This is a good space to be in

Plus, Friday Bouquets aka five things

Photo by Natalie Pedigo on Unsplash

Dear Creative Soul,

I’ve been thinking a lot about community and creativity … and creative communities. This could be because I’m reading so many thought-provoking articles on Substack, and I’m feeling more connected and inspired by this space than other social media. And it could be because I’ve been thinking about people creating together, rather than creating alone: cooking, sewing, painting, dancing, singing, writing.

Toby Lowe writes in his article “What is community and why is it important?” about the “strange power” of the word community:

“It conveys a sense of togetherness and positivity. It speaks both of solidarity and homeliness.”

~ Toby Lowe

He defines community as “a group of people who share an identity-forming narrative”, which makes sense to me.

One of my friends has recently moved back to Perth after ten years overseas - in London and then Houston. We are both foodies - we love to cook and to feast. We can talk about food for hours (and books, although our tastes in literature do not mirror our food loves). She is not a writer, but she loves to sew and is as generous with her textile gifts as she is food. We have decided to gather each month for Friday cooking days - we’ll invite a couple of other food-loving women and spend the day cooking and sharing stories.

Thinking about where my community is has also led me to reevaluate the impact of social media on me - as a writer and a human, so the timing of these articles by Jamie Varon and Sasha Wasley was perfect. In “Being Offline”, Jamie shares her struggles with comparison and how social media exacerbates that - this resonated with me on several levels, especially this quote:

And I think perhaps a month ago, without realizing it, I had become consumed yet again with the constant consumption of other people and their highlighted lives.

~ Jamie Varon

The “constant consumption of other people and their highlighted lives”. Yes. That cuts deep. The endless scrolling. The waste of time and energy, and all the unconscious messaging.

And then, in her Found on Fridays series, Sasha Wasley recently said:

“I find social media is chock-full of bullshit about author success that leaves me feeling like a failure. Even though I know a lot of it is smoke and mirrors, it still makes me feel less than adequate...”

~ Sasha Wasley

Again, yes. I had been thinking the same thing when I read Sasha’s words and it reaffirmed what I had been mulling over for some time.

I don’t want to be consumed by the curated lives of others.

I want to write, to share stories, to read stories, to learn, to grow. Not to wither my soul on a diet of empty comparison calories.

I don’t have the same experience in this space. OK, sometimes I compare my writing with others’ and have a hot flush of imposter syndrome, a wave of comparison-itis. But mostly, I sponge up the articles and notes and, slowly, I feel a community forming around me. Regular faces (names). Restacks and shout-outs. Encouragement.

This is a good space to be in. It is a community. It is where I feel positivity, solidarity, togetherness … a creative home. Thank you to all who have been part of that.

And with that, onto my five things, which I’ve renamed Friday Bouquets, partly as a nod to a lovely tradition I heard of called Friday Flowers and partly as a nod to my love of flowers (and my book Wildflower).

Image: Monique Mulligan

Saturday

My cat seeks attention by sitting on my desk, passively-aggressively breathing loudly next to my ear; today I saw an ad for “Wet Nose Day”, where a local cat refuge hopes to find kind humans for an abundance of cats.

My days are still dominated by apricots: picking, chopping, cooking, sharing. I am simultaneously “over it” and grateful; when I see them in the supermarket, hard and flavourless, in a few months, I will remember what I had.

We take another pot of jam to H at the local kebab shop; H is a Kurdish woman from Iran, who smiles every time she sees us because when we bring her fruit from our garden, it reminds her of life in the mountain home she left behind.

Making Turkish delight shortbread crescents, following a Greek recipe from a friend of a friend; first you mix unsalted butter and sugar, then add cream and vanilla, and finally, the flour, but gradually. Knead, and don’t forget to taste the dough.

The giving circle continues - we offer L a bucket of apricots and some Turkish Delight crescents, she brings over carrot cake and a fabric storage box she’s made. It’s official - our cooking group starts in 2024.

Sunday

My doctor dips a fountain pen into ink to sign a script; I make a mental note for a future book character.

After six weeks of no rain, this morning the air smells of wet earth, of freshly washed leaves, and raindrops linger in the crevices of flowers.

Beach walk: the sun is warm on my back, but the wind is cool, and a seagull screeches overhead. Later, we walk in the bush and it is still damp from morning showers, and I find a glittering spiderweb.

The wildflowers are almost gone from the bush reserve near us, but still there are husks and seed pods and drying stems that say: I was here.

