Stars

Today has been about contemplation. As I sat quietly under a completely cloudy night sky I looked up. The clouds had parted in an almost perfect circle revealing exactly two stars. The pointers looked down at me as I gazed up at them. Alpha Centauri shining a little brighter than her partner Beta.

I had a chat with them…as you do. For they perfectly represented my pondering. One a little more showy than the other. Each pointing the way for the other depending on the direction you looked. Both stunningly bright.

The wind picked up and the clouds began to move. From earth the stars themselves looked like they were flying. A tiny shooting star passed behind them both. Then they began to be dimmed by the cloud as one, then the other disappeared from my sight. But they hadn’t gone. Their light still shone just as brightly I simply couldn’t see them anymore. They continued to twinkle in another place.

That is how I think of you both today…shining on just out of our reach.

Advertisements

A bat a cat and a rabbit

The rabbit leapt and went straight for her neck. Meredith yelled “You’re supposed to be a vegetarian!” Meredith flung blankets off sweaty and with a racing heart. “What was that?” She spoke to no one in particular because there was no one. He had gone.

Every morning for the first week was a different version of sameness. The rabbit never reappeared but she had wrangled with a bat, been late for a flight and gone to school with no undies on. “Freud would have a ball with this lot.” She muttered to a house plant. Everyone needs a sounding board . Bunnings had supplied hers.

As the full circle of a new Monday approached she decided cleansing was in order. Usually she hated cleaning but shiny windows now made her smile. The bed was stripped and adorned in the floral cover he hated. She sorted paperwork that had been procrastinating in a pile. Incense smoke danced in the breeze of an open window.

The first round of snoozing her alarm the next day came with  a realisation. Calm. She squinted into the dark hoping for a memory of the dream that hadn’t rocked her. There was a taxi…or an Uber. She had heaved their tatty suitcase into boot and slammed it with a satisfying thud. His protesting voice came from behind her in the body of the guy from the post office. A tail grew from the base of his spine and dipped between his legs as he slumped into the Ubers back seat. She turned and walked. A bat, cat and rabbit stood clapping their paws. Her waking self smiled with the memory of her dreaming self. She was ok. And he was gone.

Write

I love to write. It’s cathartic and expressive. For me it’s necessary. Yet I often get stuck. I puddle about not knowing what I “should” write. I promised myself this year that I would just do it. Five minutes a day was my realistic goal. I was going great guns…until I wasn’t.

The “additional needs parents” club is an exclusive bunch. Shared experience binds us. One thing many of us share is superstition. When my child’s neuro dares to ask how her seizures are going I whisper and bemoan a modern hospital with no wood to touch. (He kindly offers his head…which I truly hope is not made of wood!). I digress. I was doing it…my 5 minutes a day. Until.

I was writing about the girl. The topic was difficult. Following  a light bulb moment while trying to declutter, I was expressing the challenge of letting go of the stuff of a medically fragile child when it may be needed to keep memories…or for a memorial. Tough stuff. Then my phone rang. Her carer. “I think she’s had a seizure.” *#$%! It had been ages. On my race home my desire to write took a huge knock. (She’s fine by the way)

Actually the desire didn’t diminish so much as the anxiety and fear associated with writing wrapped my aspiration in a sticky web of what ifs and this-is-what-you-get-for-doing-something-for-yourself. From meditations to Facebook quizzes the answer keeps jumping at me. You need to write. “Should I go back to work?” Write. “Express your creativity.” Write.  “How can I help others and create awareness?” Write. I am disappointed to have broken my promise to myself. In trying to find motivation via Catherine Deveny I came across THE quote. “Commit. Find time. Or just find another excuse. The choice is yours.”*  Yep.

When people have said I should write a book I recoil. So many words, and about what? I recently came across a copywriting course which felt like a good fit, until I thought about it too much. But the time is now. So I’m committing again to writing, by writing.

