Author: chatterbrooke

chatterbrooke https://chatterbrooke.wordpress.com I'm a 40-something year old chick living in one of the luckiest parts of the planet - the peaceful, beautiful and ever-changing Bondi of Australia. This is an Aboriginal word meaning 'water breaking over rocks'. I'm a creative type who loves to share, and I'm interested in the world around me, including you and your story.

The Pie from the Sky

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When I looked up in the sky
A pie fell down right in my eye
It fell down high from in the sky
This pie that landed in my eye

The pie was thrown by Mrs Cherry
It was full of blue blue berries
These blue berries were so blue
As blue as sky, so blue, so true

Mrs Cherry was feeling mad
Two parts mad and one part sad
Her pie had cooked too much you see
And that is why she cast it free

I was on my way back home
From the farmers stalls where I like to roam
I am not, in truth, a careless fella
But next time will pack my best umbrella

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Art In A Can.

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There’s something about street art that can really work. Maybe it’s the mishmash of colours and movement or that many artists exhibit all at once. Maybe it’s the chaos of it, or its under-groundness. Or that you’re not expecting it around that corner. These shots were taken in Hosier Lane, Melbourne last weekend.  Artists unknown.

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A Runned-Out Pen. Weird.

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I had to throw out a pen just now, because it had run out.  Run out of ink.  Dry.  No more writing for you, lady.  It was with a mixture of annoyance and disbelief that I cast the useless piece of plastic into the bin.  In fact I couldn’t recall another time in my life where a pen had simply stopped working.

On further reflection, I realised that I must always lose my pens before they cease to be useful. Or they’re stolen more likely. Probably by the guy at work who’s too stingy to buy the good, fast flowing felt ones…or by the kids whose textas have all run out because they failed to put the lids on, for months.

I have a lovely relationship with pens, and an almost sick-bordering-on-sexual relationship with stationery shops. I’m starting to realise that I may be somehow unconsciously responsible for all those lost pens, just so I can walk into one of those mega-football-field-sized pen shops to get that delicious feeling of…I don’t know what really.  It’s just delicious.  And my pulse races a bit faster every time I do it.  And I feel satiated afterwards. I told you it was sick.

The walls of colourful ones are the best. Lined up with all their promise of potential creation. Eyeshadow shops have the same effect.  I have to hold myself back from eating all those colours, devouring them – even though I wear make-up twice a year and wouldn’t know the first thing about how to apply the stuff. I sometimes buy it just because I love the colour, then cast it into the makeup drawer with all the other unfortunate eye shadows that were unlucky enough for me to pick them up.  Or perhaps they’re the lazy ones, quite happy to sit, whole but basically unused for their entire lives.

But back to the pens…..where do they go?  Are they circulated around and around, lost and found until some unlucky one is stuck with it running out?  Do certain people always run out of ink? (I’m clearly not one of those).  Do people even use pens anymore? Have touch screens ‘disrupted’ the biro industry? Do styluses have the same problem?

Oh…..too many questions, not enough answers. Thank goodness this blog is not hand-written.

Back In the Game.

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I’ve always had an over-inflated sense of my own height, culminating in a basketball career that extended from about the age of 14 to 28.  Despite being five foot something, I became a reasonable basketball player and even played at representative level due to other sports being far more popular in my home town.

My parents were as supportive as they could be, preferring to drop me off for my four games a week and head home for a rerun of Felix and Oscar. It wasn’t until I attempted to watch other teams playing, some years into my career, that I fully appreciated how excruciating-a-spectator-sport basketball truly is, and forgave my parents for not watching me play.

Those were the days before mobile phones, when you’d let the rotary phone ring twice and then hang up as the signal for Mum or Dad to jump in the Commodore for the pick up. It was also the age of the Zooper Dooper, and no basketball game was complete without at least a couple of these refreshing frozen bags full of cordial at 15 cents a pop.

Anyway, all this nostalgia is not really what this blog post was meant to be about.  Bear with me, I’m getting there….because it was at the age of 15 or 16 when I was playing A-grade basketball that I would sometimes cast my eye over to one of the other courts and behold what appeared to be a bunch of ageing, saggy, 40-something year olds huffing and puffing their way through a game. Snotty kids on the sidelines, playing in the lower grades and perhaps a little dumpy around the middle were just a few of the outstanding features etched into my mind. I wouldn’t go so far as to say I felt horror, but certainly pity was an overwhelming emotion.

Fast forward 25 years. A certain 40-something woman, bit dumpy around the middle and barely able to run a lap hits the basketball court after 15 years in the wilderness.

Now I’m one of them. And I’m loving it.

Sure, my body is taking far too long to get into the position it knows it should be in, and my percentages aren’t what they used to be…but who cares? The competitive spirit, the love of being part of a team and the thrill of a win is all still there. Strong as ever.

Of course, I’ve said a silent sorry to all of those women I pitied all those years ago. Now, as the victim of those looks rather than the perpetrator I feel a certain sense of calm smugness that can only come with knowing that a game of basketball, no matter how good you think you are, isn’t going to change the world. But damn it feels good.

I love painting.

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I love painting. It makes me feel so free and happy.  I love the feel of smerging colours together and I love that it comes out different every time. I love the quiet of it. My heart beats slower when I’m doing it. And it’s one of the rare things I don’t care if I’m good at or not. These were done on Friday Funday with my littlest daughter.  She loves to paint too.

