Last Friday I was thrilled to join an inspiring bunch of women in a quaint blue terrace house in Glebe as Sally Swain, with her gentle manner and profound wisdom, created a safe and nurturing haven for us. What a joy it was to have three hours to play and explore our imagination, without purpose or deadline, and allow ourselves to luxuriate in the pleasure of writing.
One of the exercises called for us to meditate briefly about a table, to pick the first image that comes to mind, and then spend five minutes writing whatever surfaces. I wrote about a table which played a special role in my life, and will share my story here, in its unpolished and raw state (the writing that is, not the table!). This short exercise evoked some strong emotions and demonstrated the deep magic of the written word. Can I encourage you to try the exercise yourself?
Every Sunday we gathered around the kitchen table. It was the one day when Dad ventured into the kitchen and took charge of the leg of lamb and crunchy baked potatoes. Arriving home from Sunday School I’d rip off my frilly white dress, put on my play clothes, and enjoy the enticing aromas coming from the kitchen. In my teenage years I would wake late in the morning, often hung-over and weary, but the baked dinner would call to me, and I’d struggle out of bed.
Sunday lunch was our family tradition and no excuse was accepted – you just had to be there. Mum, Dad, three daughters and our occasional boyfriends would sit at that table, connecting after a week of busyness. Dad was always at his most enthusiastic on Sundays, ready to tell you his favourite fishing yarns.
The house is empty now and strangers wander in the back garden. Somebody has already bought the six chairs, but the table stands alone. I had no idea how scratched and wobbly it had become over the years. Covered with a clothe, and surrounded by our laughter and tears, it had been a rock – secure and permanent. I could barely look at it now.
Finally a friendly couple offer me $50 and I reluctantly accept. It is a decent price for an old table at a garage sale. I hide my tears as they carry it away – another precious memory of my childhood disappearing from my view.
As long at the pen keeps moving, I’ll stay sane.
Kerry's Blog 