it’s found a good home.”

By the time she reached the exit, she had six broken cakes of organic soap and an uneaten sample tray of smoked salmon added to her collection. I can’t wait to ride home and show Meg my bounty. The other girl always scoffed at the way the marketeers showered Sparrow with freebies, calling it charity. Sparrow disagreed; it was simply a loving universe providing for her and her ragtag family.

She wheeled along the beachfront, enjoying the way the salty air lifted her tangled hair around her like a living creature. Just as she was about to saddle up and head for home, she saw him.

Thomas sat on a low beach fence, a round wooden log. His fancy boater shoes kicked listlessly at the sand in front of him, but as he heard the clicking of her wheels, he looked up. “You!”

“Me. Hi, Thomas.”

He jumped up and approached, a penitent look on his features. “I was hoping you’d come this way. Sparrow, I owe you an apology. You were right; I am alone. I don’t know why I got so pissed off. I’m just not used to being called out, I guess.”

I can just picture it; at his workplace, people probably called him ‘sir’ and brought him coffee without being asked. “I bet it’s especially weird being called out by hippy girls who sing to their vegies and don’t wear shoes.” Sparrow grinned, understanding his angst.

“Right!” He laughed, breaking the tension. “I’m normally the guy who’s two steps ahead of everybody. You caught me by surprise. I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted.”

“Listen, can I take you to lunch? Make it up to you for being a colossal douche?” His pale eyes were open, his vulnerability showing through.

She tilted her head. “I’ll do you one better; you can come home to my place and eat with us.”

“Are you sure?” His excitement was building, but he held back, tied by societal norms. “I wouldn’t be interfering with your routine?”

Sparrow giggled, pushing forward with her bike and gesturing for him to follow. “Thomas, if you’re going to hang out with me, the first thing you should know is that routine isn’t exactly a priority at the Haven.”

These two women are so opposite, and yet I'm enjoying writing both equally! If you're enjoying the reading, let me know with a vote and some comment love :) xxoo Kate