Sick Leave

I’m fine.

Honestly, I rarely get sick.

My sick leaves get converted to cash.

 

Frankly, I’d rather fake it.

Every now and then I need a time out.

Errands or just plain silence from work is good.

 

I can work from home while on my supposed sick leave.

And at the same time, I can kick up my feet and relax.

I can putter around like I used to.

 

I dreamt I lost my mobile phone.

Dream dictionary says it’s a sign that I’ve lost touch with some aspect of myself.

So I’m taking that as a sign.

 

Today, I’m going to hop over to the bank, get my nails done.

Sort the clutter on my table, maybe I’ll sneak to the mall.

This is going to be a great sick leave day for me!

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Reality Check

With so much work to accomplish every day, my weekends have been anything but restful.

I have been waking up too early every morning in a rush because of so many things to do.

How unlikely of me.

 

I am disappointed with myself because I have allowed myself to reach this exhausting point.

A year down the road feels like a decade.

I value the work that I do but, admittedly, it’s taking a toll on me.

 

Maybe it’s just another hiccup in life.

Maybe it’s just an off year.

I can’t help but at times wonder…

 

Could there be yet another something for me out there?

Something that will keep me motivated.

Something what will shift me to a better place.

 

Not just work wise but all around life kind of thing.

You see, truth is, I’m on my own.

Not that it’s a bad thing, it just is.

 

I know God hears.

Eventually things will shift again.

Just have to sit it out and ride the tide.

 

 

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The magic mirror

My kitchen window is the portal into another time and place. I’ve been looking through it and writing about what I see for years. Even when I don’t see any physical activity apart from the day that is – a gluttonous sky thundering over the Chinese Elm, the first blossoms on the apricot tree or chooks basking in the dusty hole they’ve dug to bathe in sunshine – I see so much.

The three little boys that once jumped in and out of a portable swimming pool in summers of years gone, white in a heavy layering of sunscreen and laughing with each butt print made on the hot concrete path. They’d ride scooters and bikes from the back gate onto a track in the grass, have parties with friends and chip golf balls on a make-shift putting green. They’d hang washing on the clothes line while I washed dishes over my window, throwing the ball for Teddi and hitting it out with a cricket bat when they got tired of throwing. They’d bring washing in, all folded and ready to sort. They still do.

Today through my kitchen window is one of them with his love pulling weeds together by that clothes line, cute in their occasional smiles and exchanges. He’s older and wiser now, although sometimes when a shopping trolley full of garden stakes and an azalea bush plucked from an anonymous front yard appears after a night out with friends, I do wonder.

    Our house, it has a crowd

    There’s always something happening

    And it’s usually quite loud … Our house, in the middle of our street

Madness sings over the radio, reminding me of how time moves at a snail’s pace, and yet ever moving with the rotating Earth. This magic window of mine shows glimpses only I can see. Memories of little boys that are now as men, a second 21st birthday in weeks.

Waves in the unseen pulse through, hurts from deep love and happiness scar in a life meandering as a unique Jackson Pollock drip painting. Sharp pains clash in lines of reds and blues highlighted in ochres, the clash of words that gnaw within the heart.

    It’s a fine line between pleasure and pain

    You’ve done it once you can do it again

It’s the Divinyls now, prodding the longings, whether known or not, for him or her, that thing in the corner. To be by the beach; to be home. A longing for peace without turmoil, peace even when the ocean roars its endless rhythm of now and what’s to come. Longing frees the honesty within the heart, to smile when not smiling. Perhaps that’s a contentment, even with emotions brimming and wanting to spill.

Whether I’m looking through my kitchen window at those boys of yesterday and today, or for the rabid clucks of chooks being chased by Teddi and Schnooze, all in good jest of course, it’s always wide open and full of reflection. I can be cooking butterflied lamb that’s been marinating for 36 hours for dinner and whizzing past the window from bench to stove, stopping at the kitchen sink to wash hands of sticky garlic oils, and still, all manner of stark brutality can flood in to choke. A gulp of rosé from the antique crystal glass can smooth it away, spritely and clear compared to the robust of swallow of the same wine from my brown short glass last week. Senses swirl in the heady grilling, aromas fill nostrils to where I can smell no more.

This evening it’s simple burgers browning in a pan with bacon and pineapple and it’s not until one of those boys walks in from work that I realise I’m immersed in the Monika-world.

‘Mmm, that smells nice,’ he says. ‘I can smell it from the back gate.’ His hello kiss brings me back to today with bonds to yesterday. Another sip of rosé.

That magic mirror can show possibilities of what’s to come, of more little children running through the yard or by the beach in their little Hawaiian shirts, more dogs and chooks and golf all fusing as that next part of a growing life. My magic mirror keeps me wide open to possibilities, many I cannot imagine.

There’s always a kiss of tomorrow, the kiss from far away that should have been, could be. Kisses maketh thy life.

    Here comes the rain again

    Falling on my head like a memory

    Falling on my head like a new emotion

    I want to walk in the open wind

    I want to talk like lovers do

    I want to dive into your ocean

    Is it raining with you        ~ Eurythmics

 

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Perennial Pleasures

 

 

 

When I go into the garden with a spade, and dig a bed, I feel such an exhilaration and health that I discover
that I have been defrauding myself all this time in letting others do for me what I should have done with my own hands.

Ralph Waldo Emerson 

 

 

In summer, the song sings itself.

William Carlos Williams 

 

 I almost wish we were butterflies and liv’d but three summer days,
three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain.

John Keats

 

 

Gardens are not made by singing ‘Oh, how beautiful,’ and sitting in the shade.

Rudyard Kipling

 

 

The greatest fine art of the future will be the making of a comfortable living from a small piece of land.

Abraham Lincoln

 

 


A garden is a grand teacher. It teaches patience and careful watchfulness; it teaches industry and thrift;
above all it teaches entire trust.

Gertrude Jekyll



How fair is a garden amid the trials and passions of existence.

Benjamin Disraeli 



If you have a garden and a library, you have everything you need.

Cicero 


 
Then followed that beautiful season... Summer....
Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscape
Lay as if new created in all the freshness of childhood.


Henry Wadsworth Longfellow


 

 The garden is the poor man's apothecary.

German Proverb

 

 

 Who loves a garden still his Eden keeps;
Perennial pleasures plants, and wholesome harvest reaps.

A. Bronson Alcott

 

 

Green was the silence, wet was the light,
the month of June trembled like a butterfly.

Pablo Neruda

 

 

 

Garden as though you will live forever.

William Kent

 

 

 

 

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Latest Comments

Virginia M Macasaet Reality Check
20 September 2018
Thank you Rosy, Few fallen trees, not too bad compared to the North...
Virginia M Macasaet Once More with Feeling
20 September 2018
Thank you Rosy, Stephen! Always feels good to be back home :-)
Monika Schott The magic mirror
19 September 2018
Yes, lived in the same house for many years now, which is quite different to the years of moving bef...
Stephen Evans The Other Side of Silence 
18 September 2018
Not as much skipping as you might think though some characters interested me more than others. Ther...
Rosy Cole The Other Side of Silence 
17 September 2018
Interesting. But literary arbiters since the two world wars might consider this discursive approach ...

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