Tea Tree Inspired by Nature


I was down at Inverloch (down by the sea) on the weekend with the family and while my boys were building yet another dam, I went exploring in the neighbouring group of tea trees.  I was taken back to my childhood when we used to climb through the tiniest of holes and make cubby houses in the tea trees 

Once inside, there was silence and peace.  The longer I stood still, the more the birds came back as though I was not even there.  I began to feel as though I belonged in there.  All of the wind and rain, the busy noise of the dam building, the talking from my mum and husband had all completely disappeared.  I could not hear a thing other than nature.  I could actually feel my body calm down and relax.  Peace.

On Wednesday, as luck would have it, in my writing group, Emilie ran an exercise for us to chose a single object from the natural world and describe it in as much detail as we could.  Following is what I came up with, I hope you enjoy.  Please note, poetry is not really my thing, I just wrote as I felt, as the emotion and words came, thinking of the tea tree.

Tea tree
Paperbark
Shedding skin
Pungent odour
Spider webs hiding
Tiny spiky leaves,
On frail sticky branches
Crackling in the breeze
Whooshing ghostly noises
Padded under foot
Silent hidden spaces
Nature's cubby houses
Broken branches
Weathered soft limbs
Silky Smooth white sticks
Dark green puddles,
Of pointy little sharp leaves
White petals floating
Hard little nuts,
Of little seeds gathered
Along those frail little sticks
Peel the bark skin back
To find different shades of brown,
Cream, beige and tan
Peel and peel again
Until it is tissue thin
Lean against the trunk
And feel the breeze move
This frail and fragile tree
Sway back and forth
Round and round it moves
Feel the movement of the tree
As you lean on it.

Thank you for reading

How was your morning?


I dreamt of a towel brushing against the rusty old pot, an irritation.  I was annoyed.  I woke irritated again, but not knowing why.  Thirsty, but unable to get to water.  My head was hurting yet again. It was still dark, no energy to get up to deal with it.  The Valium that I took last night didn’t seem to do the job that it was meant to do, to kill this mammoth migraine. 
I lay for what seemed like an eternity, trying to will the pain away, or to will the relief to come to me.  Neither happened, no aid would come my way.  I peeled myself off the pillow gingerly and pushed 2 Panadiene Forte out of the packet, not the best choice, but the closest, and threw them down my throat.  At this rate, I would be stuck in the codeine rebound for even longer.  Another 20 minutes and I could visual the pain so clearly that if I was a surgeon I would just get my knife and cut it out.  I knew that I needed to get the real medication, my Zomig and Voltarin, and my sniff stick, the Vicks Inhaler, but this meant walking out of the bedroom, and to the back room, every step a vibration through the brain.  One vibration a little closer to relief, all of those extra vibrations adding up to heightened pain, to then hopefully lessened pain. 
I moved as gently as I could with my cup to fill it up again, squinting as I walked out due to poor vision, no glasses on, and the glare of the sun beginning to lighten the sky with a pink tinge.  Back in the safety of bed, I pulled out the precious tablets and swallowed, then burrowed back under the doona with sniff stick providing relief in form of distraction to the senses.
The pain of the pillows, the pain of breathing, the irritation of myself.  I knew that eventually this will go, but I must wait it out.  I just have to think of a time past here, past this moment of intense pain, where I cannot bear my husband to brush me with his toes, or for him to pull the doona.  I cannot bear the sound of the children running up the hall, which I knew they would do in about 10 minutes, then, I heard one of them stirring. 
I consciously dropped my jaw to try to relax all of the muscles around my head; let the balls of muscles slow down. 
Why do they have to stomp so loudly?
Why is my pillow so uncomfortable?
Time. 
Wait.
I wanted a coffee.  I knew it will help.  I know that some people say not to, but I know that a coffee does help when it is this bad.  I just needed someone to make it for me.  I just wished I could put up a flag so that they knew when I needed it.
Bang, thump, the next one was up.  I lay as still as church mouse hoping not to be noticed.  He came in and climbed into bed on my husband’s side.  The bed bounced and jiggled.  I stayed still. 
The first one up was now wearing my heels that I had left out the back, clip cloppeting around on the tiles and into our room.  My husband growled at him.  I murmured something, I am not sure what.  I wanted coffee.  I murmured, “Can you please make coffee?”  He was gone.
“What did you say?” My husband.
“I’ve got a stinker.” I replied.  There was an audible sigh.  He has lived with these as long as he has known me.  I guess they are tiring for him.
“What do you need?”
“I’ve taken everything.  I was just asking John if he could put on the coffee.”
“Don’t worry, I’m getting up.”  He threw off the doona, leaving myself and our youngest there.  I nearly had the bed to myself.  A silent bed.  My youngest stroked my head under the doona.  A lovely touch from a small soft hand; a feeling of relief, then he too was gone.  I crashed.
Coffee appeared silently, then English muffin with “Try something different”.  The pain had changed.  Moved from left to right, not as intense, bearable now.  I could communicate now.  I could sit, talk, and even get dressed.
I sat in bed for a little longer listening to the stress that I had put on the family as they pinged off each other.  My pain had become their stress.  We are not islands when we are in families, we all belong to each other.  Whatever happens to one, affects another.  Time to get dressed and help out until they all leave for school and work.

