Kookaburra Laughs

Million Miles Away

2012-02-09T04:59:00.002+11:00

Image from www.weheartit.com

When I was in the midst of the full throttle job search one of the school gate Mums who works full time said to me: "Make the most of this time whilst you aren't working because suddenly you will be, and then all this will seem like a million miles away". Sure enough I am that person now. A million miles away.

Initially I did not miss it at all. I revelled in that separation I was able to shoe horn between myself and the kids and the tireless routine. I waved a gleeful goodbye as they chased their fast walking Dad up the street. Hair unbrushed, jackets half on, shoelaces trailing behind. Character building, I told myself. I enjoyed that final 10 minutes alone in the quiet house that still seemed to echo the madness of the morning rush.

It has been interesting watching Dad finesse his new role. Applying a little more precision and organisation to the job as time has gone by. His initial approach involved a sort of casual savoir faire, some might call arrogance; I would probably choose; ignorance. I think he truly believed that his experiences with the occasional drop off or afternoon sport session might have prepared him for the daily in and out slog of it all. The moods, the whining, the dinner cooking, the cleaning, the shopping, the homework and the fights (the washing we all know still mainly gets left for me). The fatigue. It is a different kind of tired.

I am definitely one of those 'grass is always greener' types. It is a curse. I try hard not to be. I do love a bit of cerebral make believe. It is not conducive to true happiness at all. I have done a lot of work in mindful awareness and other Buddhist practice, a handy tool. But the force is strong in me and the default setting when I am bored and unhappy unfortunately leads to some kind of fantasy.

When I was on the other side of the fence I ached to work, to be recognised as anything other than a Mother. I felt I had lost myself in Mothering and this was somehow a root to my unhappiness. I had defined myself as the person I was before and was yearning to be that person once more.

I see now that things are different than I imagined, I actually define myself first as a Mother. That the role I bemoaned has actually become the thing I am most proud of. The thing that gives me the most strength. The thing I miss most from this other side of the fence.

(On another note I can't actually believe I have finally managed to get a post out, come up for air after being back at work 3 months, hope I can keep it up)

Heart is Home.

2011-10-18T02:13:00.001+11:00

We spent a bit of time painting and re-decorating before the summer holidays, before all our stuff arrived back from Aus (I wrote about it here).

I have blogged a bit about our move back to London and the emotional attachment to furniture and things, so the other day I whizzed about with my new iPhone and took some photos to show the progress and things in their new/old home.

I used the Hipstamatic app to take the photos, mainly as I love the old school look of them, but this app can make even the shittiest photographer look OK, and I like to think I am pretty OK having picked up a few tips from the husband who is a pro.

Since we live in London and we are Australian I have wanted to bring a little of the sea and sun into our home here. We are blessed with much light in our home, lots of windows, and with our various hues of white and soft grey to reflect and bounce the light around I have introduced some blue and green and yellow to bring some watery beachy elements into our environment and help us survive the coming darkness.

My absolute decorating hero is Terence Conran. Somewhere I once read that he says always start with a neutral shell and only add touches colour in the decor.

Black and white entrance with the discontinued Urchin light from Habitat that I adore.

My table is back in its original home. I blogged about the table here. It is a part of our family. I replaced the black chandeliers with Kartell FLY lights in blue and sage oceany colours.

Kookaburra friends are here with us too.

Our family of 5 as brass elephants from one of Brad's tours in Asia. Beyond, a favourite photo of my very glamorous Grandmother Meg.

The Living room.....one day it will be larger when we convert the loft and then can knock through that wall into Jack's room.....but for now it works fine with the 5 of us, but as the kids get bigger and the house starts filling up with beefy teens and their mates we really will need more space. In fact when we have friends over with extra kids it can get pretty squishy. So the loft must happen soon or we move.

The wave art on the wall care of the lovely Fernanda, her work is gorgeous.

Another gifted painting of the trees in our local park sits above the first serious things I ever bought for my first apartment in Sydney. I think they might be Parker chairs and I love them. The gorgeous yellow handbag is a recent Etsy purchase from here.

Big S and small S, like the two ladies in the house. Antique whiskey decanter from my Mum's collection. Yellow candlestick from the flea markets in Berlin.

Here is the carpet I wept on and wrote about here.

Here I am weeping.....

I wrote about the Kookaburra painting here. And the cupboard here. And here they are.

My friend Marina painted this fun beach painting for me. We used to have it up behind the dinner table and it was always such a talking point, especially with the kids. Now it is here in the stairwell, a happy thing to see each day on this busy staircase, especially when it is grey and cold outside.

Top floor....where I am right now, is our office space. A great light filled spot with a full view out the window down to the garden bellow where the seasons change with such intensity.

The view out the window right now looks a little like this painting my son did a year or so ago.

Love this photo of me and Suki as a newborn. You forget how quickly they grow. It sits above the computer and the scale of it never ceases to amaze....my nose is nearly as big as her face! Her whole head fits perfectly in my hand.

This guy is pinned up on the pin board. It's an advertising tear out from an old French magazine celebrating the 150th anniversary of the 'discovery' of Australia! Interesting they chose this image.....

Ganesha...he is a favourite friend from Sri Lanka.

This is the sleeping corner of the younger kids room. An Eames rocker for story time (actually the world's most uncomfortable chair, but it looks nice right?).

Some of Suki's trinkets from our travels.

I had this picture in my room as a girl. She's still with me. Lucien thinks she's creepy but I still find the girl in the beech tree forest listening to the red robin kind of magical.

Perhaps this Shepard Fairy is more his thing? Girl with the rose grenade.

Finally, and I know the Buddha is SO overdone in homes these days, but we do try to live by the Five Precepts and I write about that journey from time to time like here. I am starting an 8 week course in Mindfulness this week at the London Buddhist Centre. So here he is.

There are still a million jobs to be done, it is a work in progress. But most importantly, I like to be here. My heart is home.

Fraud

2011-09-30T06:11:00.001+10:00

I went to see the oddest Ruby Wax show in the West End earlier this week. If you are thinking acerbic, quick witted humour, well sure there is a bit of that. However, the show, entitled "Losing It", was more like a painful public airing/therapy session dealing with Ruby's personal battle with depression.

It was an exploration in using humour as a sort of group therapy. It was messy and uncomfortable. She had taken it to The Priory and played to the inmates (is that what you call them?). Her line is 'If you can make depressed people laugh then you've got a good show'. I am not so convinced.

I went with a friend who has been living with a seriously depressed partner for many years and I have seen this condition ravish the family's strength and reserve. For my friend the whole performance left her unsatisfied and angry, neither relieved from a great laughter release nor buoyed by a sense of connection and support.

Ruby's demise into depression is covered in detail in the first half. The usual suspects were covered; parents, upbringing, school bully's, being/looking different etc. But she also talks candidly about Motherhood and careers, loss of confidence and jealousy.

She talked about feeling like a fraud. From being the one at school who everyone picked on or ignored, to then becoming famous and applauded. Asking herself, "When are these people going to discover I am really not this person but rather the bucked tooth loser from high school?"

I have had the fraud conversation a bit lately.

