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Becky Holland
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She smiled that dimply smile and her eyes sparkled telling the story. The giggles made my heart skip a beat, loving how she interacted and loved the play time. Something normal within her normal. 

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Today my tears have flowed remembering last moments of Eleanor. Anger has been felt over misunderstandings and loneliness. It’s not that easy to push on anymore and I long to move forward but it is a strain to push the sheets off me in the morning and to clean the house, to keep on living like nothing happened. I garden and pull weeds, prune trees and plant life in the hope I can watch new life grow, the longing to feel connection to this world once again. Autumn approaches, my favorite season, and Eleanor’s too because she loved the leaves and the trees. Clothes are making me grumpy, my neck hurts, longing to sit, to escape and do nothing but then the other side of me needs to be busy and to move and to do. I keep practicing the routine of living, of exercise, of meeting people and joining in, reading and studying. I keep practicing life so that I won’t fall and crumble. Some days are better and for a brief moment I am lost in conversation and smiles then afterwards invigorated yet worn. Practice, practice I tell myself is the only way forward. Life is precious beyond everything and more. The one you love is beside you one day and the next, life is propelled down a road you never saw coming.

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Now, yet again, like full circle I sit by Eleanor’s bed. I’ve nothing to hold, I outwardly profess hope but my heart hears the chatter, the reality and the truth. It seems to process faster and it realises these moments of loss are the last of many moments never to be held again except in memory, forever eternal. The room has one window a flame tree stands out among the many hospital buildings. The machines attached to Eleanor holding her life are many and I place a mental block on the drugs and machines around me. The nurse always sits by me adjusting and recoding information. The door is closed and at times the curtains drawn and it is dark so it doesn’t hurt Eleanor’s eyes while she sleeps. How did we end up in this moment? Just last week she was at preschool, she was living, bossing and playing. We had planned play dates, school and time seemed more, not counted like now every moment a last.

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The kindness of people is astonishing and we are so grateful for the help of so many. https://www.gofundme.com/help-the-holland-family

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Poetry Workshops with John Ryan
Finding the right words for the landscape is the essence of nature poetry. Adding the five elements of sense, spirit, science, song and story to your poetry will summon nature to the page. Together we will read, write and discuss examples from Australian nature poetry. Come animate your verse by exploring nature poetry in the four seasons in this series of four interactive three-hour workshops. The workshop series is open to beginner and advanced writers.

https://www.trybooking.com/book/event?eid=258468
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These old bones weary and frayed

My thoughts tossed side to side

Walking moment by moment on autopilot

The world moving fast,

The sun looking spent

The day drained of life

The stars rise but are dull tonight

I’m all in,

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Fault Lines

Beauty hiding

Beauty revealed

As I walk this bumpy path I trip, I stumble, I fall

It’s in the eyes, deep within

The years of travel, fractured and small

The tiny roads, the imprints of life

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Over the past weeks and day’s, I’ve woke each morning and a routine I’ve become accustom to has vanished. For years it changed in intensity (hard times, happy times plodding along times) but as it was part of loving Eleanor it was just something we did. But now it is gone, changed, vanished never to be the same, never to return. Routine, what’s that? I thought I’d investigate where this word originated from. According to John Ayto in his book Word Origins the word ‘routine’ is historically linked to the word ‘rut’ which originally denoted the ‘track’ made by a wheel. Ayto goes on to say ‘the etymological notion underlying it is therefore of a path that has been ‘broken’ by constant use, a ‘beaten track’’. But perhaps that fits life as we are all broken in different ways and are all trying to find a path in some direction.


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Sunday morning we would travel

Music high and hearts alive

Singing, talking, loving the drive

Usually the first pick of the seats

Fresh flowers in tiny vases

Or succulents growing in glass houses

A book in hand, a journal too

We would sit and chat
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