 

 

 

*Use Your Words  Catherine Deveny 2016

 

 

Happy Sunny-versary

My baby has been neglected lately. No not the real one, she is getting plenty of attention. That’s my point. When the care levels of the kid increase (necessarily) my time and headspace for writing decreases. I miss it. To be neglectful even when busy is poor form. To do so on Sunshine’s birthday feels wrong.

Four years ago I took and deep breath and published my first post. It can be confronting putting my words out there for anyone to see but the support of you fine folk out there has spurred me on. Over the last four years 5393 visitors have taken a staggering 8702 views of my blogs. I am proud to say I have made over a century with 105 published posts (and many drafts laying idle…oops).

Happy 4th Sunny-versary little Sunshine in Puddles. May the second half of this year bring you more thoughts and musings…I can only try.

Zinging

You should make something. You should bring something into the world that wasn’t in the world before. It doesn’t matter what it is. It doesn’t matter if it’s a table or a film or gardening-everyone should create. You should do something, then sit back and say, ‘I did that.’ ” Ricky Gervais

This quote sang to me… Fat Mum Slim has a way of choosing and writing words that resonate. Often her posts encompass the joy and challenges of parenthood in a way that make me yell “what she said” at my screen. She may not be in the “special needs” club but I still feel she gets it. Whether you have a child who has a diagnosis or is painfully shy or has allergies or is a red head {{yes I can say it…I love a red headed monkey}} parenting can be a tough gig. Yes, I am a parent by choice. I am a carer because…life.

I think of the “caring” part of my role as a job. A full-time-unrelenting-but-rewarding job. There is always something to do. But that’s the point it’s all doing and no creating. I, like so many others, am always busy with important but repetitive tasks. There is a lot of thinking  and much feeling the pressure to not forget that feed/medication/appointment or whatever it may be…but not a lot to expand and develop the old brain. And certainly very little opportunity to sit back and admire a creation. Unless you count the kids themselves! Washing keeps getting dirty, continence requirements need to be met, phone calls made and emails sent, and driving, driving…I’m always driving. So, without actually making a resolution, this year I plan to mix it up.

I hope to find enough time and head space to write…and take photos…and do the odd bit of sewing. My goal has begun well {there may be a little sarcasm in that}. I am back in the swing of the Photo a Day challenge…if not a bit behind and publishing weekly. I started to sew a lovely kimino cardy just for me…yes, started. The writing though. This very draft has sat, partly written for a few weeks now. So I am fully immersed in the irony of my blog…and my goal.

But I shall push on because there is something about the creative process that I need. Maybe we all do.  The possibility of new brain synapses zinging and left and right side creating harmonies is worth my time. Time just for me off task and smiling.  I AM about to press the old “publish” button so that’s a win!

Getting the writing written

So to be a writer you need to write, right? Right. I haven’t been. There has not been much in the way of time…or head space. So I shall endeavour to improve.  Writing to Inspire offers daily prompts with which to flex ones creative muscle. Here is todays efforts. The prompt was….”Three words to include in a story: answer machine, operator, memory.”

 

 

The red light blinked. Tiny but menacing. He stood and began to walk toward it. Then slowed and veered into the kitchen. But she was here too. He recognised her in the neatly labelled jars of flour, sugar and spices. He smelt her in the feint waft of beef dripping as he opened the cold oven. The memory of her was imbedded in the kitchen within its floral walls and wispy curtains. He sighed imagining her warmth. Striding with renewed courage he crossed the lounge room threshold but stopped short of the doily covered table. His breathing fell into rhythm with the blink. Each breath as short and shallow as he felt. She had marvelled when he helped her unpack this whizz bang device. “I remember when telephones were all run by an operator at the exchange. This is so fancy.” With her voice in his head he pressed the answer machine button. “Hello loves. I can’t answer your call at the moment. Please leave me a message.” Beeeep… He sat and let the tears fall.