A friend recently described this feeling (the fraud one) as part of the female condition. The self doubting, the guilt, the lack of confidence. Do men feel the same sense of fear? I am sure they experience fear, but does it come from the same place?

I am going back into the real life workforce after a reasonably pre-longed Mothering break. I describe quite regularly to my friends the sense of fraudulence I feel. On the one side claiming/believing I am capable and experienced and on the other seriously doubting my ability and worth.

But apparently even woman who haven't had breaks from work and hold lofty respected positions of power are secretly questioning themselves, doubting their ability, all the while clearly being applauded and accoladed for their skill.

I had lunch with a friend today who reminisced about the old days before kids and remembered having moments back then, as she produced huge TV commercial shoots, of thinking to herself, "Am I really doing this? Can I really do this?"

My sister and I wondered if this is all because, for as much as feminism has done to free us, we still feel deep down like it is a man's world, we are not really on an even playing field. We are posers and fakers in a world that doesn't really belong to us. Interestingly Ruby does mention the man vs woman earning equality divide. Comparing the salaries of the husband to the level of subservience of the wife, and the fact that in reverse it is never the case.

I think the fear us Mum's feel stems from the invisibility of Mothering. From being unseen and unheard whilst giving up so much of ourselves to this relentless job. There is no question that we relinquish ourselves to the job through pure hearted love. But the fact that there is no professional 'man's world' recognition for the skill and dedication of Mothering well can make it feel like a huge black hole in the landscape of your experience.

This isn't a question of whether I think you should stay at home or not, the whole issue has always been a spiky one for me. I won't lie either, Mothering has provided me some of the greatest highs yet also the lowest lows. Depression is something I know about too now. I do believe the job of Mothering is completely undervalued and any woman who can navigate sanely through those murky waters should be awarded with any job they desire.

So facing up for work in the real world again is slightly frightening. Fronting up from the trenches with the confidence to say "Hell yeah I can do that" takes so much courage.

All the while the little man in the back of your head is yelling out "FRAUD FRAUD".

Silky Smooth

2011-09-28T20:00:00.005+10:00

I live in an area of London with quite a large Turkish population. Amongst the many kebab houses and Turkish cafes serving jaw grinding coffee there are a lot of places dedicated to hair.

It is an obsession.

Both the coiffing and the removing of hair is big time around here. Much time and money is spent upon these pursuits. I am not just talking about the chicks either. You want an old fashioned hot cloth and shave, there are a million barbers to do the job. Back hair? No problemo. For a princely sum a course of IPL will transform you from Fozzie Bear into Bear Grylls in a matter of months. Well, perhaps not quite.

"You Don't Mess with the Zohan" is a favourite movie round at our joint and "silky smooth" is definitely something I like to be.

Best thing about removing my downy mouse coloured fuzz around this neighborhood is that I don't feel freakish at all. As an hirsute whitey, it ain't nothing compared to some of the stubborn thick black stubble these 'removal' girls face on a daily basis.

I do get a peculiar kick out of sitting in the waiting room and seeing girls in the full niqab coming in for a Brazilian.

http://www.cartoonstock.com/directory/n/niqab.asp

Threading is where it is at for the face and especially eyebrows. I didn't see much or any of this available whilst in Australia and perhaps for the most part it is all going on behind closed doors. But for the face there is nothing better for fine blonde hair, or darker hair for that matter. Forget the mo bleach girls. And for eyebrows, threading really offers the most precise and longest lasting results.

My Mother took me for my first 'mo' wax somewhere toward my later high school years. All the other girls were using the bleach which only seemed to accentuate the situation. Sometime after that I probably got my first leg wax too. It was some time later I first heard talk of bikini shaping and trimming or vajazzles for that matter. More than twenty years later I hate to think what I have spent on the pursuit of silky smooth.

Threading is an ancient Middle Eastern method of hair removal. It involves using a long, thin, twisted length of cotton thread and rolling it along the hair line pulling the hair out from the follicle. It is obviously something someone has to perform upon you and I reckon takes a fair amount of practice to perfect the technique, it is practically an art form.

According to Wikipedia, threading the entire female face is a practice common in Middle Eastern culture as a sign she has reached maturity, done for special occasions such as weddings. Who started this whole obsession with women needing to look like twelve year old girls on their wedding day?

I don't have that much unsightly facial sprouting but a nicely shaped brow makes the whole face seem different. Threading is by far a much less invasive practice than smearing hot wax on your face. It is actually almost mesmerising and nearly relaxing. (You really do know you are a tired and stretched woman when you can have a wee kip whilst having your bikini region attended to with a bucket of hot wax.)

Silky smooth.....mmmm

Browbeaten

2011-09-23T02:45:00.002+10:00

Huddled on the floor of the living room. Wet cloth in hand. I rested my head on the new carpet. My heart lay heavy in my chest and I could feel tears welling up from that lump in the back of my hoarse throat.

He was upstairs in his room. Sobbing his little heart out.

"Please don't yell at me Mummy".

Motherhood.

It is not always rosy.

I spend a bit of time checking out other blogs, mostly interior porn but the occasional Mummy blog too.

There are a lot of rose tinted versions of family life to take your pick from and thereby feel totally inadequate.

A parenting failure.

A lot of photos of cute babies on jaunty sepia toned European holidays. Of neat little corners in colourful homes tended by SAHM's who's lives appear to be totally fulfilled with the baking and making and crocheting of wonderful wonderful.

Parental gloating.

It is not really like that. Surely?

Fleeting moments only.

I sometimes lie in bed at night fretting about my children. Feeling the leaden weight of their future upon my shoulders.

They fuck you up, your Mum and Dad. And with the best intentions. We just really can't help it.

This Be the Verse BY PHILIP LARKIN

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.

They may not mean to, but they do.

They fill you with the faults they had

And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn

By fools in old-style hats and coats,

Who half the time were soppy-stern

And half at one another’s throats.

Man hands on misery to man.

It deepens like a coastal shelf.

Get out as early as you can,

And don’t have any kids yourself.

We are not infallible. And sometimes the decisions we make as parents are going to have repurcussions we are not proud of.

Sometimes, when we are discouraged by a difficult situation, anger does seem helpful, appearing to bring more energy, confidence and determination. And while it is true that anger brings extra energy, it eclipses the best part of our brain: its rationality. So the energy of anger is almost always unreliable. It can cause an immense amount of destructive, unfortunate behavior. - Dalai Lama

Is it rational to lose it over spilt milk on the new carpet?

Is it rational to lose it when children do childish things?

Is it rational to raise our voices?

In the Buddhist teachings it tells us that there is no such thing as righteous anger. However, none of us are immune to the destructive forces of anger. Life is constantly throwing up difficult situations and we have a choice whether or not to react.

The tears on the carpet incident occurred mid school holidays. Things have greatly improved now we all have a little more focus and routine. But the fact is I really don't enjoy losing it or raising my voice. I always feel totally defeated.

If we can remember to take a deep breath during these stressful moments, and remind ourselves that we have a choice, more often than not the more rational options will then have an opportunity to be heard.

No need to hand on the misery. Avoid the browbeating and embrace the loving kindness.

Sometimes easier said than done.

Less is More.

