History, in the retelling, tends to lose important details and context, substituting a few dramatic embellishments along the way. Take the first Thanksgiving story, for instance. Enshrined in school texts, the tale has been idealised to the point of disbelief. Even as an adolescent, I recall thinking, ‘This just doesn’t stack’. (Don’t get me started on the Bible). But no one wanted to hear my cynical take on the holidays, let alone on life. That’s what writing’s for 😉
If one more person tells me they’re not creative, I’m going to douse them with my acrylics – the quick drying ones that only come off with scrubbing and a bit of alcohol. 🎨
Ancient philosophy is a timeless and infinite teacher … if only we would listen. In fact, in a world filled with chaos and uncertainty, winding back the clock a few millennia might just be the key to finding our footing.
Contentment is more about what’s within. It’s about finding joy in the simple things, like feeling the sun on your face, or being followed by a rainbow. Getting lost in a pile of autumn leaves or laughing so hard hurts. It’s about being satisfied with what you have, rather than always striving for more. Contentment is like a cosy jumper – the colourful one your gran knitted for Christmas. It may not be the most fashionable thing in the world, but it’s comfortable, and it makes you feel good.
Worse, the ‘diagnosis’ cemented my son’s differentness in his mind. Not surprisingly, he refused to embrace it. He also refused the medication route floated by health professionals to help him focus and study – unlike the majority of his friends who soon became convinced that they needed their tablets to crack open a book. [Sidebar: This is the new uni epidemic … along with vaping.]
The Fragments web series was launched on 23 February at the National Film and Sound Archives in Canberra by the ACT Arts… Read more Fragments Web Series Premiere
I’ve been doodling a lot lately. Not in a gaze-off-into-the-distance kind of way but as an activity with intrinsic merit and no aim or outcome – a novelty in my task/deadline-oriented world.
Lately, people have been asking me where I get my characters from. I chuckle to myself when greeted with this question; semantics aside, the word ‘get’ conjures images of me plucking characters from shelves when out doing errands, perhaps wedging the unruly ones in my hand basket so I can admonish them under the pretence of a phone call.
Why do universities often make things so much more complicated than they actually are? Is is a power thing? A desire for exclusivity and advantage? A justification for fees? And how do these translate for a young person keen to take up a primary teaching position? Should a warning label be attached?
Writing means so many things to me, things that are hard to express because the mere act of language infers distance. (And lately, there’s much more space than I’d like between my mind and my laptop screen.) Although writers often wax lyrical about connecting with readers, and I do value that immensely, I suspect that I write mainly for myself. Writing helps me to process issues, experiences and conversations that sometimes need a lifetime to break down. Writing encourages me to clutch memories before they slip away with time and distance – like here, where putting these words to the page catapulted me to a time, place and event that changed me forever … in ways that I am still uncovering.