Gypsy-K

How to transplant a life

2012-01-28T07:29:00.000+07:00

Right now, I’m taking a personal lesson in how to transplant plants as it applies to my life.

According to ehow .com, “Plants that have begun to outgrow their containers need to be transplanted in order to keep the plant healthy. Root bound plants often become unhealthy and slow growing. Take care when transplanting because doing so can be traumatic to your plants. By following a few simple steps, you'll ease the shock that the plant experiences during the transplant.

I already recognised the need to transplant. My roots were becoming somewhat bound and my personal growth was stagnant. But unfortunately, I wasn’t quite familiar with the transplant process. A few days after arriving back in Melbourne, I discovered how traumatic transplanting one’s self from an old to a new but old pot can be. Yes, I’m back in a familiar environment but my roots are unsettled and feel somewhere between the old pot and the new.

Ignoring my own needs and barely allowing the jet lag to wear off, I began jamming the soil down around the plant in the new pot. I threw myself into what I thought I should be doing, namely job hunting and getting on with a regular, everyday life. I didn’t allow myself time to get used to the feeling of the new pot and I didn’t apply the right combination of fertiliser, light and water to allow myself to thrive in the new environment. I became stressed. I put on a blooming smile but inside I have been wilting and shriveling.

Fortunately a conversation with my very wise, eldest sister enabled me to discover what was going wrong with the transplant process and I altered it immediately. According to step 6 of How to Transplant Plants, one must “place the plant in low light for several days. Continue with the plant's regular watering schedule for several weeks, but after that, you may need to adjust the watering and fertilizing schedules according to the plant's new needs.”

Right now, I’ve stopped jamming the soil down around the roots and am allowing the roots to naturally settle back into Australian soil. I’m not actively job hunting or forcing myself to re-build my life here. I’m allowing myself to rest and look after my health. I am surrounding myself with friends and family. I am being with and allowing the sadness of leaving behind a place and time I have loved. And I am writing. I am writing the book I always said I would write about my travels and this writing allows me and reminds me to be grateful for where I have been and what I have experienced to get me to this place in my life.

I’ll check how the plant is going again in a few weeks. In the meantime if you want to learn for yourself how to transplant a plant, read more here: How to Transplant Plants | eHow.com http://www.ehow.com/how_2085750_transplant-plants.html#ixzz1kd0bp5Fq

Blooming yellow daisy at Lavandula, Shepherds Flats, near Daylesdford

How much is enough?

2012-01-22T08:45:00.001+07:00

I returned to Australia with 47 kilograms of luggage. Waiting for me in my temporary bedroom were three more large travelling bags crammed full of clothes. In the wardrobe hung some of my “good’ clothes. In my car, a suitcase filled with more clothes along with shoes, bags, toiletries and other belongings piled loosely and in small bags on the back sea. In my sister’s storage container I have furniture, bedding, books, kitchen goods, a bicycle, an oil heater and more stuff that I’ve forgotten about and might remember when I see it again. At my dad’s house, I have a box of clothes and souvenirs sent from India, more clothes hanging in his spare wardrobe along with my old camera lenses (I hope.)

On my second day back in Australia I had to declare my temporary bedroom a disaster zone after an uncontrolled clothes-plosion. I opened the bags pulling out their contents, reacquainting and remembering an old life. The clothes ended up everywhere and eventually, a few days later, I had to fold and sort them into piles. At first I was excited to have more clothes and more choice but when I stood back and looked at the piles on my fold-out bed, I felt surprised and a little shocked. I have accumulated and hung on to many clothes, so many, that I’m fairly sure there is no way I would wear every item in a year.

After travelling and living overseas for almost 2 ¼ years with only a large bag of clothes and personal items plus a separate bag of diving equipment (which was already too much to move around easily) coming back to so many belongings is slightly overwhelming. It feels burdensome and restrictive. Owning so much stuff makes relocating more cumbersome but it also adds to this feeling of being cluttered with things that I don’t really need taking up unnecessary space in my life.

When I was away, I didn’t need much stuff. Sometimes I wished I had more choice in clothing but I put something on that I liked to wear and went on with my day. I shopped for clothes mainly out of necessity and not in excess. I occasionally enjoyed window-shopping but I much preferred to be at the beach instead of a shopping centre. Back here in Melbourne, I am noticing my impulse to shop return. I can barely drive past a shop window without seeing something I would like to own even though I know I have more than enough back at home. I’m trying to keep my eyes focused straight ahead instead.

And it seems that advertising does exactly what it is designed to do, it makes me feel like I need things that I don’t really need. I know I don’t need them because I’ve lived perfectly happily without them.

A writer I follow by email used to keep an inventory of everything she owned on her website for all to see. I like the idea of the inventory, to see exactly what I own and to hold myself accountable to my true needs. I would definitely think twice before buying something and adding it to the inventory for all to see. At the moment, to compile an inventory of my current belongings would probably take a week, at least, and I have more important things to address.

I’ve been back in Melbourne for ten days now and I am confused and uncertain about what my next steps are. I have stopped putting pressure on myself to find a job and get on with life here because I’m just not quite ready to do it. After all, I’ve barely landed and unpacked. All this stuff and all this clutter isn’t helping my clarity. I feel the urge to simplify, to get rid of everything I don’t need but at the same time there is a reluctance to let it go in case I miss it or need it one day. But really, how much past owned stuff do we need or miss right now in this present moment? When it’s gone, it’s gone and we continue with our lives or we go out and buy it again if we really need it.