2011-08-15T06:35:00.001+10:00

The last week in London has been fairly challenging to say the least. Summer holiday mayhem, madness, machiavellianism.

And that is just in my own home let alone what has been going on in the streets.

I must admit I had a moment one evening last week. Lying on the sofa, with Brad away in Birmingham just as the riots kicked off there, I briefly wondered why I had removed my children from their carefree, barefooted sunny freedom and brought them back here. A dark moment in a night filled with sirens and a palpable tension.

It has taken me a week to remind myself why we made the decision we did. A friend once told me that there are no good or bad decisions, just decisions. From those decisions we learn valuable lessons. We make a choice and we need to make the most of what we have. Live in the moment without regrets or attachments.

Many of my readers will know that my decision making process (with regard to this return to London) was long and considered, even painful and tiresome. I recently read a great article here about making difficult decisions, and I reckon I can tick quite a few of the those suggestions, and therefore rest easy in this place.

I decided to start a photo diary on my Facebook page to document the things I love about London. As a way to focus on the positive. Because there are always surprises and random moments of beauty and wonder in this city. If we take them for granted, then it is easy to only see the dark and dirt and chaos.

Having left this city for a few years for some soul cleansing in my homeland, I have returned with a deeper understanding of what it takes to survive here. In a city of constant motion, where the energy flows like a thunderous river, nearly visible to the naked eye. Ever so mesmerizing, so easy to fall in and be swept away with the currents, tossed and tumbled and washed ashore like a piece of useless flotsam, miles from where you started or intended to go (this of course can sometimes be a good thing).

We have to be able to know when to stand behind the yellow line. Take a seat and breath. To observe the motion without feeling we have to jump on board.

I received another of my daily truths from Brave Girls Club today, and as I quite often find, it was a timely message about slowing down, not getting caught up in the race to have everything (or at least what we are lead to believe is everything we need). Stopping in the moment without grasping for the next.

This message applies to life in every corner of the globe.

Here I Am

2011-07-10T08:35:00.000+10:00

We have been painting.

It is quite physical and at the same time meditative. Also hugely satisfying to paint over the stains left from a time that went before.

We are re-decorating our house, yet it also feels in some way like we are re-decorating our life. The scars and stains we know exist, we have lived through the mess. Now we are starting out fresh. On a clean page. An exciting new chapter.

The colour palate is, quite unsurprisingly, white. Who would have thought white would come in so many shades. That light from different angles can make the same shade change so dramatically from room to room. Surely there is something metaphorical in that?

I want it bright and cool with a splash of colour here and there. A happy space. A haven from the urban chaos and long winters to come. A welcoming family home.

The repetitive up and down of the roller on the wall provides a space to think, and of course, in covering over what went before, my mind comes to pass over what has been and gone. Back and forth. Up and down. Covered now in a thick layer of paint. Not without a little sweat and pain and irritation.

Will we even remember what it looked like before? With time it will become harder to recall the details. New life and memories will be breathed into the space, upon the clean slate.

When you leave a place for a long enough period and have the opportunity to return and see things through different eyes, with a fresh perspective, it is not necessarily going to be a more favourable outlook, but fresh all the same.

For me this time round, returning to London, it is like coming home. I could never have imagined I would say that about London. Yet its noise and dirt are surprisingly soothing.

It is nice to leave a place and come back to find it has improved, evolved. We tend to feel that when we travel and return it is us that change, and we grapple with our new relationship with self and place.

I live in an area of London that is gentrifying. Yet it is doing so in a way that doesn't feel exclusive. There is a mix of cultures and colour and age to keep it vibrant. Its new breed of residents fight to maintain and enhance its sense of community. Fighting the multinationals to keep it local, encouraging and supporting the creative force and spirit. Whilst I have been away attending my own inner battles this place has also kept moving and expanding its outlook.

For us, upon our return, the community welcomed us. We are a part of the tightly woven fabric upon this small part of the Greater London tapestry. We felt both warmed and slightly taken aback. It was proof that time invested is returned.

It is not going to rally around like a small country town, the weak do get left behind. I was weak and I was broken when I left, and etched into the old paintwork were all those years of toil.

I am grateful to have had the opportunity to heal in the land of plenty, my home land Australia. This gratitude I will carry always, and I wrote about it recently here.

I did learn that loneliness and depression are not symptoms of place. We can feel a deep void even in paradise.

Paradise can also become a little tiresome. A little like retiring from life.

For us, this place has a constant palpable heartbeat. By choosing to live here we are in someway more alive. Perhaps via osmosis. Sucking up and drawing on the collective energy, the transient force of such coming and going.

I feel alive again. No longer in transit. I am not waiting to be or to go. I am here.

The whims of the city.

2011-06-12T22:59:00.002+10:00

http://weheartit.com/entry/6882838

As the train rolled into the station the dawn light offered up a soft warm glow that gave an almost celluloid quality to the scene.

After an arduous journey on the overnight train from Geneva I was excited to have finally arrived in Spain. En route to Barcelona, city with a rich and rebellious history. Home to artists and intellects, vagabonds and bohemians. City of wide majestic boulevards and dark Gothic alleyways. Of crumbling decay and architectural brilliance.

As we alighted the train to the platform, a chilly morning breeze greeted us and the first of the autumn leaves scuttled across the track. Then I felt it, something warm and wet landed on my head. WELCOME TO SPAIN it seemed to say.

They say it's a sign of good luck when a bird craps on your head. But it never feels that way at the time, and especially so after an all night journey on a crowded train.

A day or so later, in a hostel room in Barcelona, I jumped out of the shower and pulled on a tight white t-shirt. I checked my reflection in the mirror. Had my breasts grown? Well that certainly would have been a great fortune, perhaps the bird poop theory really was true after all.

I twisted and turned, this way and that, trying to get a better look at myself from different angles, admiring the large pert breasts that had seemingly appeared overnight. Perhaps I had just gained a little weight with all the bread and cheese on the backpacker menu.

Then it came to me. From far off in the distance, within that 19 year old consciousness of mine, something was trying to grab my attention. Leaping around waving a large bright flag. And like the Bull to the Toro all I could see was red.

Pregnant.

As I watched, the reflection of the girl in front of me changed in an instant. Just moments before she'd been bursting with the light and sparkle of a young woman brimming with the possibilities of her new found freedom.

Ashen face. Grey eyes. Panic in the pit of her stomach. What would happen now?

I hated Barcelona in that moment. For its dirt and noise and thieves. For delivering this devastating news. For providing the backdrop to what seemed like a great disaster. For reducing my world to just four dirty stained walls. For crushing my hopes and dreams.

I couldn't have known then, that only a few years later, that same city would compensate me for this burden, open its heart and soul, and provide for me a liberating, seminal experience upon my journey as a young women finding her way in the world.

And then much later still would yet again provide the backdrop to the beginning of possibly one of the most unsettling yet enlightening periods of my life.

I didn't have the baby. It wasn't the time for us.

I was however spellbound by that city. Sucked into her womb. Beguiled by her beauty and wisdom. Hypnotised by her charms. At the mercy of her whims.

I'd be surprised to meet anyone that has spent time in Barcelona and not been moved in some way by her spirit. Her enigmatic charm weaves tales for all that encounter her.

