Purple Mushrooms

Today I let myself stay in bed a little longer than usual. I didn’t have to get up, so I didn’t.

Later, I rounded up the kids and dragged everyone out of the house. We drove around for a while until we found a little reserve to walk through. It wasn’t a long walk, but it was a start. The fresh air felt good, and for a little while life felt lighter.

Along the walk we spotted all sorts of mushrooms. Purple ones, pink ones—colours I’d never really noticed before. They were beautiful, although definitely not the sort you’d want to eat. Seeing them took me straight back to being a kid, when Dad would take us mushrooming. Back then we’d look for the big white mushrooms with brown gills underneath. Mum would cook them up when we got home. I can still remember the smell filling the house, the cooking water turning almost black, and Dad absolutely loving them piled on toast. It’s funny how a walk through a reserve can bring back memories that have been tucked away for decades.

Back home, we all had a crack at putting a chair together. I started, got frustrated, and handed it over to my daughter. Then, when we got to the harder part, we called my grandson over to help. Between the three of us we managed to get it done. It became less about putting together a chair and more about everyone pitching in to solve a problem together.

Now I’m just sitting here watching TV, and on paper it probably sounds like a pretty ordinary day.

But maybe it wasn’t.

Maybe it was just one of those quiet days that reminds you life isn’t always about big moments. Sometimes it’s about sleeping in without feeling guilty, getting outside, finding unexpected colours in the bush, remembering your mum and dad, working together on something as simple as a flat-pack chair, and ending the day a little calmer than you started it.