Concrete and what not to set in it…

... for Knots in the String.

Many messages coming through social media this week have been for the year that was and whilst it’s good to look back, (memories are the bees’ knees), I rather adhere to the idea that worrying about what has happened can cause depression and worrying about what might happen causes anxiety. Therefore, the gentlest place to exist is today, in the moment. The Dalai Lama said:

“Every day, think as you wake up: Today I am fortunate to be alive, I have a precious human life, I am not going to waste it.”

Exactly!

My year that was has known a truly dark moment but we’re still alive, still here and appreciating what nature, family and friendships offer us right now!

Should I be planning for the next year? Making resolutions? Given what I’ve read across social media, apparently.

So if I have anything I want to achieve this year, it’s to find out more about the fabulous folk I’ve met in real life and virtually via Substack. They interest me. You… interest me.

I’d also like to think I could finish writing the next book, but it’s not set in concrete. Maybe finish my Kinsel bag to take to the theatre one evening. But if not, c’est la vie.

Nothing should be set in concrete. If this last year has taught our family one thing, it’s that curve balls come from nowhere when least expected and one has to adjust.

And so we appreciate what we have now.

We have secret parts of the coast that we can enjoy. Our bodies are still moving.

The dog gets up every day and despite swift sight loss, says, ‘Okay, what’s on for today, Mum? Better be something good!’

And that, folks, is my plan. Make sure that my life doesn’t turn into an ageist parody. That it’s meaningful, enjoyable, active. That I use every one of the little grey cells I have left.

And that I can laugh at and with myself.

My Time:

Christmas came and went beginning with an escape.

I pulled on tired shorts, an old Uniqlo T-shirt and vanished to a deserted beach with my husband and the Terrier. The water was clear and the light that shot-silk early morning glow that promises a fine day. As we walked back the way we had come, our footsteps had disappeared, gone – a metaphor for life. What do we really matter in the vast scheme of things that our mark can vanish - just like that?

Boxing Day was spent in a similar way.

Different beach, same isolation, warm water and breathing deep. These are the things that matter. The Terrier managed to find the shells we threw in front of his nose and all three of us loaded back into the ute content with the day.

But now we’ve vacated the coast for a week or so because the Incomers, the locusts, have swept in and altered the village dramatically. After New Year’s Day, they will quieten a little (we hope) and we might return. To my embroidery glasses which I left there by accident. So the dog and I have had Be Kind to Terrier and Prue Days - hair, feet, hands - self care. We feel newly invented…

We’ve cut our lucerne crop on the farm and it must be baled, and then carted by tractor, massive trailer and ute to the barn and shelter. Yes, it requires food so I shall cook. Nothing stops on a farm, there’s a seasonal rhythm to it all, flavoured with cookies, cakes and flasks of tea (please note, Terry Freedman!).

Reading:

Jilly Cooper’s Tackle. Still as fresh as she ever was. Turning out books like this at 86 and claiming she’s forgotten how to write sex. One of her characters, when asked what the fellow she was shagging was like, replied that she didn’t know, she was too busy reading the shagger’s tattoos. You have to laugh! There’s not enough wry irreverence in our lives, it’s been PC-ed away. Cooper puts it back.

Via audio, I’m listening to The Book of Beginnings by Sally Page. It’s been a Sunday Times bestseller and is one of those charming stories filled with people who seem so ordinary but are wonderfully extraordinary. I won’t reveal too much but it is the way Jo’s relationships with such unlikely folk develop that made me think today that I want to know so much more about people I meet than just face value.

And when Rebecca

117. A letterospective ✒️

mentioned in her post about letterwriting on Substack and then referred me to

Do you want a pen pal?

I thought this could be the way to do it!

I’ve also delved into Australian Country Style for December from cover to cover (including delicious ads for this and that) and was saddened to read Robin Ingram’s last offering. Robin has written for Country Style for 35 years but owing to a terminal illness, he is capping the lid on his fountain pen. His style has always been dry and unpretentious – a humorous and perceptive man who has set a very high bar.

I’ve read such marvellous words this last year online, and in print and if I have to name my favourite books:

The Bookbinder of Jericho and The Dictionary of lost Words, both by Pip Williams, Where Blood Runs Cold by Giles Kristian and also by Kristian, Lancelot and Camelot.

Each one of these books is a tour de force of accomplished and absorbing writing. I look forward to more from both authors.

In between times, I’m buying The Keeper of Stories by Sally Page and The Gardening Book by Monty Don.

Watching:

Fenris. Recommended Norwegian thriller.

Archie. Jason Isaacs is little short of brilliant as Cary Grant.

Alone UK Seems to me that the poor UK contestants have confronted more terrifying wildlife in 5 short days than many of the other Alone contestants across the life of all the series. But it is the marauding mental anguish that shortens time in the wilds. How do we ever really cope with truly being alone?

I set out to write such an esoteric post – one filled with big words and worldly observations and rather typically going off-piste, it comes down to concrete! Mind you, not setting stuff in it remains my plan for the coming year.

But if I want to do anything, be anything, it’s to be adaptable, compassionate and a listener. If that’s all that comes my way in the next year, I’ll be content.

Here’s to the world being a safer, happier place.

See you next year!