Artist at Rest

It is time to rest. To lie on the grass, pull my hat over my eyes and take a break from writing on my blog.

Last April, a friend called casually over her shoulder as she took her leave of me, "Brenda, I hope you get your life back." And since then I've been trying to do just that - slow down, be selective about what I do and work at getting my life back.

Today I realised that part of doing that is to take a break from my increasingly dwindling blog writing. Releasing myself from this will free me to focus on my writing course. I am half way through the course now with six more assignments to go. I will still write in my morning journal but there won't be any more blogs for a little while. I have no idea of how long that little while will be.

Thank you so much for following my blog. I will blog again. But, for now, I say, adieu!

To Toughen my Touche

In preparation for our trip to Holland, yesterday M and I went on a bike ride at Mud Bay with two purposes in mind: to get biking fit legs and a biking fit touche.

We aimed to pedal out for an hour and an hour back. However, forty-five minutes later I was begging for a reprieve: my butt hurt! After a water and butt break, M comments, "Well, this is a good test that we can't bike 60 to 80 kilometers a day." Yes, please not, I sigh. Besides which, if I was to sit in a saddle all day I can do that in Canada. The bike tour in Holland needs to have some pleasure to it as well. M agrees.

"Stop!' M calls to me. "Look!"

I do and there on a pole above our heads sits an eagle. I don't think we've seen one this close before. The eagle cocks his head, as Brooks does when she's trying to get a better look. He spies us and decides we are not worthy of more attention. He preens - just a tad. Brooks, although just the size of the eagle's brilliant yellow beak, puts a lot more effort into her ablutions than this eagle does.

"Fly for us!" I call to the eagle. "Spread your wings." I know that the eagle is far more impressive in flight than perched on the pole. He ignores us and so we pedal on.

See, here is a case in point, I say to M, our bike tour in Holland needs to have time each day to stop and enjoy the scenery. And when we get to the destination, we want to look around too. M agrees. "Yes, the maximum is 50 kilometres a day," he decides. Fifty! My eyes widen.

If I don't get to blog too often this month, it may just be because I'm out pedalling: building my stamina and toughening my touche.

A Wealthy Tradition

We're just back from our annual day at Alice Lake. I can still feel the sun and the wind on my cheeks. I'm a relaxed Brenda Red Knees thanks to dozing off with a book in my lap. And for this day of simple enjoyments I am grateful.

Ahead of our trip to Holland in a few weeks, I'm reading the diary of Anne Frank. As I share in this young girl's experience of being hidden indoors behind closed curtains for two years, I realise what a privileged life I lead. The difficulty in reading the book is knowing the fate that awaits this teenager who will die in a German concentration camp before she is 16 - just weeks before the camp is to be freed by Allied forces.

Anne Frank writes of the difficulty of seeing the helpers who bring her family food and supplies arriving with wind in their hair and cold on their faces and to know that she cannot experience this for herself. What we take for granted became a sought after delight for young Anne Frank. What a privilege it is to be able to doze off in the sun and to be nicknamed Brenda Red Knees.

And I benefited today too from the wise words of my friend Morrie. As his wife, Em, and I discussed some of the challenges of planning for their retirement, Morrie quipped, "These are good problems to have." He's so right, if the problems we were discussing are the sum total of our problems, we are blessed: these are indeed good problems to have.

We count our wealth in dollars when we should count it in our friendships, our liberties, our enjoyment of health and the simplicity of our problems. After a fun day at the lake with friends, enjoyed in good health and with the prospect of work for tomorrow, my cup runneth over.

A Fine Day of Summer

It is a long-awaited day that oozes summer. The sound of kettle drums fills the air as I select ripe apricots; add two oversized zucchini, some broccoli and a bunch of carrots to my fresh produce purchase at the Lonsdale Quay Farmer's Market.