Along with considering how much is enough stuff, I’m also asking myself how much is enough money. How much money do I need to earn to put a roof over my head, pay the bills and to live the life I want to live? To be honest, I never really had to think about this before. I never even considered potential earnings when I first started working in financial planning. I picked it as a career as a way of helping people using my natural talents and abilities. I worked hard and the money just followed. I never even had to ask for a pay rise it was just given. I became comfortable earning a certain level of income and so now the thought of potentially changing careers and earning less (potentially far less) makes me uncomfortable and scared of not having enough, of having to struggle and most critically of losing the freedom that I have had.

So how much is enough? Have you ever thought about how much you need in your life? This is the question I’m currently sitting with as I slowly readjust to Australian life and I work out exactly what I want and what I need in my life.

It’s the final countdown

2012-01-05T12:10:00.000+07:00

‘I guess there is no one to blame

We’re leaving ground

Will things ever be the same again?

It’s the final countdown’

- Europe

The days are slipping away quickly now. It feels like only yesterday that I made my decision and, with much hesitation and reluctance, booked my flight home to Melbourne. I own that decision. I made it without any outside help or influence, apart from visa restrictions, a dwindling bank account and perhaps the encouragement of a much-missed friend or two. But it doesn’t mean I like the decision that I have made.

I’m not sure that my new way of being fits in with my old Melbourne life. I’m not even sure that it fits in with Melbourne. But there’s congruence missing here as well. To stay would mean to stay stalled. I’ve waited, but the fog of uncertainty hasn’t lifted and I’m not sure that it can or will, here. So I’m doing the only thing I know to do and that is to take a step a forward, and the only logical step at this point in time is to return to Melbourne.

I love Phuket, this island which is both the easiest and hardest place to be. Perhaps the most difficult thing to let go of, more than the beaches, the tropical sea or the warm weather, is the freedom I have had over the last two years, to travel, to roam, to dive, to sleep, to write, to do whatever it is that I feel like when I feel like it. Perhaps now is the time to re frame my definition of freedom.

For all I’ve achieved, I still have a sense of failure, that I’ve failed my quest. Wasn’t I supposed to fall effortlessly into a new career or a new love or become a yogi? Where is my Under the Tuscan Sun ending or my Eat Pray Love ending or even my Thirty-Something and Over it ending?

Have I missed something? Not taken a risk I should have taken? (Should the word I still sometimes use which means something that I don’t really want to do but think through the eyes of others I must do.) I know that’s none of this is true and that my story has it’s own unique ending. Right now it is Melbourne but even Melbourne is not the end, just another beginning or another step before another step.

For now, this is the end of a chapter, a parting of ways, and with endings comes grief that must be felt to its conclusion. There is sadness, tears, dread, despair, emptiness, fear. And there are their opposites too. Contentment, gratitude, love, peace, faith. I am returning home both victorious and defeated, full of memories, most happy, some sad, into the loving arms of much missed friends and families.

I enter a new chapter. I have a new notebook, a blank page and my pen is poised to write.

December 31 – Reverb11 - Fiesta (Celebration)

2011-12-31T19:13:00.000+07:00

What are you celebrating today? What will you celebrate in 2012?

Today I am celebrating endings and beginnings, the pain and the joy, the wonders of this world, our glorious human lives and love. And I will celebrate these things also in 2012.

My father who is a wise, wonderful and generously loving man shared the following New Years wish on Facebook and I want to share it with you all:

“Happy new year is the customary wish, but we all know that life invariably serves up tough moments and sadness. So our wish is that you create your happy moments and find satisfaction in your own strength and courage to navigate through the troubling situations and find the will to offer cheer to those around you.”

December 30 – Reverb11 - Karuna (Compassion)

2011-12-31T19:09:00.000+07:00

What compassionate actions do you aspire to in the coming twelve months?

I really want to be more compassionate towards myself, a little less on hard on myself for my human flaws and imperfections

I want to be more patient with others, to love more and close my heart less.

I want to put compassion into action. I started this year with volunteering but I hope to find a cause to fully support and become a true sacred activist.

December 29 – Reverb11 - Poesía (Poetry)

2011-12-29T22:12:00.000+07:00

Write a poem. It doesn’t have to rhyme.

Longingly

I hold you

Not wanting to let you go.

Long

We have journeyed together

Soaring high, soaring far

Without limits.

Time

Had no place in our hearts

Until now.

The winds have changed.

And there is a different one for me

That carries me home.

Slowly

I uncurl my fingers

Dripping with grief’s tears

Until I cling no more

And let you go

Free.

December 28 – Reverb11 - Agradecimiento (Gratitude)

2011-12-29T12:18:00.000+07:00

What eleven things were you grateful for in 2011?

1. My family – their love, support and assistance is the backbone of my life

2. Friendship – long-term, new or passing, distant and close-up, my friends have loved and supported me, we have laughed, we have danced, we have drunk beer and lots of wine. You have added the most beautiful colours to my life.

3. My Kindle – I love physical paper-based books and I was apprehensive about going electronic but it was the best thing I purchased all year. I can finally travel with as many books as I want and can purchase books that I actually want to read whenever I want.

4. Ocean – I didn’t get to spend nearly enough time in her this year but I am grateful for the time I have spent in her depths. Wow. What an amazing world.

‘The Ocean is a beautiful thing. Its waves, its sound, its face. When you see the ocean you can't deny it, it's the most beautiful thing that God has made and you never want to leave’. Linnea Mehler.

