Here it is, at the rather splendid Red Room by Kate Harding, who wrote ‘Lessons from the Fat-O-Sphere’.
I particularly like all the swearing.
A good article for me to read today, as I just ate two mini pots of ice-cream and a piece of white chocolate and raspberry cheesecake.
On a completely unrelated issue, after the death of my laptop I’m seriously considering moving over to the other side, and getting a Macbook. Does anyone have the new Macbook Pro? Do you think it’s worth getting it over the ‘basic’ white one? If you have a Mac do you love it?
I have a modest meditation practice of 20 minutes every morning (although if you’ve tried sitting still then you’ll know how long 20 minutes can be!)
The idea is that I sit in lotus position facing a wall, and pay attention to my breath. If I have any thoughts, I just notice them and then return to paying attention to my breath. Simple!
This morning I crossed my legs, started my timer, and started thinking about Galaxy Caramel. I’m going shopping this afternoon and I wanted to add some to my shopping list. Then I returned to my breath. Then I thought about an email I needed to send. Then I returned to my breath. Then I thought about Galaxy Caramels. Then I thought about writing this post, and wrote most of it in my head.
Then I returned to my breath.
You get the picture. What hope do I have of getting anything done, if my mind skips about like a child (or like a Fiona) in a sweetie shop?
The returning bit is the key. It’s the same as being a writer. Life interrupts. Laptops break. Houses flood. It becomes necessary to go out for Galaxy Caramels. But I return to the writing. What else would I return to?
In other news….
Hello to my new readers – good to see you here!
I’ve set up a Questions and Answers group on Goodreads where you can ask me a question about anything you want. I won’t say I’ll answer them, but you can ask… click here.
The Blue Handbag has got even cheaper on The Book Depository (with free worldwide delivery) – here.
And the final stop of the Snowbooks blog tour was at How Publishing Really Works here.
Yesterday I had a craving for cinnamon bagels.
I went to the shop on the way home from work, hoping to buy some for breakfast. I thought about the smell of toasting bagels. I thought about the melted butter dripping onto my fingers.
I got to the bread section. I scanned the shelves. French stick. Croissants. Malted brown rolls. Where are my bagels? MY bagels – I WANT bagels. I should HAVE them.
After a strong ‘gah’ feeling, I recovered my balance. I don’t need bagels, I told myself. I’ll have bagels another day. It’s OK. I went on with my business, heading off to look for sugar.
Just round the corner, on the end of the aisle, there they were. There was one bag of cinnamon bagels left.
What a gift.
If I hadn’t recovered myself, finding the bagels would have felt like turning a negative into a neutral. I had a sense of entitlement. I might have even felt annoyed that they hadn’t been put where I thought they should have been.
Because I’d accepted that I couldn’t have them, I became content with what I already had. Getting the bagels was pure gravy.
Imagine if we could accept EVERYTHING that comes to us as a gift. The sound of traffic outside my window. This orange scented candle burning on my desk. This sip of hot tea. This breath. This one.
PS I had one for breakfast. Cinnamon smell wafted through the kitchen. The melted butter dripped onto my fingers. Yum.
Look at those glossy beauts.
This morning I have dark unctuous blackcurrant jam for breakfast – spread thickly on white toast from a proper bakery.
If I’d bought it from a posh deli, I imagine I’d be enjoying it very much.
As it is, I know these blackcurrants more intimately. I carried their mother home from the garden centre and dug her a hole. I covered her in mesh to keep the birds’ beaks away. I picked them by the handful when they were good and black. I nicked their tops and tails off (who knew this would be such a long job! but perfectly pleasant if performed whilst sat in the sun and listening to birdsong). I boiled them up with sugar. I poured them into jars I’d washed and then baked in the oven.
How distant we have become from most of the food we eat. If you’d kneaded that bread, left it to prove, would you be gobbling that sandwich so quickly, on the run between meetings?
Here’s to jam. It’s nearly all gone. Here’s to every mouthful.