O Summer Joy! What a find this Saturday farmer's market is: organic, pesticide free, free-range, natural and affordable. Did you hear me say affordable? So often organic and pesticide free means ridiculously priced. But here are prices within my budget: a little more for quality but not excessive. I buy two goat's milk soaps, eggs harvested just this morning and a fresh baked organic wheat baguette. I can't leave the market without a baguette.

It is, dare I say, so French. With a market like this, who needs to hanker after the country markets of France? I have my own - a short jaunt down the hill. Next time, I must bring two bags. Today I would've put beets and blueberries in the other bag. I forgo those purchases as I still need to carry my treasure trove up the hill through the throngs of revellers enjoying the Caribbean Day parade.

I take the back alleys to avoid the crowds. It is perfect sunny Caribbean Day weather. The music is loud and festive. What a great start to summer. I'm inspired to prepare white cheddar and fresh sliced tomatoes sprinkled with sea salt on baguette for lunch. Or maybe guacamole ... And blog - I'm inspired to get home and write.

"Bonjour," I call to M. "Je reviens!"
"Salut," M responds.
"I'm in love with the farmer's market. It is so great! Next time I must take two bags."
"Next time I'll come with you," he says.
Super! I'm already looking forward to next week Saturday.

If They Could See Us Now

"Boy, if our South African and Aussie families could see us now!" I say to M as I put on my zipper jacket and wrap a towel to warm my legs. It's gorgeously sunny; however the wind gusts and is cold.

We're stalwarts and soldier on. It's sunny and so we must, we will, enjoy the beach. M suffers with goose flesh but he wants a tan. He's not using his towel and so I grab it to doubly insulate my legs.

This isn't how you enjoy a beach in South Africa or Australia but this is Oregon and here, in the Pacific North West, we have had more than anyone's fair quota of grey cloudy days - we want sun. An hour turns into discomfort as I feel the cold wind settle into my lower back and start an ache in my kidneys.

"I'm ready when you are." I tempt M.
He bites willingly.

Once off the beach and out of the wind, we start to thaw. We set our chairs on the grass and sheltered from the wind, we're warm again.

When You Eat, Eat

Life should be savoured one day, one moment at a time. I need to be reminded of this as I often live life fast.

M has often commented that I stir the pots simmering on the stove fast. And that I dish up our dinner fast too. And I admit I like short prayers before dinner so that the food doesn't get cold. Left to myself, I eat fast and, if preoccupied with my thoughts, I chew even faster and taste nothing. It's not uncommon to see M motioning for me to slowdown.

We know that slowing down helps to replenish our energy levels but did you know that slowing down your eating does that too? How many times do you eat breakfast while you check your email, read the news or blow dry your hair? It's called multi-tasking isn't it? And doesn't it save time?

Actually, I've found that it revs my internal engine and sets a tone of rushing for the day.

Not only has adding protein and healthy fats to my breakfast and lunch (see The Road to Burn-Out May 2011) fuelled my energy levels but so has taking the time to sit down to eat, making an occasion of it.

I have learnt that when you eat, eat, don't multi-task - so no more eating lunch at my desk while I work. This helps me to savour my meal and, when I actually taste my food, my stomach signals satisfaction and satiety to my brain. This translates into energy levels - and weight loss or weight maintenance too because I am less likely to snack.

This is working for me - it will work for you too.

Not What We Live For

"Uh! Oh! Look," M says.
Across the water we see a billow of black smoke rise from the streets of Vancouver. We had already heard of an overturned car being set on fire after the Canucks lost the do-or-die final game against the Boston Bruins. And now, returning home from watching the game with friends, we see evidence of it.

It's just a hockey game - I heard again and again from reporters as M and I followed the coverage live on TV and watched the plumes of smoke rise above the city from our living room window. It's just a game, they said. Really? Is it really?

M and I gave up watching hockey in the regular season a few years back because we didn't care for the aggression in the game. Ah, but you like rugby, hockey fans would challenge us, that's a rough game. Yes it is, but rugby players are not encouraged to fight as part of the game or as entertainment for the crowds. Rugby does not have a code of ethics for fighting as hockey does. If you fight, it's stopped and you're sent to the cooler. There are no enforcers in rugby.