I know now the bird poop was indeed a welcome. For a part of my soul was rejoicing. A part of my soul had come home. Over the years, since that fateful morning on the train platform, I have had a grand love affair with Spain.

In her embrace, under her watchful eye, I grew up**.

(**A lot of my Spanish friends will be rolling off their chairs in fits of laughter reading that! Yeah I know I didn't behave like a grown up alot of the time, but you know what I mean!)

Four O

2011-05-31T14:04:00.000+10:00

Two score.

Two by twenty.

Four decades.

Four by ten.

Forty.

There, I said it.

Hard to believe that only one hundred years ago what was expected for my life, in terms of years, would almost be over. I'd be entering my twilight years.

Nowadays, unless fate has other plans, I am expected to reach the ripe old age of 81.5. What's better is I don't even have to look that age if I choose not to. So essentially 40 really is middle age.

How are you suppose to feel at middle age? In our minds I am not sure we ever get any older than some point in our twenties perhaps. Aside from being infinitely wiser than I was at twenty (Oh, to have had the knowledge then!), I feel the same as always.

"Youth is wasted on the young." said George Bernard Shaw. How we dream at forty to have the bodies and stamina we did at twenty. How I lament at forty that I that I didn't appreciate my youth more at the time (well maybe I did because I do remember having a really fucking good time).

My 30's were pretty challenging. By half way through I had given birth to three (healthy and beautiful) children. I had also lost my Mother. Those two things alone are enough to irreparably scar the body and mind and soul. Etching the strain and pleasure upon our faces as we stumble through the years.

Now I am here at forty.

I face it with the resolve to not to look backwards, but rather look forward to the decade ahead as a new and exciting adventure. One where I carry with me the lessons and experience of half a lifetime. Feeling more self assured and confident than ever in who I am and what I want.

As Doctor Seuss so splendidly puts it:

“Be who you are and say what you feel because those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind.”

And that is precisely how I intend to forge ahead.

"I am off to Great Places!

Today is my day!

My mountain is waiting,

So... I'll get on my way!"

Mother Land

2011-05-24T14:05:00.000+10:00

I feel truly blessed to call Australia home.

She always opens her arms to me when I need her most.

She always opens her arms to embrace her children. Never questioning, never judging. Unconditionally welcoming home all the sisters and brothers unto her warm and nurturing bosom.

Yet she never grips too tightly. Just enough to let you know there is always a place for you in her heart, no matter how far you stray.

Freedom to roam is our national birthright. Global wandering. Following our own particular songlines wherever they may take us. For many of us those lines lead us to prosperity and fulfillment in far off places.

I am grateful for her generosity. For her kindness. For knowing how to heal my wounds. For providing a safe and clean and comfortable sanctuary. For always believing in me. For encouraging me to follow my dreams. For giving me the self confidence and drive to pick myself up and carry on. Always knowing she is there to support me.

I love her like a Mother. It is tumultuous at times. She gets on my nerves just as much as I can't live without her. She is the wind beneath my wings yet living permanently within her clutches is stifling.

Like many Aussie's who choose to live abroad, and especially in loud, crowded, mad places like London there is an enduring lightness to our spirit. An ease with which we are able to face each day, brushing off the dirt and grime that so quickly gathers.

My sister once explained this as a secret we all carry in our souls. A strength and resolve gained from the knowledge that a haven exists for us . A special place to which we may retreat, retire, restore.

I have used her for all of those reasons these last few years. I thank her for that privilege.

When next I call I know she'll put the kettle on and make up my bed, and there will be joy in her heart as she welcomes home another child to recount their adventures.

Wrapping her arms gently around me as I place my head against her chest and feel her warmth. All will be well in the World.

Procrastination is my middle name.

2011-05-17T11:58:00.000+10:00

I shouldn't be writing this at all. But rather attending to the pile that is thus:

And thus:

Oh, the crap you accumulate with children.

International movers are coming on Thursday.

It's a quiet child free day and all I want to do is sit here with the heater on my feet whilst sipping a hot cup of coffee and write about all the stuff that's been going on my head.

There are a few projects beckoning too. More furniture makeovers.

I want to strip this beautful cabinet back whilst I still have a garden big enough to handle the fumes.

I spent some of yesterday and Sunday stripping off that horrible baby poo yellow paint they loved in the 60's from this trolley that I salvaged from my Grandfather's estate. It looks so good.

I could have been packing and organising but I found half a can of paint stripper left over from this chair project.

Salvaged from Vinnies for a buck each, a set of these fabulous mid century dining chairs. Stripped and treated and re-upholstered. I am in love.

I'm on a roll.

Unfortunately no room in the London home for this project. It will be available at the garage sale along with these Parker dining chairs I never got round to.

But I have to reel myself back in to the job at hand.

Organising three distinct areas:

One for packing on the ship bound for London town.

Another for the garage sale.

A third for storage.

People ask if I am excited about the move, about returning to London and all that it entails.

Not currently amongst all this chaos.

But I will be. Probably about a day or two before we go and everything here is sorted.

I am definitely looking forward to many things; to change, to new beginnings, to opportunity, to friends and much much more. But that is a whole other post for when this week is over.

Until then, I will be surrounded in cardboard and packing tape and lots of dust and memories.

In Transit

2011-05-06T23:08:00.000+10:00

Image care of Estan Cabigas

So another two month single Mother stint begins. Hopefully the last for a long while.

Brad's gone on ahead of us. Back to London. Launching full tilt back into work. Preparing a little bit of financial padding before we arrive in July.

He almost didn't leave, which had nothing to do with the usual culprits like killer hangovers and sleeping in. His plane was grounded for security reasons. It seems someone had left a mobile phone on the plane. These days that's enough set off a full blown security panic and totally screw with a whole plane load of passenger's plans.

Meanwhile, somewhere else, the mobile phone owner was experiencing that sinking moment of realisation and panic whilst pulling apart the contents of his bag.

Brad missed his connecting flight in Dubai and is now pacing the halls of the airport. No doubt cursing the phone dude, but perhaps quietly wondering whether it's his karma after all.

He left his phone at the departure desk during a recent trip. It was 6am, he'd been up drinking all night. It was a predictable outcome. I wonder now if a similar security situation occurred. Whilst he snored and dribbled onto the passenger beside him, back at the airport all hell was breaking loose.

I noticed that a friend had recently joined a new Facebook page entitled something like: Bin Laden is dead, so let me pack my shampoo already!.

Indeed the liquids restriction has been an international travel disaster. I know it came to play in the hope that it would divert a real disaster. But the collective heartache and anger it has caused us travellers could surely create enough force to manifest it's very own large scale natural disaster. I have seen people in tears, fuming with rage as their recently purchased duty free items have been confiscated at security.

When the liquid ban first came down it was a blanket NO LIQUIDS at all. I often wondered what happened to all those full bottles of Channel perfume I'd see lined up behind the x-ray counters at security.

It must have been a lucrative time to be a security officer at an airport. A bit like being a waiter in a fine dining restaurant where the tips are revered. At the end of the shift they all sat around sharing out the days goods.

