toast for tea

I'm a maelstrom magnet. Okay, maybe not maelstrom . Try disaster diva. Me and Murphy's law? All year I have been looking out of my kitchen window at my neglected garden. During my crazy year of busy-ness, there was no time for weeding, mulching, pruning or planting. The garden was relegated to the bottom of the priority list. (This, in part, may have had something to do with my lack of a green thumb and having a dodgy back.) After walks around the neighbourhood with the dog, I would return feeling extremely envious of anyone with a weed-free, mulched, well-tended garden, and the view from my kitchen window became harder and harder to bear. So, when our next-door neighbour asked our household to take part in a sustainability study as part of a course she was doing at Swinburne University, and we had to show that we were going to follow through on our good intentions to save water, I decided to re-mulch the back garden. The timing of this decision was unfortunate. It was during t

My writing idol. Loved this.

This week I had to prepare a reflection on an aspect of spirituality to deliver to a gathering of folk at my local church community. I chose to speak on the examen. Even if you’re an atheist, doing the examen is a really handy way to get in touch with your feelings and to help you figure out what’s going on in your subconscious. It goes hand-in-hand with dream interpretation. I based my talk on a little book called Sleeping with Bread: Holding what gives you life by Dennis Linn, Sheila Fabricant Linn and Matthew Linn. Thought my blog readers might be interested, too. Stop for a moment and think about two questions: For what are you most grateful? And for what are you least grateful? They’re simple questions, but they are two of the most profound questions you can ask yourself. And two of the most helpful. Here’s why. These questions constitute what is called the examen: a technique that Ignatius of Loyola used in his Spiritual Exercises 500 or so years ago. Jesuits were required to do

I don’t feel like going home to an empty house after class today; I have a hankering to be with people. It’s been a trying week and I feel unsettled, needy. Aside from a bit guilty about breaking my promise to the dog. I imagine her sitting by the front window, watching out for me, one eye on her lead. It’s an image too uncomfortable to sustain, so I quell it and head for the shops. In my state, I know the shopping centre is a dangerous place. I could well end up expanding my wardrobe with clothes I don’t need. No, make that shoes. The food court seems a safe bet, so I buy a roasted vegetable focaccia and a strong coffee, then situate myself at a table that looks across at the main shopping thoroughfare. From here I can watch other people shop. A young girl in black stockings and an extremely short black skirt half tiptoes, half shuffles past, a laptop slung over her shoulder. Walking must be a feat for her, the heels on her sling-back shoes so high, her feet are practically vertical.

When my father takes a cutting into his magic gardener hands, roots and buds burst out of each end before he’s had a chance to scratch his ear. When he plants it in his garden and pushes the dirt down around it with his green thumb, he has to step back quickly, in case he’s knocked sideways by a flourishing branch. Sometimes he gives me one of his cultivated cuttings. I plant it, tend it lovingly, protect it from marauding chook beaks and pilfering possums. But I’ve seen it happen, it starts to wilt before I’ve even turned my back to make the call to tell him it’s in the ground. It’s usually dead within the week. Which of course is an exaggeration. Make that a couple of days. Unlike my father, my thumb is not green. I have his nose, his hair, his eyes, his liking for cockles in brown vinegar and pepper, but not his green thumb. My favourite spring fragrance is that of the humble freesia. On my walk with the dog this morning my olfactory receptors were wooed by the scent of freesia. I w

It is impossible to concentrate. When you know your child is on the operating table, anaesthetised, tube down her throat, and soon to have seven teeth hacked and yanked from her mouth, how can you? You look at your watch again. Wonder which tooth he’s up to, the oral surgeon who casually told you in his rooms about the nerve that runs close to the extraction site, the one that controls taste and sensation in the lips. You feel guilty that you didn’t take her to the hospital yourself. Even though her father was happy to take time off and she was happy either way. You time-travel to two hours ago and watch them drive off, waving. Feel the gut-wrench of staying behind. Everything is ready for when they return. You’ve filled the fridge with mush. You’ve googled mushroom soup recipes and watched a how-to video. You’ve diced the ingredients and cooked dinner for yourself and the hollow legged man-child. You’ve got the ice pack cooling in the freezer. This could be a time when you could catch