Yet, with Vancouver making the Playoffs, M and I decided to be Canuck about it, embrace hockey fever and support our team. For the first time in seventeen years, our team survived the Playoffs and got into the final against the Boston Bruins. And then we remembered why we don't like hockey. But it's a physical game, it's a game of intimidation, our ever patient friends coached us as we bemoaned the dirty tactics of the Boston Bullies. The Canucks just aren't physical enough was a common refrain.

Twenty seconds into game six, Canuck player Mason Raymond lay prostrate on the ice with his back broken after an unnecessary but legitimate crunch by a Boston player into the boards. And this bloodlust is sport? When the Canucks were losing game six, a Canuck commentator said if he was playing the game he would go scalping. Scalping - yes, that's a good description of NHL hockey.

Hockey is a great game of superb skating, speed and skill. When played in the Olympics, it is beautiful to behold like rugby never will be. Yet played in the NHL, the players are rioters on skates looking for the next opportunity to intimidate, to injure and to ignite with fists. We'll win by any means: we'll break the rules, fight after the whistle's gone, swear at our opponents and defy authority.

And so when it moves from the ice to the streets of Vancouver, why are we so surprised? What's good for our hockey heroes is good for us: we can ignite cars and garbage cans, beat up Bruin supporters on the street, throw flower pots and hurl obscenities at police officers. And when authorities tell us to disperse and go home, we can laugh at them, ignore them and hang around to watch the show.

After all isn't this entertainment?
Isn't this what we paid for?
Isn't this what we were told we live for?
Shame on us.

Roasted Garlic

Now, I know it isn't much - just cluster of garlic cloves, dribbled with olive oil, covered with foil and roasted in a muffin tin in the oven. Easy enough, right? Right. So why did it take me so long to do it?

Probably because when the recipe called for roasted garlic, I did two things. First, I said to myself, I don't know how to do that which also translates as, I can't do that. And, second, I said to myself, I'm too busy; I don't have the time. And, instead, I would mince fresh garlic.

And so, the other day, when I made the vegetable dish that calls for roasted garlic I stopped the two point rabbit trail my brain started to go down and said, instead, of course you can make this.

I googled 'roasted garlic' and followed the instructions. And indeed I could do this. Yes, it took a little longer but it was, oh, so satisfying. And now I keep cloves of roasted garlic in my fridge, ready to add to my cooking.

Part of my slowdown life strategy is to interrupt the busyness of cooking the same meals, the same way. The faster I rush through this, the sooner I'll get to that, and then I can rest. Or so I thought. But the busyness of life will never be done. And I found that I was in a constant state of rush trying to get through my bottomless to do list. I found that the more you run, the less you get done.

Now I know to take time out to do things that energise me and that includes trying something different in the kitchen - one of my de-stress zones. I'm learning that I get more done, the less I run.

Beautiful Beautiful Words

Words capture me and haunt me. They entice me and delight me. They inspire me and refresh me. And the words, 'Like sunlight burning at midnight', do all of that.

They are beautiful words from Francesca Battistelli's magnificent song, "Beautiful, Beautiful". Take a listen for yourself at http://www.francescamusic.com/content/beautiful-beautiful

I savour the words as I take the slowdown road of life. The melting of the words into my hurried heart remind me that God is making something beautiful out of every life that opens itself to Him.

And these words from her song are particularly powerful for me right now:
'I have come undone
But I have just begun
Changing by Your grace'

A Slower Road

After my blog, 'The Road to Burn-Out', I received an email from a friend which read:

"Brenda, I just read your blog, as I always do when I do payroll, as it’s right above my payroll calculator on my favourites list. I’ve been worried about you because you looked stressed the last couple of times we met. I hadn’t made the time to check up on you in our crazy life – shame on me."