Later, when the liquids rule changed, it never seemed to be the same set of rules in every country. What was OK in the UK was not the same in Singapore. This surely encouraged the continuation of a whole new black market trade in confiscated goods.

I went to Europe last year and stopped to transit in Bangkok.

Transit: a timeless space, a limbo land. Where sleepy, discombobulated passengers float about in a daze. A large cavernous place that echoes with both silence and chatter all at once. Where an odd energy permeates the air, a mixture of excited anticipation, anxiety and melancholy.

I tend to buy a litre or two of water for the plane ride in whatever airport I am departing. I have learnt now to only ever do this once past security. Pay the premium, but at least board the aircraft with my precious hydrating liquid.

Once off the aircraft in Bangkok, before being herded into the transit area, all passengers must first go through security where the usual 'no water bottles' rule applies. The fact you have clearly just gotten off a plane with that bottle of water in your luggage doesn't seem to count for anything. But rules are rules. What are you going to do? Make a scene? And what time is it anyway?

I found a spot to purchase more agua, a cheap joint on the lower floor away from the Cartier boutiques and overpriced seafood bars. The time was approaching to snap out of the transit fug and find the boarding gate.

As I paced towards the gate I could feel the distance growing between myself and Transit, and with it an increasing sense of direction and purpose. I really had someplace to go. A destination awaited me. Suddenly time was relevant again.

But alas, yet another security check ahead. The Liquids Nazi strikes at the very last hurdle. I was disgruntled to say the least. I pleaded. I disputed. I made a scene.

In that echoing soundless space my rage was palpable and I didn't care. The ridiculousness of it all was infuriating. I threw my unopened water bottle into their clear plastic bags with the most graceful attempt at contempt I could muster.

I realised then why the water was so cheap in that last stop shop. It's recycled. All those misguided travellers. The shop owner has never experienced such a prosperous period of growth in profits.

I've been in transit for a while myself now. Discombobulated, (how cool, I get to use that word twice in the same post) in the beginning at least. But this last year or so certainly in limbo, between places. Seemingly floating, timelessly, through days and weeks. No fixed direction. A friend suggested that perhaps that's just how we all feel after having a few kids. There could be some truth in that.

But I know am going somewhere now. I have a direction. Purpose. I am heading towards that departure lounge with long, steady confident strides. A whole new chapter awaits for us to begin. We are gathering momentum.

Boarding.

Deranged Bunny

2011-04-24T22:19:00.000+10:00

Dear Mister Easter Bunny,

Hi how are you? I was just wondering if you could take a photo of yourself on the camera please. And not to be rude or anything, but people say, and there is this movie about what I am about to say called Hop. Does Easter Bunny, you, digest and drop jelly beans out of your backside? Because if it is true can you please do it.

PS You are the best

I will also leave you a carrot

Jack xxoo

Jack, who mostly behaves like a world weary ten year old bad ass gangsta rapper, decided to write the Easter Bunny a note. This suggests that perhaps he still is a child under that tough and cool exterior and that he may still hold onto the vague hope that myths such as EB and Santa might just be real.

However, his innocent and sweet intentions were set to ruin upon the discovery that his seven year old brother had already marked the other side of the page with the following depiction of me:

That's me! Flipping the bird. Naked. Leaking breasts. Dilated pupils. Definitely not a vajazzle in sight. Let's face it, looking pretty unhinged and deranged.

Jack and I were equally disturbed by the discovery of this image and for entirely different reasons. We did however both agree that Easter Bunny probably wouldn't like it and that it might be a good idea to re-write the note on a clean sheet of paper.

The kids discovered this morning that EB doesn't drop jelly beans but bullets instead. It's an Aussie thing.

I've discovered what I really look like through the eyes of my children and have been considering a course of therapy to recover some semblance of sanity and positive self image.

Going for Good

2011-04-21T14:32:00.000+10:00

Are you going for good?

I get asked this regularly. But I am not sure what it really means. I guess it means; you ain't coming back for a while, are you? And I guess the answer is probably; no, I guess we ain't.

However, the term 'for good' has such a ring of permanence to it. I feel that by answering yes we are somehow bound to the decision, we can never return, re-neg or rebound. Stuck forever in that place we choose to go.

But aren't we all in a state of impermanence? Anicca.

" Anicca is a Pali word for "impermanent." The Buddha taught that everything conditioned is impermanent. To be conditioned is to be dependent on or affected by something else, and Buddhism teaches that all phenomena, including beings, are conditioned.

The transitory nature of all conditioned things is the basis of life. Because all phenomena are in a state of flux, change is possible. New life is possible, and enlightenment is possible, because of anicca."

As a child I travelled quite a lot. I don't find the notion of moving house, town or country particularly stressful. Our reasons for moving weren't motivated by poverty or misfortune. My experience was always one of adventure and excitement. I felt safe and secure wherever we went. I come from a long line of professional global shifters. Most of the male members of our family having served in the Air Force and others being adventurous entrepreneurs. All the women adept in packing up house.

So we shift again to the other side of the globe. The only thing I won't do next time is ship the entire contents of my house. Travelling light is the key to this global shape shifting gig.

I have had a bit of advice lately on what to take and what to off load. Some say take only the items that have a real purpose. In this they refer to something practical I am sure. But I can't overlook the value in an emotional connection to the pieces we surround ourselves with at home.

This chest of drawers some would argue is completely expendable and readily replaced.

But I created the story behind it. I salvaged the drawers, then lovingly restored and painted them with a beautiful Farrow and Ball colour. They also fit perfectly in the alcove beside the bed in our London home.

And what for the trinkets and pictures on top? They all have meaning and history. They remind us of who we are and where we have come from.

A friend once suggested that having a single item of furniture that travels with us from home to home would give the kids a sense of continuity.

The piece I chose to fill this job is our kitchen table. Perhaps a rather large and cumbersome choice I will admit, but there is more to it.

A slab of European oak made to measure. Slightly wider than the usual measurement and about 6ft long. A wide matching bench runs down one side to squeeze lots of kiddies upon. The chairs I recently salvaged and renovated myself.

More than the obvious practical purpose of the table there runs a romantic notion too. The idea to have one central bit of furniture around which family life evolves. The focal point for family activities, the heart and soul of the home.

What better item than a kitchen table? Of course it rarely looks like the photo suggests. It's usually covered in stuff, the dumping ground, both literally and metaphorically. It sees and hears everything this table. It's been around the world!

My romantic vision sees this table staying with us forever. I am not sure it's even made so well to stand up to the expectations I have put upon it. Nor do I treat it so well that it should want to stay with us forever.

But already after less than five years the surface is marked with time and memory. Ink marks and scratches and stains that connect us to our past and remind us of who we are and where we have been, that root us to the place, wherever that might be.

So in packing up this home my guidelines will conform to not only the practical uses for the items selected but their true value in terms of connecting us to our home and to our past, and providing the comfort and stability that allow us to accept and conquer the challenges that lie ahead.

How do you travel? What are your packing guidelines?

Kookaburra friends

2011-04-11T14:49:00.000+10:00

Grateful for....

2011-04-09T14:08:00.000+10:00

As I was hanging up yet another load of washing on this fine and glorious day (which incidentally I am very grateful for; the sunshine and being able to get a tonne of washing done) a strange and totally foreign thought entered my mind.

