toast for tea

(N B: If you didn’t read Part One last week, I suggest you scroll down and do that first if you want to get the most out of Part Two!) Continued from last week… My writer’s brain is brimming with images, descriptions and feelings that have been evoked by the river, and even though I’ve been sitting here on my flat stone for over an hour – pen in hand – journaling everything I’ve seen or heard or thought, all I can think of now is the laptop computer sitting on the table in the shed. My fingers are on fire with story. I almost run back through the paddock, picking my way through the cow pats, missing most and wishing I’d packed gum boots. As I pass the billabong, I see an Eastern Swamphen on the far bank, busily foraging for food. I stop to watch for a minute or so, fascinated by the simpleness of her daily routine. The story in my head is writing itself at breakneck speed and I fumble with the chain on the gate as I try to hold on to details – turns of phrase, opening paragraph, sequen...

‘It’s all downhill – right?’ ‘The map seems to show a slight incline from Myrtleford to Porepunkah,’ says my friend. ‘So it’s downhill from Porepunkah to Myrtleford.’ On this basis, I agree to a bike ride she’s been looking forward to all holiday. ‘You’re sure there are no hills? You know I’m not good with hills.’ It’s the night before, and the conversation takes place just as I reach the cliff-hanger section of a novel I’m reading. One part of my brain is engulfed by the plot while Rhonda unfurls her plan to drive to Myrtleford, where she’ll leave my car, then cycle back to our campsite, just outside Porepunkah; I’ll join her and we’ll cycle back to Myrtleford together and enjoy afternoon tea at the bakery. At the periphery of my concentration, the plan sounds good – but by now, another part of my brain is fully occupied with how I’ll fill in the two and a half to three hours of solitude I’ll have, armed with binoculars, bird book, writing journal and laptop computer, sitting on the v...

I am perched on a smooth stone, the Buckland River rippling past my feet – clear, shining water, slooshing and swishing, gurgling and splashing over rocks that have been rounded by centuries of washing. Small sections of white water break up this shallow, moving mass, filling the air with the sound of turbulent playfulness; I am mesmerised by the patterns formed by the flow of water over the stones. The river smell is sensuous and fresh. Every breath in, a melding with mother earth; every breath out, a setting aside. A butterfly lands lightly on a glistening pebble, to drink, then flits off again. I follow it with my eyes, and watch it do the same again, closer to the bank. For a moment, I become the butterfly and the feeling of lightness and absence of thought is exhilarating. Returning to my self, I have the sudden feeling I am being watched. I see it, further upstream –a giant turtle. It is a gnarled old tree trunk that has fallen in the water, but looks so real, I check with my bin...

Happy Easter everyone. I'm off to enjoy some r'n'r by the Buckland River, living very close to nature - in a tent. Without the assistance of 'the practical one' on this occasion, I'm hoping I remember how to put it up! Easter means something different to us all. And the Easter of now might mean something different to you than the Easters of the past. We are always in a state of becoming - and so are our ideas, views of the world, and beliefs. This can be comforting and reassuring; but it can also be confronting and frightening. Yesterday, I read Michael Leunig's Easter Story: Away in a Chook Shed in the A2 section of Saturday's Age newspaper. I thought it was a very insightful article, presenting a truth in a way only Leunig can. He spoke about the divinity within ourselves - how sometimes we betray, deny, and persecute that part of ourselves - our courageous soul. And he spoke about getting rid of the spiritual possessions we accumulate over the years...

Yesterday, with the house to myself, I was going to write. A glorious day of writing – a bit of tidying up on an earlier chapter of my novel, make a start on chapter sixteen and then do some free writing – not necessarily in that order. And lie in the hammock to read some more of The Curious Incident of the Dog . However, having forgotten to transcribe 'curriculum day' from the school newsletter into my diary, I ended up walking to the shops with Hannah (my thirteen year old) and Milly (our dog), losing a fifty dollar note on the way. The feeling of embarrassment and horror in the bread shop, when I reached into an empty pocket, was acute. Daughter, dog and distraught mother hurriedly retraced our steps home, eyes glued to the footpath, to find nothing but an old shopping list and an empty envelope. So much for a leisurely stroll. And so much for the cappuccino and hot chocolate we were going to enjoy at the local café . Being a firm believer in providence, I only hoped whoever...

Have just seen that my article is up on the Melbourne’s Child website. If you want to read about hi-jinks in church and how to have your feet washed for free, click here . They've called it Of Maundy Thursday, Mirth and Majesty. Postscript Melbourne's Child has taken the article off the web now because it was a seasonal piece. So here it is if you'd like to read it! ‘I’m not washing someone’s smelly feet,’ my daughter exclaims, disgust splashed all over her thirteen-year-old face. ‘And no one’s washing my feet,’ adds my son, tightening his shoelaces in the back seat, ‘what if I have to laugh?’ I keep silent. The thought of washing some stranger’s feet doesn’t appeal to me either. I practically pass out when my son takes his runners off in another room. Conjuring up images of bunions, in-grown toenails, warts and goodness knows what other foul foot conditions I might come across starts to make me feel queasy. It’s Easter, and I’m on holiday with a girlfriend and my two teena...

The gang gangs are back. Three red crests pop in and out of the gum canopy above our washing line, where I stand arranging the clothes we’ve worn over the weekend. I hang the socks in a line, alternating green and white pegs. I know the gang gangs are back without looking up. I can tell by the munching noises above my head –they seem amplified in the windless quiet of the morning – and by the occasional low throaty rasp. They are season markers. Like the grey currawongs who arrived before them, heralding autumn. A finish and a beginning. Verdant giving over to spare. Earth getting ready to die. I choose yellow pegs to contrast with the bright green of Hannah’s netball skirt, trying to iron in the million pleats with my fingers, in an effort to keep it well away from my ironing board. I think about her telling me, as I sat on her bed last night, that she hasn’t played goal attack for weeks now. In my mind’s eye, I see the new girl who has usurped her position. I adjust the zip and smoot...