I too know all about a crazy life and not checking in on my friends - guilty as charged. But with my renewed focus on a slowdown life, I'm hoping to change that. I read some wise words recently that said when we lie on our sick bed or on our death bed, it is not our colleagues or clients that will gather around us but our family and friends. Yet I consistently make my work more important than my friends and my family. Slowly, I'm changing that.

I received a caring and probing email from one of my brothers which came just days after my burn-out blog. It read: "Hi Sis, Wondering what’s up? You seem very quiet these days."

And quiet I have been, but the wrong kind of quiet: the withdrawn-don't-talk-to-me kind of quiet. Now I am practising the calm-restorative kind of quiet. And it is working. I want to write more blogs on the changes I have made so that one day, and there will be a one day, when I go off kilter again I can remind myself how to recalibrate. Life is a journey, a process, a continual discovery.

In the suppportive words of my sage friend, Morrie: "The journey of the heart and taking time to live in the moment is a precious gift. That’s why it is called a “present”. It was great to read your blog again."

It was great to write it.

The Road to Burn-Out

Speed kills, so slow down and take in the view. That is a lesson I am relearning in my busy, pressured-for-time life. The urgency of deadlines has caused my heart to race like a speeding car negotiating hairpin turns. And when even the thought of doing something fun saps my energy, I know I am headed straight for burn-out.

Having been on this road before, I recognised the scenery of fatigue a few weeks back. I knew I had to shift gears and slow down. Low energy coupled with a speeding heart and frazzled nerves are always sure signs that my life is out of balance. And so I took my foot off the accelerator and started to put on the brakes.

It feels right to say no, to not make other people's delay my panic and to light a candle while I enjoy my morning cup of tea. I'm making time to breathe, without guilt. Every moment of my day does not need to be filled with an activity that meets a deadline. I can sit to eat my breakfast without checking my emails. And really, the work is not going to go anywhere if I take 15 minutes to be quiet and mindful while I eat my lunch.

I've also discovered the benefit of eating more protein and healthy fats for breakfast and lunch. Previously my breakfasts and lunches were centred around carbohydrates, but now, with the addition of peanut butter to my breakfast oats and a tuna salad instead of sandwiches for lunch, my energy levels are more stable and long lasting.

And of course, I've been indulging in my all-time favourite - balneotherapy (evening soaks in the tub). It's obviously all working - look, I've found the time and the energy to blog!

Is anyone still out there?

Glorious Ginger

My affection for ginger started when, as a girl, I ate ginger snaps. This ginger flavoured cookie is still one of my favourites. I also remember stumbling across a ginger truffle in a box of assorted chocolates - and I liked it. This innocuous root and I were firm friends from the start. One of my mementos from Australia was a jar of ginger sauce, remember? (see Bootylicious September 2009)

This week my affection for ginger deepened. I discovered that ginger tea wards off colds. Its spicy taste flames the back of your throat soothing the ache that starts there as the first sign of a cold. Its aroma is comforting to a body starting down the slope to sickness. And ginger tea helps with meeting one of those first pieces of advice when fighting a cold - drink a lot of liquids.

And that is what I have done this week. But first I peeled about three inches of ginger root. The one I actually bought to go into a curry recipe. Then I sliced it thinly. Next I added it to water in my corning ware tea pot and brought it to a boil. Finally I simmered it for 20 minutes to draw the flavour out. And that ladies and gentlemen is my cold remedy recipe. All I would add is - enjoy it in your happiest tea cup.

Oh, and with regard to that other piece of advice about colds - wash your hands frequently - I would say, why stop at your hands? Soak your entire body for as long as you can at night and then slip into bed early.

All Work and Some Play

"If a guy asks me to dance, are you okay with it?" I ask M. "Yes, just watch your drink," my hubby of 15 years replies. "Okay, will do." I take a deep breath in nervous anticipation of my night out with the girls.