I wasn't feeling the usual dread at the imminent arrival of my Mother-in-Law but rather a sense of relief. And believe me, 'relief' and 'Mother-in-Law' are certainly not concepts which usually go together when contemplating the arrival.

But you see she is arriving with a task already laid out for which she may apply herself contentedly. Brad slashed his foot in a surfing accident yesterday afternoon. Foot and leg injuries are his forte.

Instead of spending my Friday night curled up with a glass of red and a good movie I was in fact at the local A&E awaiting the patient to emerge. And emerge he did with a giant bandage and multiple stitches and strict instruction not to move about very much for 3 days.

School holidays. Crippled husband. Things weren't looking promising. But alas our very own nurse maid is soon to arrive. For this I am grateful. Although maybe I am speaking too soon.

On a metaphysical or spiritual level the feet are all to do with one's connection to Mother Earth. Or the Mother! Injuries can represent our fear of moving forward, literally slowing us down and perhaps making us take a deeper look. Also they are said to be the storage location for old grief and resentments, stored in the feet far away from the heart.

"Louise Hay suggests that feet represent our understanding of ourselves, of Life, and others, and toes represent minor details of the future." Compassionate Dragon

And I am always grateful for delving beneath the surface and conquering fear, releasing blockage and understanding ourselves on a deeper level.

As usual this is all part of Maxabella's Grateful blog hop, check it out.

Have a GREAT weekend.

Bedazzling down under

2011-04-05T12:41:00.000+10:00

image care of http://www.reviveme.com.au/vajazzling/

There’s been a recent wave of blog posts dedicated to the new black of vagina grooming (here and here and this one is hilarious). That is: Vajazzling. Otherwise known as bedazzling your private bits, as brought to the wider global audience thanks to Jennifer Love Hewitt. So I thought I would join the bandwagon.

I initially posted a little status update and link on my FB page earlier this week, I won't link that here as it's a little inappropriate and might attract the wrong kind of audience. Needless to say there was a huge response in the comments section. The whole idea really captured the collective imagination.

My errant husband returns from an epic 6 week trip abroad tomorrow. He hasn’t seen a vajajay in a while. I am not sure he could care less about the vajazzle, and quite frankly I doubt he’d even notice in the initial frenzy that possesses a deprived man. That’s not to say I didn’t prepare myself to a suitably presentable standard. It’s the least I could do.

But when a friend mentioned he’d been ‘Pejazzling’ for some time now I began to question just how far I’d slipped off the fashion radar. I spotted my daughters jar of craft jewels and a stick of UHU and considered the possibilities.

In searching around on google, it's amazing what you can discover. And although I took the 'pejazzle' comment with a grain of salt, I did actually come across a rather disturbing image and the insightful information that it's set to be the European summer's biggest trend.

So guys, if you are keen to add a bit of swarovski brilliance to your sword, game is on! It's like the stuff of fairy tales. The story of the Knight in shining armour and his jewel encrusted sword. He is the envy of all the land. The combination of his talented swordsmanship and magical tool leave all that encounter his brilliance quivering in anticipation and awe. It's the stuff dreams are made of.

But until now it seems us ladies have been the only ones putting ourselves under enormous pressure and physical pain to keep our landscape design up with the latest trends.

One of my favourite photographers Rankin, who is way ahead of his time and also loves a good vagina shot, may have hit on a more achievable home style vajazzle experience. Let's call it the vajsprinkle.

Easy to achieve with a few commonly found household products. Best of all it's totally edible. That's got to add a little more spice than a couple of fake diamonds. It also removes the need for all those pesky questions about what happens when the hair starts sprouting again or if the guys hair gets all tangled up around the crystals.

So if you are seeking a new experience look no further than the baking section of your local supermarket and get vajsprinkling today!

Grateful For Boys

2011-03-26T18:31:00.000+11:00

This week I posted this photo and comment on my Facebook page.

My daughter Suki. She astounds me daily with her wisdom, beauty, creativity, humour, generosity, intelligence, ingenuity, originality, care, thoughtfulness and OH so many things.

But today I am grateful for boys. For boys and their untrappable, endless energy.

At a skating event today the air of anticipation was palpable as the town's boys and young men mulled about waiting to take the stage. Soaring through the air on thin planks of wood. Impressing us all with their skill and bravery. Encouraging and supporting each other through the highs and lows.

I wanted to bottle the collective spirit and energy in that space. You could seriously run a small town on the force that runs through boys veins.

Living with boys in your life is often like living with your heart permanently in your throat. Boys do stupid stuff all the time. They leap and dive and somersault. They keep on going and going, often surviving on what seems like little more than air. But don't get me wrong, at some point the pain in their stomachs will override and they will eat you out of house and home.

I love their vibrancy. Their vest for life and adventure. Their curiosity and bravery. I love their uncomplicated mateship and sense of competitiveness.

There is nothing better than sharing a space with boys doing what they were meant to do.

And I also love that they all, young and old, still need a hug and a smooch from their Mum from time to time.

This is part of Maxabella's Grateful blog hop, check it out.

Bedtime Stories

2011-03-21T16:24:00.000+11:00

Bedtime reading can sometimes be yet another chore to attend to at the end of the day. All depends on the book really. We have an overflowing bookshelf. Books were cheap in London. Some of these books have been read and read and read. To death. In fact a couple of them I can hardly bare to look at. Not because they are dreadful. But because I have now been reading them for nearly 10 years. The old favourites. I can read them in my sleep, the pictures and words become like a psychedelic experience swirling around in my dreams.

One such book is YOU CHOOSE by Nick Sharratt and Pippa Goodhart .

For anyone who reads this blog and has been a visitor in my home at anytime, there is a good chance you have been introduced to this one, accosted by my children to read this book with them. Again, again! Full of colour and quirky drawings, it asks the reader to become involved by choosing their own adventure from a wonderful selection of scenarios. An exciting book, great for encouraging a love of reading. The first page asks: If you could go anywhere, where would you go?

It goes on to let you to choose your own character and friends, your home and outfits and jobs.

Every time the book is read you can choose a totally different life.

For my kids this book has never ever lost its appeal, even my 10 year old will still give this one a stab, and it's been hanging around for years. But there are some days I just can't face reading this one now, the kids understand and graciously put it away.

Another favourite which appeals to my toilet humour is: The Story of the Little Mole who knew it was None of his Business, by Werner Holzwarth/Wolf Erlbruch.

Must be a German thing, as it's verging on rather un PC in our culture. In fact I read that it was originally banned in the US when it was first published in 1964. The little mole starts out perplexed and rather annoyed to find something has pooed on his head.

The rest of book follows his journey to discover who exactly has done this on his head. He asked various other animals: Did you do this on my head?

Each animal then explains that it couldn't have been them, and then follows an explanation of how these animals poo.

Finally, with the help of some knowledgeable flies, he finds the culprit and executes his revenge. See, it's totally un PC to condone the revenge, but it is brilliant and matter of fact (as only Germans can be) and appeals to the potty humour in us all, young and old. It is also quite educational . It was a primary school teacher who gave this book to our family. I still find enjoyment in this story after all these years.