My son tells me he wants to have children; he wants to teach them things, handy things, life things. He says he wants them to be “better than him”, and I understand what he means but I love him the way he is.

Image: Monique Mulligan

Monday

A rumbling sky, a kookaburra laughs: menacing morning melodies.

I have submitted a 3000-word memoir piece to an anthology, and I’m feeling vulnerable and pleased at the same time, but it’s better than the sleepless hours I spent wondering what to write about.

An unfortunate side effect of too many apricots (and it’s not what you think) is overuse and repetitive strain issues, and I’m glad my one tree is not an orchard.

Then, 15: Lying on my bed, reading, eating popcorn, patting my black-and-white cat. Now, 51: Lying on my bed, reading, eating popcorn, patting a different black-and-white cat.

Some music is so extraordinary it gives me goosebumps all the way to my toes.

Tuesday

It is 3 a.m., and as I shuffle to the bathroom, one eye half squeezed open (just enough), I realise I think in tiny observations more often now, as if it is becoming part of my daily routine; there is nothing profound in the current thought. Simply, don’t think yourself awake.

This morning I dropped a glass bowl - my hand couldn’t grasp it. It shattered everywhere and I was late for work. But instead of getting upset, I sighed. I know what I need to do. Rest.

I feel rushed, like the wind blowing up the street, stirring up a purple rain of jacaranda flowers.

I learn today that the flapping sound a pigeon’s wings makes to signal alarm is due to a twisting and torsion of a modified feather and is called “aeroelastic flutter”, which sounds a bit like a dance to me.

I close my eyes to feel and listen to the wind; it stirs dry leaves in the tuart trees into an uproar, lifts the pages of my book, muffles the sounds of cars, sirens, a helicopter, an ambulance approaching an intersection, warm breath on my skin. I open my eyes and a tiny ant is crawling on my arm and I wonder how it didn’t get blown away.

Wednesday

I halve ripe apricots and add them to a saucepan with star anise, cinnamon bark and a light sprinkling of sugar, then stew the mix for ten minutes; the air is thick with a nectarous perfume.

My cat stretches into a delicious yawn beside me, then blinks at me once, twice. I curl around her, my head on her belly, and let the steady vibration of her purr, the in-out of her breath, slide me into a new day.

My husband says his birthday is just another day to him, but to me, it’s another day with him, and I am grateful my life has him in it.

My friend asks if I want to go to the Monet in Paris exhibition; I am transported to the moment I stood before Les Nymphéas de Claude Monet (The Water Lilies) in Musée de l'Orangerie, throat aching, tears sliding down my face.

Salt in the air, sea breeze on my skin, three hundred metres away the waves beckon, but there is my mother-in-law, waving, waiting for us to join her for dinner. Her smile speaks of love and I turn towards her.

Thursday

In the spare bedroom, a visitor, a son I haven’t seen for nine months because he lives seven hours’ drive away. In the kitchen, the kettle boils and two cups wait.

Simple pleasure: plump scones*, still warm, with a scoop of apricot jam so intense my mouth sings, a dollop of thick cream on top**.

A memory: listening to Sting’s Dream of the Blue Turtles in my mid-teens on cassette over and over. Favourite song: Fortress Around Your Heart. It still gets me.

Our compost bin smell of fermenting apricots, the smell leaching from the black plastic. Inside, thousands of worms, writhing, weaving, working, and I am fascinated and repelled at once.

We pick the last of the good apricots - the rest we leave to the birds and insects. We stew them with a knob of ginger ahead of dessert, an apricot crumble with a spiced crumble.

Image: Monique Mulligan

Friday

It is 6.30 a.m. and as I walk and talk with my son from another mother, I feel a rush of love and gratitude for the relationships I have with all four of our kids. We might not all have the same blood, but blood doesn’t always equal love.

The ocean rocks and rolls to music I cannot hear, but today I have no time to dance.

I am listening to Sting’s Russians and hope that love for children will save humanity.

On the bench, a loaf of sourdough bread from the Italian bakery. I have been wanting to make baguettes for weeks, but I have been told to rest my hands, and at the back of my mind a seed of fear lurks.

It is 6.30 p.m. and there are four of us at the table, sharing food and stories, laughing one minute, reflecting the next and then we remember the one who is not with us, the one who started our friendship and now lives in our hearts.

* Biscuits for US folk

** We eat scones Cornish style (we don’t have clotted cream in our supermarkets).