Make it Better...Write on Wednesday Exercise...Corner Store






Write On Wednesdays



I am joining in with Write on Wednesdays and this week is all about editing and offering & accepting constructive criticism, which are both vital parts of the writing process.  Pop over here if you want to join in.


The Write On Wednesday Rules: Get creative with the writing exercises - there isn't a right or wrong. Please do try to visit the other members of Write On Wednesdays and leave a comment of support and constructive criticism. 

Write On Wednesdays Exercise 18 - Look through your previous WoW posts (or select a short writing piece that you would like to work on). Read through your piece carefully and let's attempt to make it better. Look for redundant words, cliches or overused phrases. Chop and change. This is not an exercise in word count, it's not about simply whittling it down. Make it a better piece of writing. Post your original and edited piece. THEN, throw it to the*wolves. Ask for advice from WoWers. With  help you can make your writing shine. ** This article on criticism may help you get your brave on.


I have chosen Corner Store as a my piece to edit as I have only done one WoW post previously (and it was a one liner! Not much to edit!).  Please provide constructive feedback.  Thanks :)

Corner Store


I heard the bell jingle as he come in the door. My spine tingled.  Not that creep.  I didn't want him to see me.  I needed to escape before he saw me here, but that damned bell would give me away.  Where was Luigi?  At least if Luigi was here, I might feel safe enough, but no-one else was in here.  I just needed to try to work out how to get out of here without him noticing.


I refused to look around. I knew that it would be him, but I would not give in. I busied my hands as though it was really difficult to pick up a packet of chips. Not easy when there are only three packets there. Why the hell didn't they have more stock in this god-forsaken shop. 


The floor creaked as he moved from the doorway. My heart beat was now resounding through the entire shop. I could no longer swallow as my heart had somehow crept up into my throat. Great. I was now going to die here. Right here, right now. This dirty creepy old shop. I refused to look around. My fingers were getting colder and my tongue had swollen to the size of a footy oval. I really was about to die. I tried to remember if I had actually signed that Will, or if it was still just filled out in pencil. 


The floor creaked again. My heart did one enormous beat. Was it actually possible for a heart to do this? Beat fast in a throat, then do one enormous beat? Or was this what happen just before people had a sudden heart attack and died? No saliva left now. My feet couldn't move. Where the hell was Luigi? I took very shallow breaths so that my air did not move the space around me. I did not dare to touch anything for fear of making noise. I just stood there. Still. As a statue. 


Another creak. This time it came from upstairs: Luigi. Thank goodness for that. He must have heard the bell jingle. Why did it take him so long? Am I in a time warp? My neck was starting to ache from holding my head up. I felt dizzy. I could feel the presence behind me, creeping around, creaking the old wooden floor boards. I could hear him picking up dusty produce off the shelves and throwing them in a basket. What was he up to? I daren't turn. If I didn't move, I wasn't here. 


I could hear him getting closer. His movement was pushing the air into me like a semi-trailer barrelling down at 100km per hour.  My heart seemed to be creeping into my mouth. What would it do then? Would it actually sit in my mouth? My whole heart, throbbing in my mouth, blood and all pumping out of it? What if I accidentally spat it out on the floor here in this quiet, gentle corner store. My heart for all to see. Bare my heart, on the floor. Beating it's pathetic little irregular beats, budump, burdump, dudump, du, du, dudump, burdump. Luigi would see. He would see. Anyone could see.


I reached out with my freezing cold hand to the chip shelf and missed. I accidentally hit one of the three bags of chips, BBQ, yuk. I felt sick now. I had to move. He was getting too close. Luigi's steps were getting heavier as he came down the narrow dark staircase. I lifted my first foot that was now made of concrete, and then the other, pulled my hat down over my eyes with my whitish-yellow finger, now made of icicles, and tried to creep down the window side of the aisle.