My most recent favourite is: Beware of the Frog by William Bee.

I discovered this book when I was in London last year in one of my all time favourite book shops, the Tate Modern bookshop. A place to wile away an hour or two in absolute bliss. I didn't really read the story when I bought it, I just really loved the retro style artwork.

It turned out to be such a cute story. Little Mrs Collywobbles lives near a big dark scary forest and only has her trusty frog to protect from all the nasty creatures that emerge from forest to do her harm. With funny catchy little verses and a surprising conclusion it has become a family favourite.

Lucien took it into school to read to his class and the book stayed for a term. It was so popular with his class that they turned into a play that was performed in front of the school.

William Bee's website is lovely and I am pleased to find he was written a couple of other books I am now keen to track down, especially the one about the little boy who can only say 'Whatever'. Reminds me of the story of Pierre by Maurice Sendak. "Even when a hungry lion comes to pay a call, Pierre won't snap out of his ennui. Every child has one of these days sometimes." Sometimes? How about everyday in this house!

What are your family favourites?

Grateful For

2011-03-19T12:59:00.000+11:00

Today I am grateful for finally getting myself together and completing a little project that's been hanging around for a good 6 months now. It feels good to finally accomplish a plan.

I bought this sideboard at Vinnie's at least 6 months ago. I bought it home whereupon it sat in the driveway under the porch for about 3 months making the house look like a junk yard. I then managed to move it into the garage where it has been for the last 3 months. In fact it had become the start of a pile of things earmarked for a garage sale. I had practically given up on my creative pursuit to turn this ugly duckling into a swan.

But I don't know what happened. I had a sudden burst of energy and commitment to the project. I ceased the day and just got on with it, and I virtually didn't stop till today.

And because everyone loves a before and after photo. Here they are.

BEFORE

AFTER

A few little tweaks to go. I bought some beautiful bone handles for the door and drawer on eBay. The drawer is a bit tricky getting in and out so might need some sanding. If anyone has any tips let me know. My inspiration came from here.

So get up and just do those projects you've been putting off, you will be grateful.

This is part of Maxabella's blog hop. Check it out.

Little Buddhas

2011-03-15T23:48:00.000+11:00

Image care of here, where you can purchase and try for yourself.

Fairy Eggs have been all the rage at my kids school lately. They start life as brightly coloured little beads not much bigger than a grain of rice.

When mixed with water they then expand to about 150 times their original size into wonderfully squishy and slimy balls. Solid, yet jelly like, and in such a gorgeous variety of transparent colours. There is something quite sensual about the feel of them in your hands. The beauty of a bowl full of these colourful eggs is quite charming and magical.

My kids attend a school where Buddhism is offered as a choice for their religious education. We are not a religious family but both Brad and myself have spent much time contemplating our spirituality and we are both drawn towards Buddhist philosophy.

Brad, more so than I, has dedicated a lot of time to meditation practice and has completed three vipassana meditation retreats both in Australia and in Nepal. I had my first foray into vipassana last year at a 10 day retreat in the Blue Mountains. Vipassana means; to see things as they really are. It is an ancient Indian meditation technique. A remedy to the universal ills. A pathway to truth, to freedom from suffering and misery.

Last week my son came home with a bag full of fairy eggs. He had been given them by his Buddhist teacher. That day the class had done a meditation about fairy eggs. I was intrigued by the concept. Later that afternoon I bumped into his teacher at the pool where upon I asked her how on earth you do a meditation about fairy eggs.

She explained: Firstly she had asked the children to think about the fairy eggs and describe them. They had said things like; they are beautiful and colourful, they start out very small and grow much bigger, some larger than others. She had asked them to describe how they felt watching the eggs grow. They said things like; it is exciting and interesting and surprising. Then she asked how they felt about their own eggs, and they said that they really loved them and wanted to look after them and collect more, that they were precious and lovely to hold.

Next she explained to the kids that just like them, the eggs start off small. With love and nourishment and care they also would grow into beautiful, wonderful creatures of all different kinds. From there she lead the children on a meditation which began by imagining themselves as these small colourful eggs. Imagining themselves being cherished and protected, as precious little eggs full of potential. Feeling the excitement and joy of the life that love provides. Growing into a something unique and beautiful and loved by all those around.

I thought it was a truly inspired idea. By using this popular and coveted school yard item she managed to expand their vision and to help them recognise that those benevolent feelings and thoughts they have towards these fairy eggs can also apply to themselves and others, and from that, great things will flourish.

Fairy Eggs have since been banned at the school for being the cause of way too much misery and suffering.

MAY ALL BEINGS BE HAPPY.

Grateful for........

2011-03-11T23:34:00.000+11:00

Broadway Market Love

Grateful for this wonderful Saturday morning ritual at Broadway Market in East London. Looking forward to resuming the tradition when we return to London later this year.

This is part of Maxabella Loves blog hop, check it out and enjoy.

Grateful For

2011-03-05T11:10:00.000+11:00

This week I am grateful for the almost lost art of letter writing.

For boxes full of old letters and notes and photos and the places those memories can transport us.

For the interconnectedness of our past and present and future as told through the trinkets collected along our path.

Read here for more.

Have a lovely Weekend.

This is a part of something altogether much grander, please check it out at Maxbella Loves.

Box of history.

2011-03-03T22:53:00.000+11:00

I found something in the garage the other day. It stopped me in my tracks. A mighty can of worms. Not the slimy dirt pooing kind of worms. But rather like a bag of those brightly coloured sweet and sour candy worms. Too hard to resist for their promise of pure sugary indulgence, and highly addictive for that exploding sensation of pleasure and pain that unleashes itself upon the taste buds.

A treasure trove of nostalgia right there in a shiny silver box. Every letter ever written to me by anyone of note in my life (and in fact many of a little less note too). The good, the bad and the ugly. There are all sorts in this box. Mouth wateringly alluring, and addictive once you start.

Why I have kept hold of some of this stuff I really don't know , but I was certainly glad to see them all the same. These things have a power to transport us back to a time and a place. To ignite old feelings and dangerous amounts of sentimentality. A friend said to me today: We are the sum of all we have ever known and been. And here in this box are many clues to who I am and who I have been and who perhaps I will be.

There are notes that were passed to me in the back of class at high school whilst the teacher attended more dedicated students.

One of my most prized letters from school is this one.

I think I might frame it one day. It is from the Head Mistress at my private girls high school. It was my life's obsession at the time to make regular yet subtle jabs at the establishment and my uniform provided the perfect vehicle. I am so glad I have a letter to prove my success.

I have letters from my Mum written throughout the teenage years. Clearly the only way she could communicate with me. I treasure them now, although I am sure at the time I tossed them aside in disdain. Perhaps I can draw on a little of her wisdom through these letters when it comes to dealing with my own teenagers.

I have kept all manner of silly little notes from my flatmates after I left home.

And of course quite a few love notes and letters too.

All the years I spent in Europe during my twenties (the 90's) are marked with letters from friends and family. Some written in curly artful fonts and others with drawings and photos included.