Now some private night time shopping at Colette's on Second Street, I can do. Sipping champagne and encouraging girlfriends "Yes! Yes! That looks great on you", I can do. But it is the second happening of our birthday party night out that has my stomach a little tied in knots: dancing at The Lynwood.

The Lynwood is not one of my usual haunts. I'm glad I'll be with 5 other gals - there's safety in numbers, and besides, when the average age of your group is 40 and some, guys at a pub know you aren't looking to be picked up - don't they?

At The Lynwood we make a stir. We walk through the doors and - everyone turns to look. I hold back and slip behind Betty. With Alberta confidence to match her pink cowgirl boots, she crosses the darkened room to a spot near the back, close to the pool tables. The barman comes to take our order at the table. He's all gentleman.

"What can I get you ladies?" He looks at Betty.
"A honey brown," she orders.
Yes, that will do.
I order my lager just as Betty did, "A honey brown, please."
When at the Lynwood ...
Jules orders tea and the barman doesn't skip a beat. "Tea, yip, we can get that for you. Would you like milk and sugar with that?"

A couple of sips into our drinks and we do what we came here for: we fill the dance floor. Our fun is contagious and others join in, as couples or solo. Even the band is enjoying having us on the floor. The band leader asks more than once, "Do you girls have another one in you?" How old do you think we are? We're turning this place on its head aren't we? A young stud dances the night away with us. He dances with one of his dates while the other sulks at the table. He looks left out whenever we take a break from the dance floor.

It's getting late and some of us have to work tomorrow, even though it is Saturday. We head for the door and I take a last twirl on the dance floor as we leave. The young buck struts behind us dismayed, "Where are you going - you're the most fun in the place!" Not bad for a group of mid-life girls who still know how to have some good clean fun.

A Portrait of a Life

If you would like to live a little dangerously, I highly recommend reading, 'Riding the Dragon' by Robert J. Wicks. There are countless gems in this easy-to-read book on riding the dragons of life and riding them well.

If you, like Mr. Duffy, live a short distance from your body (words penned by James Joyce) and would like to come home, this book has dragon lessons pointing the way. But, be warned, coming home to ourselves is not easy and not for the faint hearted. It is for the courageous. Courage is not the absence of fear but the realisation that something else is of greater importance than fear.

In the words of James Joyce:
Live all you can
it's a mistake not to.
It doesn't so much matter
what you do in particular,
So long as you have had your life.
If you haven't had that
what have you had?

I'm still practising dragon lessons on coming home, all in preparation, one day, for my ultimate home coming.

You're So Vain ... Self-Absorbed ... Inconsiderate

You're so vain you probably think this blog is about you, don't you?

You walk onto the sea bus like you don't know where to sit.
There're empty white chairs a plenty - take your pick -
but you must choose the one right behind me.
With no regard for personal space - just yourself - we sit back to back.

Your iPod strategically placed in your ears,
you turn up the volume - with no regard for anyone else.
I shift in my seat to put some distance between us, your Elvis greased hair,
And your shirt - it was blue.

If I still had my cup of tea-on-the-go I'd pour it in your lap,
Turn down your music and turn up consideration.
I live a dream of escaping on a Lear jet to anywhere far from here,
But it is clouds in my coffee as I'm where I should be.

Your music stills as you search for a song.
You find Carly Simon and I share her lament, "You're so vain ..."

The Passport Office

Buddy must you sit in top of me? I grab my purse off the chair next to me trying to vacate the seat before he deposits his derrière. It's not like you can't sit on the next one over which is just plain empty. He misjudges and sits down between the two seats. They squeak and slide - a tad.

"Oops - choose one," he says to no one in particular or is it to me? He readjusts his derrière and chooses the one, of course, right on top of me. Of two seats, one empty and one with a purse on it, why would he choose to sit on the one with the purse on it?

