Ways Forward

A ribbon of ibis’s unfurling high above in grey-blue sky,

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the smell of mint on your fingers from the bunch of flowers and herbs you’ve ‘stolen’ from a garden overhanging the street,

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stopping, inhaling the scent of the day,

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seeing and patting the tiny 14-year-old tortoise shell cat with the squeaky meow owned by the town’s phlebotomist, who you thought was no longer of this world,

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watering the plants, noting their colours, and moods, and seeing the white azalea I bought after my mother died is blooming again,

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the falling of autumnal leaves, a measuring of time,

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books, generally, and shorter form writing (the Substacks I follow are a godsend),

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little world-building. Escaping into that world, fragile new world,

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learning how to switch on drop case in Substack (though I’m not seeing it here), and in Word,

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a grandmother’s cloth hanging on the line, absorbing the sun and wind,

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planting native seeds in the soil of your parents’ grave. Leaving dried river flowers and roses from your garden, and reading your mother’s name on the black marble, a new epitaph to encapsulate her spirit,

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these blue mountain ranges, swathed in mists,

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a sense of contented busy-ness,

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I had had Charlotte, my friend, and owner of Ink Bookshop in Mansfield, put away this box of Marimekko postcards for my husband to pick up for my recent birthday. On the morning of my birthday, I opened up both of the gifts made by local artists (a small painted vase by ceramist Wendy Jagger, or a pair silver leaf earrings from the Blue Ranges Studio) that I had said, before the date, get me either one of these, and the thing I put aside at the bookshop. Which is to say he is lovely, and I am lucky and got both gifts instead of one, but not the cards, which I definitely wanted, as I want to send cards to people all the time, to gift that surprise in the letterbox, and keep in touch in this charming, old-fashioned way. So, on easter Sunday, I went to buy the cards, but Lara in the bookshop couldn’t find them, and so I fetched them from elsewhere in the shop. A few days later, when I was next in the shop, Charlotte presented me with a gift wrapped object that I knew immediately was a box of Marimekko postcards haha! Anyway, all this is to say, if you would like to receive one, send me a DM with your address. Though I must warn you that I have doctor/prescription handwriting,

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I finished Debra Adelaide’s beautiful book of autofictive, When I Am 64, woven fragments about her friendship with the late writer Gabrielle Carey, and the latter’s struggle with depression and its relation to the fate of her father when he was 64. I read Carey’s book In My Father’s House when I was in my 20s and living in Northern New South Wales. It had a big impact on me then and forever afterwards, which added a richness to my reading, but I recommend it highly, whether you are familiar with Carey or Adelaide (Carey also co-wrote the iconic Puberty Blues with Kathy Lette). Five stars: I read it on the bus to and from Melbourne yesterday,

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speaking of Melbourne, I’m back again tomorrow to attend a workshop organised by The Paperback bookshop, A Day of Slow (Looking, Reading, Writing, Being) on Saturday with Anna MacDonald, Antonia Pont and Olivia Meehan. It sounds heavenly. I believe a couple of people cancelled, and that subsequently their spaces are available so, if you’re in Melbourne that day, it’s well worth a look!