Don't need to go the gym today! I didn't think I could do this but I did! This morning while my car was being serviced I decided to walk from North Hobart to my sister's house in West Hobart... It took just under an hour and included 40 minutes of walking up a very steep hill! 🤪 A pram made it even more difficult! A great way to get warm on a cold day! #mindovermatter#dontgiveup#morningwalk#fit#almosthadaheartattack 🤣😂
Menyempatkan diri untuk morning walk pagi tadi. sambil carry baby ainaa. benda macam ni kalau tak curi-curi masa memang susah nak jadikan sebagai rutin. hopefully dapat konsisten. ameen.
When I was walking through this arboretum two weekends ago with a friend, I learned that these were asters. (In my mind, I just refer to them as “tiny daisies.”) My two favourite flowers are daisies and Scottish thistles. I only ever put together bouquets of flowers for myself that remind me of my long walks in the Highlands of Scotland two summers ago when I was there writing. I don’t like glossy or waxy, fake flowers. Too showy. All flash, no substance or depth. Back home, when I go into the florist’s fridge (she lets me!) I always choose the “roadside wild flowers.” She always laughs. These asters also make me think of my visit to Sligo and Drumcliffe years ago. I found a clump of marsh daisies down near the strand, a short walk away from where I was staying, and I sat there, on a bit of sand, after having gathered stones from the edge of the sea as the sun rose. I may have picked a marsh daisy to bring home, pressed it in a book. I may have. I may also have gathered stones. Doing that reminds me of my grandmother, who used to collect stones and put them in a crystal rose bowl on her kitchen windowsill. She kept it full of water so that she could see the colours and shapes. Each little stone was a memory, of a place, or a person. I always gather stones. I often have one in my pocket. It makes me feel grounded, rooted to earth, especially on days that may test my heart, head, or spirit. Then, I slip my hand into my pocket and roll the stone around in my palm, remembering that one of my greatest teachers has been the natural world. The Irish sometimes call them “worry stones.” (There is also an unrelated story about a visit to Yeats’s grave and the lure of a particular stone or two there, but it may be slightly off colour and illegal, so that’s for another time, in some dark pub, with me telling the story in a low voice, and a pint of Kilkenny in my hand. 🙄😳)