How much time and effort went into writing a letter, into making it a piece of art, into something you want to keep forever? I am astounded now by all the beautiful things people have written to me over the years. Of all the stories of adventure and love and disaster held upon those pages. All crafted by the hand, straight from the heart.

Brad found a similar box of his own. And we sat there side by side, silently emerged in our worlds. How quickly life has changed over the last decade. I no longer have a box for letters, purely as I do not receive them. There is something really quite intrinsically sad about that. The loss of this beautiful art form.

A favourite story Brad likes to tell, to anyone who will listen, is of his time as a backpacker in Europe and receiving mail via Poste Restante . Arriving in Rome and locating the main post office to find you had mail waiting. How romantic that sounds now. Back then it was the only way to receive messages from home.

How about those light weight air mail letters that came already stamped. You'd spend a day or two in various bars and cafes watching the world go by whilst drafting the words in your head. Then using the teeniest script you could manage you'd fill up the pages with as much information as possible. It could take a few days to write a good letter, it was a timely and creative pursuit. I think about travellers today all crammed into Internet cafes connecting through the screen via short tweets and quickly typed out messages. It's a different world.

My relationship with Brad started with letters. We'd been friends at Uni and he wrote to me on his first European adventure. The occasional postcard.

Much later when he returned and we lived in different states, we would write to each other regularly, it was our only communication. It now seems an utterly romantic old-school kind of courtship. They weren't really love letters because we weren't really in love then. But I think we really wanted to be in love and therefore the letters were some kind of a test. A test of each others intelligence and our skills in esotericisim.

They were just as much fun to read and decipher as they were to write. I am glad I still have them.

As we both sat on the floor of our garage immersed in our history, reminiscing the memories and enjoying the very tangible remnants of the life we've lived, it occurred to us that our children may never have this privilege. Never know how to really write a letter, nor the excitement and anticipation of receiving one. What a terrible shame that will be.

Do you keep your old letters?

Adventure is Life

2011-02-24T14:47:00.000+11:00

When I left London in July 2009 it was dramatic to say the least. I don't think it was unexpected but it was certainly fraught with concern. A broken marriage and an uncertain future. I hope the next exit is a little more graceful.

I watched as my house, my family home, was packaged into 72 pieces of freight. Bound for Australia. A land abounding in natures gifts, of beauty rich and rare, with golden soil and wealth for toil. Home after 8 years in Europe.

We left Sydney in early 2002 with 2 suitcases and a 14 month old baby boy. We took off on an adventure telling our family and friends we didn't know how long we'd be, could be 3 months could be 3 years, we said.

We spent the first year in Majorca, an island off the coast of Spain. It was a magical year. I like to say we did that thing people dream about doing when they retire, except we did it whilst we were young and vibrant and full of spirit. We rented a beautiful apartment in the old Gothic centre of Palma de Majorca. The Gothic part of Majorca is one of the best preserved in Europe as it did not experience any bombings during the wars. The apartment was in fact a spacious studio furnished very simply.

Studio interior

The tiles were over 200 years old. It had 3 french doors that opened overlooking a square with a fountain and a number of little bars and cafes on the edges. Little Jack would spend hours peering out over this scene from the balcony.

balcony looking towards Gothic Church

Ours was the only apartment in the building. After struggling with the original heavy wooden door, we had to climb an old winding stone staircase to reach our apartment on the 3rd floor. It was really very charming, if a tad exhausting especially with an armful of shopping and toddler. On the top floor was a terrace that enjoyed views across the rooftops of Palma and terrific sunsets.

Jack in the Plaza Mayor early one Sunday

An idyllic year in Majorca. Sometimes I worked for the local film studio producing commercials for companies from all over Europe. Other days we'd go to the beach or explore. Brad, who at the time didn't have a European passport nor could he speak Spanish, spent his days with young Jack and developing his photography. He'd shop at the local produce markets each morning and make delicious simple meals in the evenings.

Meals were often shared with our friends late into the night, in true Spanish spirit, followed by endless rounds of cards. There was an all night bakery just down our street where the baker also sold wine and beer and cigarettes (and we suspect a few other things). We were some of his best midnight customers.

The weather turned and my work slowed down and we decided to take a look at big scary London town. Brad was itching to work. We arrived on New Years day 2003. Brad got work straight away and I reluctantly agreed to stay for 5 months. I was pregnant with Lucien and I didn't fancy having a baby in London. I'd been there in my early 20's and it was a struggle, I'd hated it.

For the first 2 months the three of us shared a double bed in a mate's house out near Heathrow. I remember lying in that bed looking out the window as the jumbos lined up to land, wheels out like giant bird claws ready to grip the earth. It snowed. Each day we'd trudge into the centre and scour for a place of our own. It was really rather miserable. But an adventure all the same.

Eventually we found a great flat in Islington. Top floors, sunny and bright. Brad got more and more work. The spring buds started to emerge and the sun shone occasionally. The city was alive. A hub of culture and art and new discoveries. Life was good. I decided to have my baby in London. It ended up being one of the hottest summers on record.

Seven years went by and with them brought another baby, our darling little girl Suki. We made many wonderful new friends and we bought a house. We travelled around Europe and made several trips back home.

Our house in winter

Our garden in the summer

It was a struggle living off one wage. But we managed somehow. Then I lost my Mum in 2004. The phone call you hope you'll never receive when you are away from home. After returning to Australia for a brief stay we went back to London. It was home. I was supported by friends and wrapped up my wounds in the anonymity of big city life. London was my Mum's town too. So I weirdly felt closer to her living that life.

A favourite photo of Mum in Trafalgar Square

However, over all those years we always struggled with our position in London. We struggled with calling it home. Like a broken record we'd discuss where we wanted to be, where we ought to be, where we could be. Eventually we saw a life coach. Amongst many of the things I quote from that meeting she said we had to choose a hemisphere and stick with it, because if you don't make roots then you never live your life fully in the place you are. We had made roots without even realising.

Things stand out to me now which offer up some clues. We'd often spend weekends away in Devon. We'd usually drive back to London at night to avoid the traffic and let the kids sleep. When I'd see the big road signs lit up with our headlights, I always felt a great sense of excitement that we were going to LONDON, and that was our home.

Sidmouth, Devon

But I struggled with an unhappiness exacerbated by grief and post natal depression. I blamed the environment, the cold, the grey. It's true these things don't help but it was deeper than that. And when we feel so broken we want to go home, to the place we feel nurtured. Back into Mother's arms.

South Coast, NSW

The beauty rich and rare has been a great help. A big blue sky can make a huge difference to how you approach the world. Wealth for toil. Well yeah. It's been hard work to be sure. I do feel wealthier in spirit. Restored. The kids have been able to know what it means to be Australian. Maybe it's a curse we are bestowing upon them also, this heart in two places thing. I like to think however, that they are lucky. They know a lot about the world already. From Europe they came here. The peaceful small beach community. But they will also know a busier life where many cultures mix and anything is possible.

We'll go back to London later this year. I don't think it is our permanent place. In fact I am not sure we have one of those. I now think that this is us. Hearts and feet in different places. Global wanderers. We'll be back in Australia. Maybe sooner rather that later. Nothing in life is permanent. We only have this moment to enjoy. And what is life without adventure?