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“You are not in this world to be a Saint.  You are in this world to do some of the work of a Saint”.

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These were some of the words spoken to me last night by a man I’d never met before, happened upon by chance at a friend’s farewell, and who had a profound influence on me. Isn’t it strange how that happens sometimes?

I’ve been in what feels like a holding pattern since I finished a leadership course late last year.  It was an intense, life-transforming process that left me exhausted and with a whole new view of the world, and my place in it.

Since the course came to an end I’ve been a leaf in a current, patiently going along, waiting for something to reveal itself to me, some new life purpose, an exiting project, a mission.  I’m not known for my patience, and I have been. I trust that the next thing for me is out there, circling, sussing me out, waiting for us to meet each other.

Last night the man reiterated the need for patience.  He also said that thinking different, just being different is enough. It doesn’t have to be some enormous project for all the world to see – this work can be done quietly, with no-one else watching. He made me realise it’s OK to just be whatever it is I am now in the places that I’m already circulating, and that that in itself is change and newness. And he’s absolutely right.

“Some of the work of a Saint” can be done in every interaction with every living thing I come across.  I can try my best to do the work of a Saint as a mother, a partner, a friend, a sister and a workmate,

This man revealed himself to me in what was an unconventional, some would consider strange way and as though he’d intervened like this a million times before. This man who privately lives the life he feels bound to with all its eccentricities, brave enough to follow the most unconventional of thinking through to its completion, whether or not it works out in the end.

Why Don’t We Do What We Know We Ought?

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I was at the dentist the other day, and he asked me the bi-annual question about flossing. Do you floss each day? “Of course”…the words started forming in my un-flossed mouth…and then, “well, actually not as often as I should…like twice a week if I’m honest” came out.

This set me on a train of thinking about why us humans avoid doing the things we know we should be doing to help ourselves. They’re not even hard things. And sometimes, they’re things that could add years to our life, or even save it. Are we self-destructive? Too busy? Forgetful? Do we not believe the professional opinions of the professionals? Or are we just plain lazy. I was on a mission to find out.

I started with some extensive first hand research at a kid’s birthday party where I met a woman who helps rehabilitate people following work-related accidents. Apart from being horrified by the number of people with suspicious compo claims, I was intrigued by her answer to my question about why people don’t do the exercises you’re meant to do after visiting the physio. Sound familiar?

She went with a variation on the lazy theme. “People think that we’ll do all the work to fix them,” she said. “When really 99% of the work needs to be done outside the physio’s office and that’s where all the progress is made.

It’s funny how themes emerge when you get to thinking about something. In a work meeting last week, a colleague recounted his wife’s frustration at being a child speech pathologist. This wonderful woman, superb at her job, was looking to get out of her profession due to her exasperation over parents who invariably lied about doing the required practice at home with their kids. We’ll even choose not to do what ought to be done for our children!

My extensive research points to the conclusion that I’m not alone in…not drinking enough water, stretching properly after a workout, sitting up straight or leaving the skin check or breast exam too long.

What strange creatures we are. And with that, I’m off to have a glass of water and floss my teeth, whilst pondering if it’s not too late to start on those calf exercises prescribed back in 2005.

Spread Some Love Today.

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V Day

Love can be pushy.
It can insist itself upon life at the most inconvenient moments.
Not taking no for an answer.
Love can be patient too.
Lying in wait for the perfect moment, for the realisation that it’s hiding there, in that place.
To love something, someone, a child, an idea, another
human is fraught with danger, blissful and divine.

Love joins us. And tears us apart.
Love is easy to give when your heart is free.
And soaring. And singing. And unbound.
Spread a little each day.  On toast if you like.

Juls Knows A Thing Or Two About….How to Write a Thank-you Note

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My first guest blogger…..and an international talent at that! (thanks Juls) x

Hi, I’m Juls. I’m a writer, brander, mom, yogi, runner, wife and friend. I believe that gratitude is the key to happiness, and the basis for most healthy relationships. I practice gratitude the way I’d practice at playing the guitar, if I were musical in any way, which I am not. Learning to express gratitude opens up an entirely new dimension in life, and I know a thing or two about writing a great thank you note.

  1. Handwritten is best. Written gratitude is becoming a lost art and people are truly touched to get a note of thanks in the mailbox. If you don’t have time to hand-write it, don’t skip it. Send an email or a text, or even an MP3 of yourself saying thank you.
  2. Start with how it made you feel. “Thanks for the flowers. They made me feel really loved.” Or “Thanks for the sports watch. Wearing it makes me feel like a true professional.” Or, “Thanks for taking the time for such a great lunch. It made me feel important in your life.”
  3. Mention how you’ll use it. “I’m going to wear my new sweater on my trip to New York.” Or, “Every time I see the flowers I’ll think of you and what a great time we had.” Or, “I’ll light the candle before bed to relax at night.”
  4. Skip the B.S. If it’s not true, don’t say it. Saying orange is your favorite color if it makes you look sick does not make you noble. Instead, find something you do specifically like about it. “I love the fabric. It’s so soft.” Or, find something you like about the gesture: “I love that you shopped for me. I feel so special.”
  5. Include why you’re grateful for the giver – not just the gift. “I’m so grateful to have a friend like you in my life.” Or, “I feel so lucky to have you looking out for me.” Or, “My days are so much nicer because you are in them.”

Thanks for letting me share this with you. It makes me feel like I’m really making a difference.  (and you are Juls!)