To the guts of the (brain) matter ...

This morning has been a slow moving wander - punctuated with a Rose-like nap in full sun on the deck - compiling a list of questions for this afternoon's meeting with the doctors.
Among them:

'When can I swim again? I must swim.'

A silly fear perhaps in medical terms, but one that makes sense to gardeners: 'doesn't pruning encourage growth?'

The list gets less silly: Benign or malignant ... either way that opens the door to the next question, the real matter, 'let's talk life span'. That's one I know they're going to have standard responses for, like 'it depends on many variables' and other such non-committal, well rehearsed language. But really, they got 15 per cent out, there's still 85 per cent in - and wrapped around blood vessels and other 'important structures'. Well, how fast is it growing? How long until it starts really messing with me? How long have I got? I guess at 38 and all going well I'd given myself another 45 years on this earth - what now, 5? 10? 25? 35?
It's a discussion no-one wants to have, well meaning friends and family whose role it is to help you keep your chin up especially. But really, it's fundamental to all of this: 'benign or malignant' is only half the question, 'how long' is the guts of the story.

I mean, being concerned that your superannuation is in three different funds and budgeting for eating out just twice a week looks pretty stupid if you've got 15 years right?

Putting that walk in Argentina off any longer than it takes to recover from this shit starts to look really dumb too.

70% cacao dark chocolate together with fresh mandarin segments for a late morning snack help all this a little, so too some consultation with a few locals . . .


The wattle birds were too busy but the family of magpies down the driveway, chortling like Swedish backpackers, didn't seem to think there was much to be concerned about. The cormorants, moor hens, the mountain ducks - all seemed to say benign and went back to the rich happenings in, on, under and around the dam.

The swamp harrier, seemingly at play giving the crimson rosellas and the sulphur crested cockatoos a scare with dazzling aerobatics ... I'm sure I saw him wink.

I only speak a smattering of eastern rosella: but I didn't pick up 'malignant' in anything they had to whistle and glark to me. I don't think it's even in their language.

My favourite manna gum, in an elegant forward lean, as if having come out of a glissade down the hillside decades ago and frozen there: seemed to suggest there were broader, wider concerns, possibly related to how many rings you had to count.


Grevillea didn't say much - just burst out a smile that'd light any room.

I didn't think the seriously confused bearded iris - not sure even which hemisphere it is in - was of fit mind to consult, but it's here because it looks beautiful anyway.

Such thoughts are probably best tackled in short bursts.
Celebrating the pumpkin harvest and compiling a list of recipes to use them up is possibly healthier this next hour or two: an Asian styled pumpkin soup with ginger and coriander kiss I am particularly looking forward to this week - benign or malignant.

And another fundamental one for the doctors:

"What if the Hokey Pokey really is what it's all about?"