5. Sunsets – I’ve watched a lot of them and I love them. It’s like slowly unwrapping a present, you don’t know what you’re going to get.

6. My cameras – they enable me to capture moments and memories and beauty that I might otherwise forget. I’m especially grateful for Klinik Glong who managed to get my one and only DSLR camera lens fixed in just over 4 weeks and cheap too!

7. Italy - a beautiful and delicious country. I am grateful for Nuccia’s most wonderful cooking, Roberto’s gelati, experiencing the richness of Sardegna, perfect cornetto al ciocolato with nutella running down my chin, getting lost on the the Via Francigena, visiting the hill top Tuscan villages, Vale and Kiki’s kindness when I was horribly overwhelmed by so much Italian. And I still miss my evening spritz and stuzzichini.

8. India – for the dirt, the constant heat, the occasional floods, the annoying horn honking, the crowds, the colours, the masala chai, Auroville, the opportunity to help a grass-roots NGO, the wonderful people I met, the parties, the dancing, the children, the JOY!

9. Freedom – I am so grateful for another year that I have been free to travel, to explore, to roam.

10. Internet, Social Media, Email, Skype – these wonders of technology helped me stay connected to my friends and family back home.

11. Writing – I am grateful for the ability to express in words what I am experiencing physically and emotionally so that I can share my experiences with others but also because it helps me see and appreciate the richness of life in all of its varying shades. I am grateful for the words that come through me.

December 27 – Reverb11 - Metta (Lovingkindness)

2011-12-28T06:37:00.000+07:00

The metta mantras are: “May you be safe. May you be happy. May you be healthy. May you be free from suffering.”

To whom do you wish to send metta?

I want to send metta to everyone! My friends, my family and everyone else in the world. I want to send an extra little metta to my brother and my niece. I feel they could both use it at the moment.

That Christmas

2011-12-27T13:30:00.000+07:00

The rectangular brown box, aged and water-stained. Soft, saggy, torn at the corners. Tattered brown string holding it together, keeping the lid in place. That musty perfume of Christmas stored away for the past eleven months that fills the air when the lid is finally removed.

The original purchase order although dirty and faded is still glued on the top right corner. Your name, your previous married name, Scoullar, is still legible and so is the date. December 1968.

Inside the box, the fake plastic Christmas tree. Dark brown plastic branches with dark green moulded leafy twigs fading to lighter green at the ends. They don’t make them like this anymore. These days dark green stiff, prickly tinsel replaces the once carefully moulded branches and twigs that made it look like a real tree.

The branches are tied together in order of size, held together with more faded string. Dozens of green twigs fallen off their stems, scattered in between the piles of branches and on the bottom of the box. Each branch has to be examined one by one and the fallen twigs matched to barren stems once again.

The tree is fake but to me it is real Christmas. You bought this. This tree is you.

A red box holds ancient Christmas character decorations. An ornamental nativity within a pyramid. Gold, green, blue, red, silver. They used to be evenly coated in gold and silver glitter but now most of it has fallen away and disappeared with time. One day, the last of it will probably fall away too. Empty matchbox presents wrapped in coloured cellophane. Red, blue, yellow, green. Tied with a skinny bow of silver or gold tinsel. Felt Santas and little drumming men. Angels made of wire and pale coloured chiffon mainly white or soft blue.

In another rectangular box with a cracked clear plastic lid, decorative balls. Coloured cotton spun around polystyrene balls. Red, turquoise, grass green, bright blue, pale blue, white, bright and pale pink. On some, plain cotton thread replaces the original metallic tie, now missing, so that they can still hang on the tree.

The decorations are old, breaking, falling apart and need replacing but they don’t make them like this anymore. Now they are all modern, sleek, perfect.

You bought all of these. These are you in Christmas. You can’t be discarded or replaced.

Soft fluffy strands of tinsel are stuffed in a plastic bag. They are flecked with gold and silver and falling apart too. So many fell apart and broke that I had to buy some new ones so we could still cover the tree thickly in tinsel, but they aren’t the same. They are skinny and prickly, bright blue, pink, green, gold and silver.

You were still alive then.

Our chiffon dressed angel that sits on the top of the tree fell apart too. I couldn’t save her so I bought a a new one. Still an angel, not a star because you chose an angel. We always had an angel.

Now you are the angel.

The tree was already up that year. We started Christmas like we always did by digging out the boxes and putting the tree up on the first weekend of December. The tree stood quietly, sometimes ignored as we walked past but always there, just being Christmas.

Then you started sleeping. A lot. And the week before Christmas, your body, tired of this world, allowed your spirit to quietly slip into a new pain-free realm. Just like that, with one last breath, you were gone.

That Christmas, we sat by the tree. Papa, my brother and his girlfriend, my father and me. Numb and grieving. Your sick bed, near-by, now empty. We sat sombrely. We tried to smile but our broken hearts were full of sadness. Christmas felt empty. It felt like Christmas had died. Christmas as I knew it did die.

And the tree just stood there, carrying invisible pieces of you.

December 26 – Reverb11 - Seva (Service)

2011-12-27T12:48:00.000+07:00

How did you serve in 2011? Do you plan to volunteer in 2012?

This year I spent two months volunteering at a grass-roots NGO in India called Prime Trust who focus on women’s empowerment. I helped to look after boys who were orphaned or unable to live at home. I lived in the building that housed the day-care centre and evening remedial schools so I spent some time playing with little 3 year olds in the morning and helping the remedial school kids at night.