"Celina," Luigi called, as he came out of the bottom of the staircase. I felt him turn towards me. I reached for the door with the bell and as quickly as I could, fled into the sunshine. 

Journaling...through good days and bad

journals = bullshit

I have kept a journal, or a diary as I used to call it when I first started writing, since I was about 8 years old.  I had one of those special little ones that came with a tiny key just for me and this was really important in a big rowdy house.  I was the youngest of 4 kids and we usually had at least one ring-in staying with us as well from Mum & Dad's youth group, or someone who needed a little extra care.  They sometimes stayed a night, sometimes 4 years, sometimes longer.  There was not much space for privacy, so that little key was really important to me and I hid it in my jumper drawer, right at the back where no-one would ever think of looking for it.

When I first started writing, I wasn't really sure what to write, but I was very excited about having a little book of my own that I could write my own little thoughts each day.  The days were already printed out on the pages, I just needed to fill in the detail of my day. The first year was not really very juicy; thoughts like, "Went to Jenny's after school.  Had fun.  Spaghetti for tea."

As the years passed by, and I fell in and out of love with boys, had fights with siblings, got annoyed with people in my house and my parents, I found that my diary was my friend.  Then came the terrible day when my parents were out and my brother and sister found my diary and sat around reading it out loud with one of extended family who were living with us.  The humiliation that I felt.  The depth of my emotion that I had written even at the ripe old age of 11 was too much to bear to be read out loud by anyone else.  It certainly wasn't for anyone else's eyes, it had only meant to be for venting my thoughts, without being judged, and here I was being hung by them.  I am glad still to this day that I had not really put my whole heart into the words by then.

From then on the diary became hidden.  It was not to be found ever again.  I could not bear to go through that again.  As far as I know, it didn't.

I continued to write, however, as I got older, I found that the diaries that had the preset pages with dates didn't work for me.  I didn't always want to write every day and I didn't want to be confined to a set space for that day that I wrote.  I moved to The Journal.

About the same time I guess I got a bit choosy about when I would write.  I began to use my journal as my therapist.  When things were not working properly in my life, I would nut it out in my journal, then it would clarify in my head and I would just get on with things again.  The gaps began to show.   Then I would only write about things once I sorted them out.

Last year I committed to write every day in my journal because we were travelling and every time I travel I have always kept a journal so that I don't forget the people, names, places, smells, and experience of the trip.  I have been home for longer than I was away now, and while I was away, I wrote 4 books of journals, however, since being home, I am still on the same book.  Go figure!  Do I really have nothing to say?

No, there is heaps to say, but, I just haven't bothered to write it down.  Instead I have ruminated about it (a slight tick of being a woman) and tied myself in knots and pushed myself down into a deep dark tunnel.  I have waited for each little hump to smooth itself out and then I write about it, or I write crazy angry words, there is nothing in between.  Last year I think I really helped myself by continually writing my way through life, rather than stewing my way.  I think that if I push myself to write, even if it is just a little, every day in my journal  it will help me and also stop my more recent journal seeming a little swayed!

Do you journal everyday?

Off to camp for a birthday


The list was ticked, 

Item by item

Clothes were folded neatly

Toiletries and medicines laid out to bare

Black texta came out squeaking

With a name to write here and there

Everything placed gently, 

One by one into the bag

A restless evening of anxiety

"What have I forgotten to put in?"

Early waking, excitement, 

Noise, jumping around

Bag zipped, lunch packed, teeth brushed

Nothing to do.

While he is not watching

Birthday wishes are quietly slipped in

Words from all of us

We'll miss you this year

We love you, our oldest boy

We hope you have fun

One little butterscotch 

Slipped into the envelope

This is just for you 

To suck on and remember 

The sweetness of our love

Happy Birthday Frank


The Revenge.. Coconut Jam Slice



This is my response to the writing exercise, writing about an act of crime, revenge or deceit.  I found it really hard to think of one to start, and then suddenly, it just all came out.  So, here it is!