My neighbour stirs and clears his throat. I keep my head resolutely down. Buddy, don't talk to me. I may be in the passport office, and it might not look like much to you, but this is 'me' time. I glance across at the paperwork on his lap. He has the same first name as my father and two others beside. He was born in England before the Second World War and his last name is a chess piece. Hmm - he also made a journey across the water from the North Shore.

I wonder: did he come to Canada as a child evacuee during the war? Did he emigrate to a new life with his parents soon after the war - his dad a RAF pilot regaling the family on cold winter nights with war stories? Soon his wife joins him. From their accents I surmise they came to Canada as adults, in the sixties, as a young married couple. Chances are they started their Canadian life back east before the bitter winters drove them west and they traded their snow shovel for an umbrella.

"How long will we have to wait?" asks his wife.
"I don't know," he replies. "It's almost this lady's turn but there are still 20 numbers before it is ours."
I long to ignore him. But I respond.
"I've been here 40 minutes already - so you might wait as long as an hour."
There - he wins. He got me to talk.

Ten minutes later, the monitor pings and displays 'F354'.
"It's your turn," says my retired Anglo-Canadian fellow citizen.
"Yes, thank you," I reply, likely never to see him and his wife again.
Yet, one never knows, perhaps one day we will meet again - on the pages of a story.

Tutti Frutti

Wednesday night - a precious time of aloneness - M's at a meeting and will be back when I'm already sound asleep. I've soaked in the bath and finished my book. Dressed in my pyjamas, my body warm and cuddly from a soak in the tub, I toss around the options of reading another book in bed or writing a blog. Or a third option sneaks in - be a good wife and make M tutti frutti.

For brunch last Christmas, I made stewed fruit to be served with yoghurt. Whether our friends were that thrilled with it, I can't say, but it was a hit with M and me. I now keep a supply of it in our fridge to be added to oats or yoghurt for breakfast. It's been finished for a few days now and just this morning M asked hopefully, "Are we going to have some more tutti frutti soon?" I shelve the book and shut the door on the computer beckoning me to write - tutti frutti it is.

It is a simple process - the hardest part is chopping the dried fruit to bite size pieces. It's not as pleasing on the eye as leaving the fruit whole but it is easier to eat. I've found that dried apricots, peaches, pears and apples work well as do prunes. And cranberries add a splash of colour. Avoid dried figs - the skin doesn't soften enough. After all the chopping is done, I boil the kettle and steep two cups of rooibos tea with just a hint of sugar and a good dash of lemon juice. I pour the tea over the dried fruit and let it stew overnight on the counter. In the morning, we will have stewed fruit - or tutti frutti as M calls it - ready to be added to natural Balkan yoghurt.

Good wife - when M gets home tonight his pyjamas will be waiting for him at the front door and in the kitchen tutti frutti will be plumping up on rooibos tea. In bed, I still squeeze in a few pages before switching off the lights. And writing, well, as Morrie said, that will come.

The Freedom of Words

There - I successfully did it. I didn't write on my blog for the month of February. Not one word, not a whisper, not a whimper. I didn't have time for the first two weeks and what time I did have for writing were spent working on my short story (see Writing a Story, Simply January 2011).

I was feeling the weight of not writing until Saturday night, February 19th, when I received wise words from a good friend. I was putting the finishing touches to our Persian lamb dinner for five friends. Morrie came to join me, leaning on the counter space that separates our one-person-at-a-time kitchen from the dining area.

"So you're having trouble with your story are you?"

I looked at him a touch perplexed.

"That's what I picked up from reading between the lines, you know," he added as he used his right hand to draw a straight line in the air.

"Oh, you read my blog," I caught on; I sometimes suffer from a time delay. "Yes, I'm having some trouble with it. Mostly because I'm so busy and I'm tired."

"Yes, I read that too," Morrie said.

"I haven't written anything since that last blog about feeling like I'm burning to the ground."

"Well, don't worry about it," said Morrie, "you'll write again when it's right."

"Yeah, but I have some people who follow my blog," I smiled at him, "and I don't want them to look and find nothing new there."