I returned to Thailand just after the floods started to hit Bangkok. Soi Dog put a call out for volunteers to go and help look after flood-affected dogs that were being relocated to Phetchaburi, just south of Bangkok. I love dogs and didn’t have to think twice. I jumped on a plane and a couple of mini buses and went and helped for a week. It was hot and dirty work. Cleaning cages, feeding, giving fresh water and then walking and playing with the dogs. I fell in love with a lot of them and wished I could take them home but many were owned and I’m not in a position to adopt.

As my life is in transition, I don’t have set plans to volunteer at this stage but I do hope to. I loved both of my volunteering experiences, being of service and meeting some really wonderful people along the way.

With fellow volunteers at Wildlife Friends Foundation Thailand

One of my doggy patients wanting to say hello

A loving kiss, grateful to be out of the cage

December 25 – Reverb11 - Milagro (Wonder)

2011-12-26T11:22:00.000+07:00

Illustrate your own personal wonderland — real or imagined. What’s the weather like? Who else is there with you? Use vivid detail.

Recently, I’ve been dreaming of sailing around the world. I don’t know anything about sailing but I love being on boats and in the last couple of weeks I’ve been fortunate to spend time on boats. A live aboard dive boat, a friend’s sailing boat and for the King’s Cup Regatta I was invited on the very gorgeous and big sailing boat, the Capricorn Delaware. She was all wood with an outdoor lounge and dining space, sundeck with cushions and around four or five cabins with en suite. She is too big for me. I’d be happy with something smaller. Somewhere to sleep, somewhere to cook and eat. A spare cabin for friends. Some space to enjoy the sun. And of course it must have a compressor because I want to go diving in places few if any people have ever been.

Capricorn Delaware anchored off Kata Beach, Thailand

Learning to love the dark

2011-12-24T10:36:00.000+07:00

I love the ocean and have spent around 265 hours exploring her depths from below not to mention all the time I have spent snorkeling on her surface. Despite the hours and all my courses, I still consider myself somewhat of a novice. My relationship with the sea is still developing as I learn more and more about her ways, her tides, her currents, her fickleness and her hidden treasures.

There are times when she scares me. When her waves are big and she threatens to hold me below the surface when I swim at the beach. When plankton and other particles are suspended thickly amongst her molecules so that I can barely see a metre ahead of me as I descend below her surface. Sometimes, as I cruise over her surface, merely thinking about her depth and what possibly lies beneath flickers a little fear. She is so big and I am so small that if she embraced me in the middle of nowhere I would surely be lost. And of course there are those Hollywood monsters that I can’t see that lurk below. Not being able to see what is there. That is what scares me.

The dark escalates my fear. Dark forests. Dark deserted roads. Being at home alone in a big house at night. These things ignite my imagination where hidden dangers linger. Vicious monsters, ghosts and perhaps even murderers. And then there is night diving. Combining both of my fears, the dark and not being able to see in the sea.

My first night dive was from the beach off Koh Phi Phi Don in Thailand some seven years ago. It wasn’t something that I really wanted to do. I just needed another specialty to complete my Advanced Open Water certification in the time I had left on Phi Phi and a night dive saved part of the day. Our instructor suggested it and I just agreed without really thinking about what it involved.

I remember standing in the black sea, torch off, moving my arms through the water and watching fascinated as sparks shot through the water like mini silver fireworks as my movement agitated the phytoplankton. Then it was time to dive. Torches on and we descended. It felt suffocatingly black. My heart raced and anxiety compressed my chest. I wanted to stay near our dive guide but he swam so fast and was so far ahead of us. All I remember of that dive is finning fast, trying to keep up and follow his light. I was relieved when the dive was over. I didn’t enjoy it and I was never keen to night dive again.

Jump forward five years. I have completed my Divemaster and I am called in last minute to work on a four day live aboard in the Similan Islands. Four dives a day including a night dive. I have no choice. I have to guide at night. This time we dived from the boat. At night the boat has its lights on which you can easily see for some 50 metres under the water. There is no fear of getting lost and the lights make the immediate area a little less black. I relaxed and went to explore the dark world around me looking for shrimps and crabs and cowries whilst impossibly trying to keep my dive group together. It really was like herding cats. They never did like to follow me even in day light. After 45 minutes shallow dive we surfaced. I didn’t love it but I didn’t hate it either. I repeated it one more time but still wasn’t keen to do it again.

A week ago I left on a three day three night liveaboard diving trip to the south Andaman sea diving at Hin Daeng, Hin Muang and Koh Haa, three sites I have long dreamed of diving. It included an optional night dive. I decided to dive in the dark. For fun. Just looking at the sea after the sun had set, the water felt deep although the coral floor was only 14 metres below. I felt my usual level of anxiety rise compressing my chest with the fearful wonder of what lurks below that I cannot see.

I turned my torch on, jumped in, took a few deep breaths and then we descended. The boat’s lights projected through the dark sea so it was not blinding black. I relaxed. I shone my torch around and started to explore the area looking into holes and crevices to see what I could find. Crabs, shrimp, lobster. Lion fish were out hunting. Parrot fish were sleeping in behind coral overhangs. A pair of giant pink nudibranchs slivered slowly along a rock. Feather stars came to life gracefully moving their feeding arms and recoiling in my direct torch light.

