Archives: Family

For the reading list

A visit to the local secondhand bookstore over the holidays wasn’t enough (bagging Malouf, Lessing, Armanno, Lewycka, Modjeska, Murakami, Astley); we fell into the Lifeline Bookfest on the weekend.

Some goodies

Some goodies

I think we came home with about 100 books. The joy was in stumbling into titles that have always been on the “to-read” list: Silent Spring. Cry, The Beloved Country. Slaughterhouse 5. Rabbit, Run. Tender is the Night. My Brother Jack. Gathering some more of latest lit-obsession, Doris Lessing. And Atwood, Steinbeck, Proulx, Scott Fitzgerald, Frame, Waugh, Somerset Maugham, Irving. Replacing my lost copy of Bonjour Tristesse.

Now, for some time to read, perhaps?

Road trip to Fraser Island

In the middle of this wet, wet, day, when I was meant to be writing, I finally got around to downloading some pics from my phone.

 

Here are a couple from a quick road trip we took to Fraser Island at the end of last year. They’re a mix of Hipstamatic, Instagram, and plain old iPhone.

Sunshine

Sincerely I promise this will not morph into a mummyblog. Eeek.

But there’s a time to recognise unexpected gifts that my kids give me, and nod at the pile of things I am thankful for. Number one, or close to it, is the current moment. The Now. Man, I’ve practiced yoga since 1996, and didn’t come anywhere near understanding how to live wholly in a moment until I met my sons.

With them, I cheat the march of time. Young kids give you a ‘now’. Hang out, and seconds hover somewhere near the top of the playground swings, if you let them.

The other morning was one of those moments that you stop, live in, and try to absorb so you can keep every aspect alive.

A six-year-old home with the sniffles and his dad, deliberately late for work, playing backgammon.

From the north, late-autumn morning sun drenching the back deck.

Sunlight halo around a little head; sunlight shining behind a big boofy bloke head, and moustache, and stubble. The sun polishes the flakes of white paint peeling from a wicker chair, makes precious the jaded.

Our stingless bees — they’re tropical, and don’t get out of bed for less than 16 degrees Celsius —  just waking up, lethargic, stretching black legs in the sun.

The deck, cuddled by tropical birch trees: quarter-leaved, occasional flaps of bronze and gold dropping from the twigs beside us.

Steam in a teacup.

Ugh boots on a sunny daybed.

Two sets of giggles, and time stopped.

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