I stayed in bed until ten o’clock today. On a Wednesday! The house quiet, dog curled up at my feet, good book, sun shining in through the window (which via the trees makes an interesting PowerPoint presentation of abstract art on my wall), permission granted to not turn up for work. Bliss. Almost...Isn’t there always a catch? In this case it’s a throat that’s been filed with an emery board, cough to rival my chain-smoking Aunt Agatha’s and nose that drips with more ferocity than the tap in the bath – which of course we keep a bucket under. Der! Now I sit in the sun, in my pjs on the back deck. Drugged and nasal sprayed, it’s almost enjoyable. I close my eyes and feel the warmth on my lids, listen. The wind in the gum trees sounds like a million children shaking bits of tinsel. A yappy dog in some far away neighbour’s yard barks spasmodically at some phantom intruder. (Or maybe a real one!) The Belgrave train trundles along through Heatherdale and Mitcham stations and I can hear the bel

My life is so obscenely busy I can only think in lists. This list inspired by the aroma of pancakes wafting down the stairs as I emerged from the bathroom this morning. Teenager in the kitchen can be a good thing. A remembering of childhood: · Watching television in the lounge room while consuming a plateful of steaming hot lemon and sugar pikelets Mum cooked for supper. Keeping a tally of how many we’d all consumed. Results staggering. · Kevin Dennis New Faces. Judging panel – Mum, Dad, me. · Midday Sunday. World Championship Wrestling. Killer Kowalski, Mario Milano, Brute Bernard. (Why did I watch this? Why can I remember a bunch of fat guys’ names when I can’t remember my grade six teacher?) · Glued to the screen. Do not disturb. The Monkees. Peter Tork. (I went to their concert and screamed myself silly. Then endured off-the-scale embarrassment when Dad came to pick me up and I couldn’t talk. Before the show I gave a parcel to one of the tech crew. A week later I saw a photo taken

I can’t get used to looking out at the rabbit’s hutch and seeing it empty. And as for peeling the carrots and topping and tailing the beans – I never thought such a mundane task could bring on such a wash of sadness. Several days ago, Teddy, our rabbit, remained huddled up in his straw when I went out to feed him and give him a pat. This was unusual. Usually he'd hop into the outer section of his hutch eager for food. I picked him up and put him on the grass, but he couldn’t support himself and kept falling over. (He keeps falling over in my mind. I see his skinny little legs kicking out to the side, flailing as he tries to right himself and hop away. It’s a harrowing image.) After a while, however, he seemed to recover, and I was relieved when he wolfed down his carrots and beans in true-to-form Teddy style. But I had a feeling when I took him to the vet later that day he wouldn’t be coming home. The vet suggested there was neurological damage and that the loss of function was pr

I love the swirl of thoughts that float in and out of my head when I’m on the verge of sleep, when plans for tomorrow meld into abstract images of rollercoaster carriages that hurtle along tracks in a honey sea of green and purple and orange, then emerge as a line of four-winged pelicans, souring over white-capped mountains that gyrate and continually change shape; I love the sensation of sliding down a wall of words, none of them true or false or right or wrong, slipping through snippets of conversation overheard on the train to work, on a bus to Mongolia, in the mouth of a giant ant as it speaks into a microphone to a crowd of nude business men in bowler hats; I love the way my shopping list of unfinished tasks unfurls into a list of street names, then to a roadmap that becomes three-dimensional and I am sailing a boat through narrow canals, through foreign lands and over vast oceans of broiling waters that are home to saucepan-wielding pirates and old men; I love the sounds in my he

I want: to plant the freesia bulbs that have been in a packet by the back door for over a year read The Book Thief by Markus Zusak and all the other books underneath it on the pile by my bed write to my sponsor child and send her a photo of our family make moussaka invite my neighbours to dinner write a song with a blues feel drive to the beach on a week day and have a midweek day off spend all day at the State Library and come home with a short story and poem sew some braid onto the bottom of my khaki cords that are too short have a massive blog read catch-up do pilates go swimming pop in on my Dad for a surprise visit and take him out for morning tea go for a bike ride in Warburton brush the cat and the dog and the rabbit work up a song with my teenagers that we can perform somewhere phone about five friends who are in danger of forgetting who I am and arrange to meet for coffee read right through my Nortons Poetry Anthology meditate do some stream-of-consciousness writing everyday