I dived at the back of the group and I often held my torch against my wetsuit and looked back into the blackness. My fins flicked invisible plankton shooting sparks from my feet. I found myself wishing every body would turn their lights off so it would be completely dark. I turned back around and I was surrounded by thousands of pairs of beady eyes staring at me. Shrimp were everywhere. After 25 minutes we turned around and started swimming back towards the boat following the dim glow until it became brighter and brighter and we surfaced at the back of the boat, my darkness anxiety left behind in the black sea.

I loved the dive. I loved being in the darkness. I loved shining my torch into the black surprising fish with my torch light. And I loved watched the phytoplankton sparks. It felt adventurous and I felt brave. I climbed back onto the deck and looked back at the shimmering liquid black. Momentarily, the memory of fear flickered through my cells. But I know what lurks below. I know the gifts of darkness. And I can’t wait to dive at night again.

An almost full moon, Phetchaburi, Thailand

December 24 – Reverb11 - Regalo (Gift)

2011-12-24T10:16:00.000+07:00

What was the most cherished gift you received this year? What were the most thoughtful gifts you gave?

These days, I don’t receive many gifts. Many years ago my family stopped giving presents at Christmas. Instead we give the money we would spend on presents to charity. We don’t even really do birthday presents. Instead, my sisters and I have our annual sister’s date. We have shared high tea at the Windsor Hotel and laughed and sung our way around an ABBA exhibition. This sharing, these memories mean more to me than any physical present.

I have received a few gifts this year for which I am grateful.

My dad express posted my dive gear to me so I could indulge in my passion once again.
A friend too generously gifted his Canon G11 camera to me after my DSLR camera lens broke so I could continue to capture my sunsets.
My sister asked me to be bridesmaid at her wedding. That gift is priceless.
Amore gave me a beautiful pen so that I could continue and enjoy my writing even more.
Amore’s mum gave me some beautiful jewellery that I love to wear and think of her.

Prime Trust thanked me for my help with a shawl and an ornamental teddy bears in a wheelbarrow of love.

And I gave a few gifts that were thoughtful.

Amore loves boats so I gave him a paperweight compass that looks like a ship’s cabin window.

I wrote a poem and sent it to my sisters.

We printed and framed a photo of our friend’s beloved dog that disappeared a year ago and gave it to him wrapped in blue paper covered old Chinese junk boats and gave him a card with a Chinese junk boat on the front (he loves boats too).

Me receiving my thank you gifts from Prime Trust, Pondicherry, India

December 23 – Reverb11 - Karma (Action)

2011-12-23T22:47:00.000+07:00

Actions speak louder than words. What daily actions will you take this year? How will you start your fresh January mornings?

My mornings will start as they do now: stick my head out the window to greet the breaking day, bathroom, drink some water, meditate and then straight for the caffeine and my morning pages. But in addition to this, I am looking for the extraordinary in the ordinary. I want to observe and capture in writing (and sometimes photographs) the sacredness of every day life.

It is also the year daily exercise returns to my life and I consciously choose to eat healthy and nutritious food without over-indulging.

Sunrise from my cabin window, South Andaman Sea, Thailand, December 2011

Sunrise, South Andaman Sea, Thailand, December 2011

Sunrise from my bedroom window, Chalong, Phuket, Thailand, December 2011

December 22 – Reverb11 - Sukkha (Happiness)

2011-12-23T11:30:00.000+07:00

Where did you encounter sweetness in 2011?

Sweetness was and is everywhere. In sunsets, on and under the sea, in the quietness of meditation, in clouds, in the laughter of children as well as in their sometimes shy and serious eyes. It’s in shared moments with dear friends and family, wine and coffee shared as well as telephone calls and emails exchanged. It is in riding a scooter, the sun on my face, the wind whipping my hair and clothes. It was in being caught up in the moment, dancing deliriously in the rain. It’s in the sandy paws and kisses of my beach puppies. It was in being of service to Indian children, stray injured puppies, and dogs displaced because of the Thailand floods. And sweetness is definitely in the world’s best tiramisu.

Sunset from Trattoria Buongustaio, Naiharn Beach, Phuket

One of my Naiharn Beach puppies

Sunrise over the South Andaman Sea, Thailand, as seen from my cabin

December 21 – Reverb11 -Dukkha (Misery)

2011-12-23T11:07:00.000+07:00

What was the low point of your year? How did you heal and move forward?

Recently, I have had to make a difficult and emotional decision about returning to Melbourne. It means leaving behind a relationship and a place that I love. And I am grieving. Healing will come in time but for now I am just allowing myself to feel the grief and to practice gratitude for everything that I have experienced and continue to enjoy here.

December 20 – Reverb11 - Tapas (Heat)

2011-12-22T23:10:00.000+07:00

What stoked your creative fire this year? What did your discipline enable you to achieve and/or create?

Getting out into the world and experiencing different places stroked my creative fire this year. Diving and observing the magical underwater world. Walking through Tuscany. Living in India in such a foreign culture to Australia. And watching sunsets. All of these things inspired me to write.

This year I created a regular writing habit. I write just about every day. Sometimes it is just junk but sometimes it turns into poetry or a blog or the beginning of something else.

This year I hit 100 posts on my blog.

Inspiraton @ Elwood Beach, Melbourne, Australia

December 19 – Reverb11 - Drishti (Seeing)

2011-12-22T23:04:00.000+07:00

What is your vision for your spiritual practice in 2012? How do you see yourself achieving it?

