Dreaming of peaks

It wasn’t so long ago that a Big Year of Tough Hikes seemed likely for one of the years between age 65 and age 70. Certainly, that’s what my 60-year-old self had envisaged. But now at age 65, the notion, once attractive, of tackling the Tour du Mont Blanc, traversing Sicily’s central spine, and mastering the Western Arthurs in Tasmania, all in the one year, has vanished. I know…

Poised for 2021

New Year resolutions are one symptom of a wider malaise: yearning to be a better you, for a whole year, after twelve months of disappointing. Me, I am poised for a shining 365 days of energetic peace, working hard towards my goals while living and celebrating life. Wish me luck…

2020 yes

Twelve months of quiet humble joy. Forbearance. Smiles and eyes of grandchildren, just being near one’s children. Birding and living with my love. Reading day in, day out to a handful willing to listen. Grief at a friend’s death. Another book, another movie, another song to sink into. Wine and coffee and chocolate and lentils. Sweating. Blue sky of summer.

2020 no

Twelve months is all it took. Ossified dullness. Sloth masquerading as vitality. A fatty’s retreat from energy. A cog in the hippy generation’s final Earth-destroying twitches.

Xmas peace

The Sunday before the big day, you know, the Christmas Day. Minimalist Kris Kringles long settled … boozy parties avoided … the quiet suburban streets (everyone else is shopping) … the next five days promise to be hard-working, peaceful times. The best Xmas is nothing but the on-the-day joy of assembling with family.

The illness of depression

I can’t write about depression because I don’t have it. A low level of despondency often seems to accompany my days, but that overhang is a mere wisp of a cloud amenable to natural buoyancy. But I know folks who suffer from depression, so Jonathan Foley’s eloquent, measured blog post, “Hiding in plain sight,” rings true. In a week roiled by grief at a friend’s…

Grief hand pen

When does grief find resolution? In the moment, that quest stretches forever but you know it can’t and you must not let it.

See this hand. Mourning should not impact a hand of living flesh.

See this pen. See it? Well, grab it. Use it.

Clenched fist

It seems impossible to impose order on life right now and order is necessary to focus on the work. No doubt this is partly due to emerging from lockdown. Suddenly the respite from life’s everyday imposts vanishes. But this is not just a post-pandemic issue (needless to say, the pandemic is still here, it’s just that in Melbourne we’re protected from it, as least for now). Something more…

A Thursday

I can’t draw but scribbled the image below (clouds, lightning, rain) during a Zoom last night. I’d imposed a self blackout but had somehow convinced myself Trump would be out on his ears, swamped by a blue wave. But the results looked like 2016’s. Leaden dread bore on me. Today, on a Thursday in Melbourne, hope is a babe waiting to be delivered.

All fine but…

Working well in Coronavirus-free Darwin. Levels of anxiety linger. What will Melbourne, hopefully also almost clean, be like in a fortnight’s time? What about the rest of the world, reeling from unfurling virus penetration? Existential anxiety seems rife globally.

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