“Ya Mum has a big fat bum”
James held his eyes firm to the book.  If he didn’t move his eyes, he couldn’t hear them.  He really hated these dickheads.  They were at it again. 
He knew the drill. ‘Don’t retaliate, ignore, turn the other cheek, la, la, la,’ but really, this just sucked. 
It was time to do something about it.  It had been going on for years now.  That bloody cackling laughter of that shithead Steve.  Poncy Steve.  Steve the Jock.  Surfy Steve.  Steve, always good at everything, Steve. 
James lived next door to Steve and was exactly 2 hours and 3 minutes younger than Steve, but it you looked at the two of them, you wouldn’t know it.  James was a whole head and shoulder shorter than him.  His legs and arms were like toothpicks. 
Steve’s favourite games over the last 12 years of his life had been to have fun having a laugh at James and seeing if he could make him cry.  It didn’t help that their mums were the best of friends. 
‘Steve, here’s something my mum made.’
James pushed the coconut jam slice over.  It was kind of squashed up in the cling wrap.
‘What’s wrong with it?’ Steve sneered.  His mates, the Klingons, laughed.
‘Nothin’, she just wanted to you ‘ave it.’ James replied. 
James waited to see if he would open it and eat it or pass it over to his right hand man, Pete.  Pete the loyal, always there, silent and strong, ready to carry out Steve’s orders at any time. 
‘Please eat the slice’, James prayed.
Steve looked at James steely and undid the cling wrap, then stuffed the whole thing in his gob.
James’ heart was pounding and he thought he was going to piss himself.  His heart was beating in his throat now.  He thought he might stop breathing.  There was no room for breath to get through.
‘What the hell do ya want, loser?’ then Steve suddenly grabbed his throat and his stomach all at once and collapsed onto the ground.  He was mouthing something, but no words were coming out.  Pete and the other loonies were crowding in around The Big Guy. 
James slipped away with his skinny legs shaking to find another hidey hole in the playground and waited for the siren.

Writing Exercise..Time for Revenge



This is a fun exercise that we did in our writing group on Wednesday and is especially good if you are not normally writing in the crime genre, as it pushes the boundaries.

Think about a character (it could be you) and write about an act of crime, revenge or deceit.

Explore and have fun with it.

If you can't think of anything to start with, write down a list of possibilities, and brainstorm the idea. It is not about solving or resolving everything.

It is an exercise in imagination or possibilities.

Leave a comment with a link to your blog or website if you would like others to read your story and so I can have a trawl through!

Happy imagining!


Meg

Look what I got this morning!


My Coffee!, originally uploaded by megs threads.
Matt is getting good on the coffee! The love is flowing...

Whatever You Love by Louise Doughty Book Review



A gripping and devasting story of tragic grief & pain.  This book had me crying openly on the train.   The rawness that Louise was able to capture of Laura's painful journey through the years, climaxing at the moment of her daughter's accident was deep and heartfelt.  The pain of the the bitter icy cold that Eastley, where it was set, seemed to offer, with the winds that were sharp and cold was a good reflection of what Laura was going through with the sudden and tragic loss of her daughter, Betty.

It was an interesting effect jumping 'before' and 'after' throughout the story, allowing me, the reader, to slowly get a clearer insight into the whole picture through all of the windows of Laura's life and the relationships around her.  Louise leads the reader into the circumstances around the accident slowly, allowing the reader to fully understand the depth of pain that a mother feels at the loss of a child.

Whilst we are seeing it all through Laura's eyes, we gain more & more understanding of the situation and circumstances leading up to it and how each of the characters interrelate with each other and her and the tragic moment.

Louise gives each of the characters great depth.   She explores Laura's ex-husband David and the pain and love that was still there, and his new partner Chloe, and all of her issues that came with her and the relationship of being the new partner as well as their young boy, Harry and her over-controlling mother.  Louise explores what the effect of the tragic circumstances on top of separation has on the younger child, Rees, who comes across as a little neglected, watching his mother going through an incredibly difficult time and needing just a normal life.  Whilst Laura's relationship with the father, Mr A, of the driver of car who killed her daughter seems inappropriate, it does explore the issue of what really is appropriate in grief?  When pushed to the extremity of pain and loss, what does one do, and how does one go on?.

Louise Doughty gives a measured approach to her story by letting out little by little, and recalling detail, which in some circumstances may seem tedious, in this, proved to work wonderfully.  The ending was perhaps a little neat..

A tragic story told in an empathetic way.

Unfortunately I read this just two weeks before an incredibly similar tragic accident in my community (just around the corner) which immediately put me in the Laura's head, probably giving me a greater understanding of what the mother may have been going through (thank you Louise), however, it did send me into the depths of grief and made me cling to my kids with love and tenderness.  A book of pain and grief.

Write on Wednesday...Blank Piece of Paper



A blank piece of paper is merely thoughts in waiting





Write On Wednesdays

I am playing along with Write on Wednesday, and this week, the exercise is "A Great One Liner"



Pop over to Ink Paper Pen for links to other Great One Liners