As soon as you trust yourself, you will know how to live – Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

In 2012, I want to follow my intuition with greater trust and far less doubt. I want to continue and deepen my meditation practice to help me centre, be with what is and quieten the babble in my head. I want to make prayer a more regular feature of my life to open up pathways to the divine and my own intuition. But it is the practice of faith that is most important to me. To listen to my own guidance and before the babble in my head really starts to fire up, to take a deep breath and leap forward into the unknown trusting myself and trusting life.

Wat Saket, Golden Mountain, Bangkok

December 18 – Reverb11 - Amistad (Friendship)

2011-12-21T13:49:00.000+07:00

Describe your best friend(s) from elementary school, high school, college, and/or the present.

I am blessed to have some really great friends in my life many who have been in my life for many years even as far back as pre-school but there are also some great friends that I have collected on my travels and from work as well. One of the things that I have learned is that true friendship transcends miles. As I have removed myself from Australia, friendships with my dearest friends continue and their love and support follows me wherever I go.

I’m going to describe my dear friend Ina (and in doing so I don’t want any of my other dear friends to think that they are any less dear to me because I didn’t chose them to describe but if I were to describe you all I'd never get this blog posted.)

Ina and I met when I was doing my divemaster course in Phuket. She was my instructor. We clicked instantly and usually spent the first hour of our day talking instead of doing my course work. We have dived Bali together, shared many a beer o’clock together and were lucky to catch up in Prague and her new hometown in Bavaria. Ina is down to earth, practical, confident and gutsy. She is a natural teacher with the ability to help just about anyone overcome a learning difficulty. She is patient but also has high standards. She likes to enjoy life and party but is not frivolous. She is adventurous and sporty, she loves diving and snowboarding. She likes to talk but she is also good at listening. She’s a great friend to have and I can’t wait until we can diving together again!

Me and Ina on my birthday dive in June 2009

December 17 – Reverb11 - Bhakti (Devotion)

2011-12-21T13:38:00.001+07:00

What did you devote yourself to in 2011? How will you devote your energy in the coming year?

This year I devoted myself to freedom and travel (to exploring the world and adventure), to writing (my blog, poetry and junk) and to watching and photographing sunsets.

In 2012, I intend to devote myself farther to spiritual practice (meditation, yoga, stillness and learning) and again to writing (a new blog, more junk, my book) and to watching and photographing sunsets (as much as I can in Melbourne).

Sunset from San Miniato, Tuscany, Italy

After the sunset, After Beach Bar, Kata Noi, Phuket, Thailand

Cloudy sunset, After Beach Bar, Kata Noi, Phuket, Thailand

Sunset, Baia Sardinia, Sardegna, Italy

December 16 – Viaje (Trip)

2011-12-17T12:48:00.001+07:00

Where did you travel this year? What was your best trip? What new places did you explore? What familiar favorites did you haunt?

I’ve roamed from Phuket to Laos to Bangkok and Kanchanaburi and back to Phuket. Then to Melbourne to London to Bath and Canterbury to Tuscany, Ancona, Milano and Sardegna to Prague to Bavaria to Geneva to Tamil Nadu and Kerala in India and back to Phuket once more. Most of them new places.

I have loved and am grateful for everywhere I have been this year but the highlights definitely were walking part of Via Francigena and my time in India

And of course, I am back to my old familiar haunt that I love, Phuket.

Poppies in Varona, Italy

Houseboats, Kerala, India

Giant cloud over Naiharn Lake, Phuket

December 15 – Reverb11 - Acharya (Scholar)

2011-12-17T12:12:00.000+07:00

What did you study this year? What did you learn? What did you teach?

I didn’t study in the traditional sense of the word. Most of the books I read and part of my focus in travelling was to learn about how I could actively love and serve the world. I learned that the moments I feel most full and most happy are the moments that I am serving and helping others whether it be helping dogs, children, an NGO or even just doing something thoughtful for someone I love. The work and situations can be challenging, hard labour and even dirty and the hours can be quite but there is a certain joy and contentment that rises above all of this knowing that the intent of your energy and actions is to do good in the world. I’m still learning about all of this.

As part of my volunteering experience, I worked with orphaned boys, boys who were unable to live at home because of family break downs and I also assisted at the remedial school from time to time, from where our orphanage boys. I helped children practice their English. I even tried to teach some dances.

I also hope that I’ve taught some things indirectly by the way I live my life. I like to laugh, and I like to laugh really loud. Sometimes its too loud for people around me although more often I think it’s contagious. If you want to laugh then laugh with your whole heart, and your whole body. Don’t hold back, really let it rip.

We can live your lives any way you choose whether it be a more traditional path or something completely different. You don’t have to tick off the list of husband/wife, house, career, children unless that is what you really want in your life. Stepping off the familiar path is scary. Not knowing where you are going can be scary. Life is an adventure. Life happens in the journeying. Live the adventure and create your own unique spectacular life.

"Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?"

- Mary Oliver

December 14 – Reverb11 - Jnana (Self-knowledge)

2011-12-15T11:23:00.000+07:00

Name something you did that was completely out of character. How did it feel?

This year I walked 120 kilometres through Tuscany, alone. I have never really hiked any where. I mean I’ve walked up the 1000 steps in Ferntree Gully National Park several times in life but not for many years. And in my early 20’s I hiked up The Pinnacle in the Grampians. It certainly was breath-taking as I stopped every twenty minutes to get my breath back. But that is as much hiking as I have ever done in my life.