"But then you've got it all wrong," Morrie replied, "because you should be writing just for you not for anyone else. If you feel the pressure to write for your readership, you're no longer writing for yourself."

"You're right, Morrie," I said as I spooned the red pepper sauce from the pan into a serving dish. "I should just be writing for myself. I've forgotten to do that."

And so, I spent the next week focusing on and finishing my short story, free of guilt and my self-inflicted perfectionism to do everything and to do it well. Thank you Morrie, your wise words of freedom found an open window into my soul.

Dead Tired of Deadlines

I got this encouraging note by email yesterday: "I went to Leta's book signing at 'Footprints on the Shore' bookstore yesterday and thought of being there for you one day, Brenda, receiving a signed copy of your new book!" I felt buoyed by the encouragement of a friend and reader of my blog, encouragement that whets my parched enthusiasm for writing.

I've pushed my writing aside for the usual work busyness that is the month of January and into February. My blog, my writing sketchpad, lies mostly forgotten and overlooked. The only writing I will do is to ask for an extension on my writing assignment that is due February 6th. I can't do it any justice this next week. I have no reserves for creativity. It is seldom that I ask for an extension on a deadline. I pride myself on meeting deadlines - but my deadlines don't usually involve creative energy and thought.

Last month I resigned from my monthly writing gig for a local newspaper. I had to create more space in my life. A writing friend filled the gap beautifully. I read her article in this month's edition of the paper and felt the relief of not having that deadline to meet.

In the mornings I awake with thoughts of work and a list of to-dos stirring in my head: where is that form; don't forget to make that request to such-and-such; call this person; leave a message for that person; touch base with so-and-so; post that blog you wrote two weeks ago; meet all those deadlines, phone home ...

I feel the rush in my chest - particularly on a Monday morning. I want to hide, escape, run away, soar on a breath of fresh rushing air before I burn to the ground.

Writing a Story, Simply

I mutter to myself, "Fiction, fiction, I have to write a piece of fiction." I look in the mirror as if into a crystal ball.

M sticks his head around the bathroom door, "What's that? Are you talking to me?"

"No," I say, "I'm talking to myself. My next piece for my writing course is a piece of fiction, a short story. And I don't know what to write."

"When's it due?" M asks.

"Early February."

"Ah, in two weeks."

Yes, I have two weeks to write a believable, interesting piece that never really happened.

A short story has structure and bare bones. I've been reading up on the bare bones part but it is giving life to those bones, surrounding them with muscle and tissue and providing blood to course through the veins that has me coming up dry.

I need to write a piece that reveals something about the character to the reader. It needs conflict and a resolution which the main character discovers for herself. Or will it be himself? What is the character's problem? Where will the complication come in or the conflict arise? How will it be resolved? These are the quality questions of a story. Questions that lie unanswered in my writer's mind.

My story needs a touch of urgency and drama. It needs to lead somewhere and have a purpose. The reader will want to come along for the narrative ride out of concern for my character (or will it be characters?) eager to see how things will turn out. And, of course, I learnt this in Grade 3; my story needs a beginning, middle and an end. Three sections to hold the three elements of my story: problem, complication, solution.

Okay, I think I've got that. Now how to get there? How will I colour it in? What will the meat be on these bones? I reach for Jon Franklin's book on the craft secrets of "Writing for Story". I flip to the chapter on how to stalk a short story. I stumble where he says that knowing the anatomy of a story won't make me a writer. Hardly helpful when right now I don't feel like a writer and the formula is all I seem to have a handle on.

My eyes flit through the pages which unlock secrets of story writing. Start with the complication; it's the easiest place to begin. Be on the lookout for a complication, stalk it in real-life, and ask a myraid of questions. Like an artist sketches on a pad, a writer sketches her stories on 3 x 5 cards or on a computer: moving scenarios around, adding in new ones, scratching out, deleting or removing poor fitting ones, all within the anatomy of the story.

