toast for tea

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 ...