Writing, right.

Have I told you? I've been doing some writing.

I'm planning on attempting to record some stories from the past 11 years or so. It has been a mixed experience so far and I get the sense it will be a massive challenge. Painful and jubilant, but also grinding at times.

It feels like a valuable thing to me, and as I was reflecting this week I feel really good about having it as a task to build my time around.

I'm currently working on the beginning of 2009 and I thought I might share this little bit with you. It makes me feel good about our girl Stacy. A little easier to remember and feel her presence with some words that might have come from her.

Boxing class started the next week and Stacy got stuck right in. Stacy would meet Leila and the group in the parklands and training would last for an hour. Running, punching, squats, running, sit ups, punching, holding pads, punching pads, running, etc. 

The first time Stacy came home she looked like she had be rung loose after an hour in a washing machine. Her face and body were stretched and squeezed, hot and dripping. She sat on the couch and went quiet for a while, quiet. 

‘Good session Stace?’ I proffered with a grin.

‘Oh my God!’ 

‘Really? What’s the story at boxing Muncher?’ enquired her strangely pleased husband. 

‘Oh my God Mike, my arms! I don’t think I can hold them up anymore. It was hard to drive home’ she said dramatically. 

Having opened the flood gates her description flowed. ‘then you have to run around the…you just have to keep punching the pad until…and there are so many stairs...the thing is Mike, that you don’t stop until everyone is done.’ She recounted the session and basked in the effort and the obstacle. 

‘It is great to see you so pumped up and also so worn out Stace. Go and have a shower and lets eat’ I prompted. 

‘I am so hungry, I want a bowl as big as my head’ she threw over her shoulder, closely followed by her shirt as she headed down the hall. The shirt landed with a slap. Training had begun.