Skip to main content

Taking Stock

Pip's class exercise, Taking Stock #blogwithpip:

Place for taking stock



Making : an effort

Cooking : new things, and healthier food
Drinking : red wine, on my own, and in company
Reading: blogs, op-eds, and NOT my book club book
Wanting: to exercise more
Looking: more closely at the world around me
Playing: guitar, well, dreaming of...
Deciding: to take more chances
Wishing: I was braver
Enjoying: being on my own at times
Waiting: too long
Liking: the coast
Wondering: how old I am
Loving: sea air
Pondering: what I want to blog for
Considering: more study
Watching: The Voice, with the kids!
Hoping: to sing a song one day soon
Marvelling: at the physicality of youth
Needing: reassurance
Smelling: salt air and seaweed
Wearing: the same clothes, day after day
Following: Twitter
Noticing: kindnesses
Knowing: times change and kids grow up fast
Thinking: I must read that book
Feeling: unfit
Admiring: young people who care
Sorting: some priorities
Buying: next to nothing
Getting: pleasure from kids' independence
Bookmarking: my op-shop finds for later reference
Disliking: the state of the nation
Opening: a new phase of life
Giggling: at nudity and cheekiness
Feeling: resolved
Snacking: on dark chocolate with sea salt-mmmmmm.
Coveting: healthy hair
Wishing: I cared less about what others think
Helping: kids to strengthen friendships
Hearing: live music!




Comments

Popular posts from this blog

The Waiting

Morning walk.  I wake too late to do my nature writing workshop so I decide to get out into nature instead! Head off at about 7 am, sustained on half a cup of hot water with lemon, a banana and a snack KitKat. Make it to the backbeach in time to see the gold coming up from behind the sand dunes, flowering light from the lighthouse. Tiny black and white wren on the rocks, the Plover family just foraging. A heavy gull takes off when I approach. It flies past me, sits and waits, and flies back as it senses I’m no danger. I take photos and slow-mo videos. I can hardly make out the flying birds as they rise into the dark clouds.  I keep stopping to look at things. At one point I lie with my back in the sand on the edge of the dunes. All around the waves continue coming in and the birds call. What would I do without this?  At the lighthouse, Galahs wheel and screech, their pink bellies exposed as they fly above me. A couple fall behind, screeching ‘wait for me, wait f...

The Widening Crack

The little flame in our forty-year-old wall furnace, the one that was supposed to hold tight, hang on and persist, was being extinguished, again and again. The pilot light had become unanchored, blown away and shut down. We were in lockdown, in a Melbourne winter.  We had been bunkered down in our homes on and off over the last two years. We had sat tight as we amassed days upon days of lockdown. At one stage, the summer came. We had mask-free beaches, we had open cinemas and bars.  But then, another Covid gust gutted us in 2021 and shut us back inside. Here we were, like a little pilot flame, buffeted and blown away but still holding out for better days. I would walk past the heater to find that the fan was blowing cold air into the small home. Each time we re-lit the pilot light, it didn’t last long before it was gone. Still, we kept holding onto hope as we sat through the days of rising case numbers and deaths. The gas technician (essential worker; exemption) was on his han...

Not smiling, wanking

The bricks were always cold underneath my bum. Cold and hard. I could feel their sharp edges. In the nights we sat and talked. The smells of sour smoke and saliva on one, body odour on another, and menace on the other. The fluorescent globes hummed from the station platform, and the street lights pooled at the corner. Inside was out of bounds to these boys, so we met on our side stairs. The frosted glass door between us and our home. Outside; offside: the limits to friendships. These were the kids we didn’t trust, the boys from the wrong side of the tracks. Where were their parents? Absent fathers, unsighted mothers, these boys roamed the streets and set me on edge. The attraction to the dirt, to the smell of one’s mouth...I can still feel it now. It was an urge, but not an infatuation.  The hearts of these boys remained hidden. It was as if they walked in costumes, played their parts, and kept their distance. We weren’t allowed to welcome them in. One day, my m...