Okay, now the holiday’s over it’s back to business. What? Back to business? How can you be so callous, you horrible slave-driving fun-spoiling inner voice? Can’t I spend at least the next year daydreaming and re-living holiday moments? Can’t I wander around the photo album in my head and get lost in Paris nights and Mallorcan blue sky? No? Alright. Business then. Everyday life. Good news - my poem Rosella was accepted by Poetrix which will be out in early June! It’s been a while since I reported in on THE BOOK. I’ve been doing Advanced Novel at Tafe this year with plenty of workshopping and some mentoring from Catherine Bateson. I’ve been slashing and tightening the text and writing poems for the start of each chapter. At the moment my book – which I thought was nearly finished – feels like a sad pile of unravelled knitting. For a while it sat on the floor in the corner, while I despaired about how to pick up all the stitches, but I’m now in the process of knitting it back up, row

What do you think? Give it a go? Yes - we did have a ride on a double decker. Of course! After doing our apprenticeship on the Metro, the London underground was a cinch! My Auntie Doreen - Hannah's great Aunt! - loves teddies. Guess how long she's had this one! This bear had us in stitches. It does an hysterical foot-tapping rendition of Raindrops Keep Falling on my Head. An unusual and poignant reminder of what the women did. Liz - my cousin, well - second cousin actually - and Hannah. So is she Hannah's third cousin? Does anybody know how this family stuff works? Looks like some got the punch line and some didn't. Come on Uncle Haydn, where's that Welsh sense of humour? The river Cothi in Wales where my uncle catches salmon - though, sadly, not as many these days. The Black Lion in Abergorlech serves up a pretty hearty Wednesday lunch. Did you know the Welsh have never heard of a 'lemon, lime and bitters'? I ordered one in a pub in Aberaeron and w

I choose Café Le Petit Pont because it is bustling and alive and brimming with people. And I choose it for the view. From my table I can see Notre Dame – albeit through the cigarette smoke that hangs like smog and through which I can just read the ‘Espace non Fumeur’ sign in the blue haze. The atmosphere is electric – constant conversation; waiters flying past with trays on arms; people arriving, shedding their coats; orders shouted to the kitchen; people paying bills and leaving. The footpath is crammed with tables, where people sit elbow to elbow. I opt for warmth and sit inside at a table spread with white cloth and scattered rose petals. It is after work and people have come here to talk, smoke and drink. The talk is loud and animated. The piano player in the corner is working hard to be heard. I sit and observe and wait to be served. As much as I try to look as if I belong, I wonder if I have ‘tourist’ written on my forehead. For a long time I watch waiters invite people to seats,

Last day in Mallorca. On the way to the airport we went via Es Grau. This cafe is way up on the side of a mountain. I don't think I've seen such a spectacular view. Ever! See what I mean? And perfect weather too! Visited the Chateau Versailles today. That's me in the middle of a group of lads from Quebec! Not quite the TGV but fun! Went for a ride all around the magnificent gardens of Versailles Chateau. A sample of inside. Phwar! The Louvre Guess which painting you need a telescope to see? From under the pyramid. Last night in Paris. Can't believe it's over. Sigh.

A room with a view. Everybody has a balcony here. Lucky things! A day out looking at the sights around Mallorca. Everything is coming in to blossom. Couldn´t resist this shot looking up at the palace. Mallorca Cathedral. On the same scale as Notre Dame. Amazing and awe inspiring. At the local supermarket. I think Coles should get in on this. Easter breakfast with Ursula's friends. Loads of fun and great conversation with these people who are world travellers with many a tale to tell. And all avid readers - much discussion about books too! See the coloured hard boiled eggs? We all had one. The tradition is to bash the end of your egg into the end of the person's egg beside you. A bit like pulling Christmas crackers. Ursula has an orange and lemon grove at the foot of her property. I discovered an orange tree that was still laden with fruit. I offered to pick some and make orange juice for breakfast. Ursula said I could if I wanted, but that she wouldn't be drinking any.