After coming back to Melbourne to contract for 6 months, I started walking to work and back every day, approximately 8 kilometres return trip. And I really enjoyed it. So when I started dreaming about where to go and what to do in Europe, I discovered a very long walk called Via Francigena and that a section of it ran through the hilltop villages of Tuscany, somewhere I had always wanted to go. My heart raced. I could feel the adventure coursing through my veins. But the voice of sensible me spoke up telling me I was insane, I’ve never walked like this before, do I really think I can do it? I decided to sit with the idea for a week or so and then make a final decision. Excitement and adventure won out. I went. I walked, alone, and got lost, a lot. I had an amazing adventure that I will never regret.

Sunset over San Miniato

Walking through vineyards, Tuscany

December 13 – Sabio (Wisdom)

2011-12-14T10:22:00.000+07:00

What lesson or piece of wisdom did you learn from a child this year? Did it surprise you?

In India, I was reminded by a group of primary age children, not to take myself too seriously and to throw myself into whatever it is that I am doing and have fun. We danced and we spun round and round for two hours until sweating and exhausted I had to stop. Kids know how to have fun in the present moment regardless of what you have or don't have. Sometimes I forget.

December 12 – Reverb11 - Libro (Book)

2011-12-13T10:05:00.001+07:00

Celebrating my 100th blog post today by answering the question, what book did you read in 2011 that was most inspirational? Why?

Both of the books that were most inspirational to me this year speak to the heart of two of my life’s questions. How do I live a life of service? How do I live a life of compassion?

Everyday Grace by Marianne Williamson

Best explained by an anonymous reader’s review. “This book teaches how to change the world by dealing with the little things in life from a spiritually enlightened perspective. You may not be able to change the world today, but you can change your personal world and the personal world of those around you right now.”

The Hope: A Guide to Sacred Activism by Andrew Harvey

This book clearly and succinctly explains how you can be the change you want to see in the world, how we can all make a difference big or small, how we can help transform the world by compassionate service. He provides tools that are easily incorporated into our everyday lives so that we can embody Sacred Activism.

Related but worth mentioning, I am so grateful for my kindle that has enabled me to buy exactly the type of books that I like to read that I often cannot find when I am travelling. I would not have read these two books had it not been for my Kindle.

December 11 – Reverb11 - Gracias (Thanks)

2011-12-12T22:37:00.000+07:00

Appreciation and acknowledgement are corner stones to building trust and deepening relationships. Write a thank you note or poem to someone who impacted your life in 2011.

It is not possible to single out any one person to say thank you to this year. There are so many people who have been there for me, supporting me from near and far, equally. Keeping my personal and financial affairs going back in Australia. Offering words of support, encouragement and friendship. Making me feel connected in a foreign environment when I often felt disconnected and so far away. And sending love, always.

With all of my heart, I say thank you.

Wat Saket, Golden Mountain, Bangkok

Loi Krathong, Naiharn Lake, Phuket, Thailand

December 10 – Reverb11 - Ananda (Joy)

2011-12-12T22:24:00.000+07:00

A positive frame of mind is a habit. How have you silenced the propaganda factory of negativity with positive thought and behavior in your life in 2011? How has this changed your day-to-day being?

Gratitude

Everyday I think of a few things that I am grateful for and send my thanks out to the world in a little, quiet prayer.

Small Stones

In the last couple of months, I have discovered a community of people who write Small Stones. It is a very short piece of writing that precisely captures a fully-engaged moment. There are no rules or forms to follow it is just about watching, listening, smelling, tasting, touching and feeling something in the world. This practice helps me to look at everything with a sense of awe.

Acceptance

I also try to practice acceptance of the present moment, accepting how life is right now and how I am right now. Sitting in meditation every morning promotes acceptance. Maybe I am tired with different aches in my body and a flurry of thoughts and worries rushing through my mind. Or maybe I am still and peaceful with a less wandering mind. When I meditate, I am how I am and I find it promotes peace during my day.

Laughter

I love to laugh and I love my own deep, full, hearty laugh. Laughter helps me to look at the light side of life, not take life or myself so seriously and to feel joy.

December 9 - Reverb11 - Listo (Resourcefulness)

2011-12-12T21:56:00.000+07:00

How resourceful were you in 2011? What new ways could you incorporate resourcefulness into 2012?

The one of the great gifts of travelling is that I venture into foreign environments and different cultures where I don’t always understand how things work and I am constantly faced with challenges that I often have to deal with by myself because I generally travel alone.

This year my resourcefulness was called upon in a lot of different ways. Being assertive, remaining calm under stress, problem solving, using intuition and creative communication were key. Although I tend to rely on myself a lot in general, I did ask for and accept help from others, both strangers and acquaintances.

My inner resourcefulness has always supported me and pulled me through. This I know from a lot of experience. In 2012, I am interested in building and more freely calling upon the assistance of others.

Me and Sabine on the way to Mango Hill, Pondicherry, India

December 8 – Dharma (The Path)

2011-12-11T22:11:00.000+07:00

Wandering can be good for the over-focused creative. How did you wander well this year?

When I created my travel blog back in April 2009, this is what I wrote in the ‘About Me’ section:

Taking some time out to let go, be free and see where the winds and the sea may take me...

The whole purpose of my travels have been to wander with freedom and without any purpose but to see where I end up. I love the word wander, although I more typically use the word roam. There is such a sense of freedom in both of those words that I love.

This year alone, I have roamed far. From Phuket to Laos to Bangkok and Kanchanaburi and back to Phuket. Then to Melbourne to London to Bath and Canterbury to Tuscany, Ancona, Milano and Sardegna to Prague to Bavaria to Geneva to Tamil Nadu and Kerala in India and back to Phuket once more.