A short story of 1,500 words doesn't give much creative room. It's got to be sharp and succinct. Simple, right?

I agree with Jon Franklin - Simplicity is deceptive.

Brooks One, Two, Three

Here's a quick update on the busiest member of our household: Busy Brooks. She's one busy bird with oodles of action stored in her wings - and her beak. But quite apart from her busyness and in-bred naughtiness, we're happy to report that she's trained in a few things.

She knows just what M means when he orders "Off" after she's landed on an out of bounds picture frame. Just because she understands it doesn't mean she likes it. After complying with a flutter of wings and an angry squawk, she'll land on M's head and knock her beak three times on his head, woodpecker-style, just so he knows what she thought of that instruction.

I, in turn, have trained her to go into her cage without too much fanfare. Admittedly, it needs to be timed with when she's a little hungry. I place her on the rope perch outside her cage, put her favourite treat - a raw cashew - in her dish and knock on her dish a few times to draw attention to it. Then I say, "Brooks, go eat" in my most soothing voice. With just a little bit of coaxing, she moves from the perch to the door of her cage. One, two, three and she's in her cage. As soon as she's at her dish enjoying her treat, the door goes closed. Easy peasy.

And certainly, the best news of all is that Busy Brooks is coming along with her toilet training. But more of that in the next blog about Busy Brooks!

Brisbane Under Water

I walk in the door refreshed from my first yoga class in months.
M greets me with, "Brisbane is under water."
What? Oh no!
"We must call my brother," I say.

But first, M pulls up a video clip on Youtube. "Look at this," he says. "Watch how a small stream in Toowoomba turns into a torrent of water and washes cars away." We watch the clip and share in the lives and agony of strangers.

When the flooding started in Queensland, we tracked the floods on the internet keeping an eye on their proximity to Brisbane. And now the flood waters have reached the city and the swollen Brisbane River will not be contained. The meandering river we had cruised on the Brisbane City Cat was now a raging toxic torrent rising six metres above its banks, flooding the city and its neighbourhoods.

We skype Brisbane. My sister-in-law answers.
"How are you?" we ask. "Are you going to be okay?"
"We're fine," she says. "We're outside of the flood zone. But I'm prepared with an overnight bag for each of us in case we have to be evacuated. As you know, we're only 20 minutes from the city."

My brother is still at work in Brisbane and she's hoping that he can get home considering that some of the bridges are being shut down.
"When he went to work this morning he called to say that SouthBank was already under water," she says.

Southbank - beautiful lovely Southbank! When M and I visited Australia, Southbank impressed us. "We could live here," we both said, man-made as it is. We loved the beaches that had been created along the banks of the Brisbane River and the swimming pools set back from the beach. The palm trees, the restaurants and cafés, the bougainvillea lined paths and the view of the city across the river enticed us. On my brother's birthday, we had enjoyed lunch there on the shaded patio of a Greek restaurant.

We commiserate with my sister-in-law about the awfulness of it all and send love across cyberspace. Relieved that they are fine, back on the internet, we follow the difficult stories of other lives impacted by the floods. In amongst the tragedy, I find this nugget of Aussie straightforwardness: the mayor of Ipswich warns would-be looters that anyone found looting in their city will be used as tide-markers.

Good for him! Sometimes, especially at times like these, we've just got to say it as it is.

Sock Hop

Ronnie and Jean threw a 1950s sock hop at their place to say hello to 2011. A sock hop: what a great way to see the New Year in. Sign me up!

As a kid I grew up listening to my parents' music and so music from the fifties and sixties is quite familiar to me. And as a teenager, my younger brother and I would move the coffee table out of the way and dance.

Dancing is happy. And dancing to fifties and sixties music is especially happy! Get me on a dance floor with good music and I can stay there all night.

M likes to dance too. Two summers ago when the movie Mamma Mia hit the theatres, M and I put our ABBA CD on at home one night and we danced through it all.

Oh happy days! What a happy way to see in a happy new year!