I have followed my heart in my wanderings. I’m not a traveller who is ticking off the list of countries or places to see before I die and I rarely keep moving around for more than a few weeks at a time. It’s just not my style.

In quiet moments, I ask my heart, “What do you want to do next?” And there is always an answer even if I doubt it at first or don’t want to listen. This year my wanderings have given me adventure, rest and relaxation in paradises, reunions with international friends and voluntary service in my country of joy (India).

I followed my heart in my wanderings and my heart tells me I wandered well but I could have wandered even more freely. There is still a part of me that holds back, even when travelling, and that I could let go a little bit more, to live and explore with a little more curiosity and wander with a little more wonder.

Bridge over River Kwai, Kanchanaburi, Thailand

Melbourne's Fitzroy Gardens in Autumn

Pravčická gate - the largest rock bridge in Europe, near Hrensko, Czech Republic

Tranquilo (Calm) - December 7

2011-12-08T23:31:00.000+07:00

Sometimes the most beautiful, memorable moments are also the quietest. What quiet, beautiful moment do you recall?

Blessed I am that my life is filled with so many beautiful quiet moments. Since arriving back in Phuket after two noisy months in India, I seem to notice them and appreciate them more. Like the quiet stillness below the air conditioner’s hum when I awake in the morning. Or the moments of quiet mindfulness I sometimes glimpse in my morning meditation. Or the dark stillness of night when I go to bed.

I have two favourite quiet moments:

1 Watching sunsets

I love sunsets. I watch as many as I possibly can and I find it hard to turn my back on them. Each one is filled with possibility, it could be the most spectacular one I’ve seen yet. Although there are usually people around me, my sunset watching is quiet. I watch, mesmerised, as the golden ball dip out of sight. Sometimes it shoots up colour, sometimes it is a nothing sunset, swallowed up by dense grey cloud but leaving the possibility to the next day. Every time I watch, I am entranced, quiet, still.

2 Floating in the sea

My body stretched out star shape, weightless, supported by the tropical warm sea. The sun kisses my face, my chest and my stomach when it bobs above the surface. Head back, my ears filled with water, all I can hear is soft crackling and the distant dream-like rumble of waves crashing on the shore. This is bliss. This is bliss.

After Beach Bar Sunset, Kata Noi, Phuket, 17/10/2011

Another After Beach Bar sunset, Kata Noi, Phuket, 13/11/2011

Naiharn Sunset, Trattoria Buongustaio, 26/10/2011

Another Naiharn Sunset, Trattoria Buongustaio, 7/11/2011

December 6 – Salud (Health)

2011-12-07T23:42:00.000+07:00

What did you do for your body’s benefit this year?

This year, my body did not get a lot of attention. I went through periods where I walked every day, phases where I would start the morning with some yoga, some afternoon swimming for a while and even a few days where I attempted some interval training. And as for diet, well because I’ve spent most of the year in foreign countries, I decided to enjoy all the different cuisines without feeling guilty about it.

My weight has gone up, my weight has gone down and it’s gone up again. I’ve barely read a fashion magazine all year and I feel better for it, living life without the idea that I should be really skinny constantly pumped into my subconscious. Maybe that’s the best thing I could do for my body, to let it find it’s own equilibrium, naturally.

Me diving at Shark Point, Phuket (that was good for my body)

Me walking Via Francigena (that was good for my body)

Me drinking wine in Tuscany (that was definitely good for me)

Sueño (Dream) – Reverb11 - December 5

2011-12-07T11:39:00.000+07:00

What was your dream come true in 2011? What is your wildest dream for 2012?

In 2008, a mere 6 weeks after my long-term relationship ended and I was grieving, lost and feeling very alone, I took myself off on a month long holiday to India and Thailand to lift my own spirits. I had become fascinated with India after reading the blog of a young American woman travelling and living there. But what I knew of India was that people either love it or hate it and I was unsure how I would react. So I booked myself onto a two week tour that took me sailing down the Ganges to Varanasi to Agra and the Taj Mahal, to Jaipur, to Pushkar and then back to Delhi. And I loved it. The energy, the colours, the sights were unlike anything I had ever seen before. It was the joy, the happiness and joy on the faces of the children who had nothing that really captured my heart and reignited my own joy of living. When I left, I knew I wanted to return to India again but not as a tourist. I wanted something more, a closer interaction with the people and children who had so little things but so much joy.

In July, my dream finally came true. I spent two months in Pondicherry volunteering with Prime Trust. I lived a different life surrounded by dirt, poverty, rubbish, heat but so much joy. I volunteered with orphan boys and I helped to establish Prime Trust’s own new orphanage for boys. I met wonderful people from India and around the world. We shared lunches, dinners, pancakes, beers. We partied. We danced.

In a few hours one night, I simply had the most fun I had ever had in my life. I visited the leprosy slum school with my friend and fellow volunteer Nicolas. The children were so excited to see us, lining up for the opportunity to sing or dance for us to welcome us to their school. And when they had finished, they grabbed our hands, pulled us to our feet and we danced and spun around in circles and laughed and took silly photos until finally we collapsed exhausted in a sweaty mess. This one night made my visit to India unforgettable.

Although I am sad to leave my Asian life behind, I am very excited about 2012. I feel like it is filled with endless possibilities. Not long after my travels commenced, I rediscovered my love of writing. I loved to write as a child and in High School, my favourite subject was English. And then I became practical. I focused on uncreative, inexpressive business studies and then focused on my financial planning career. During this time, I wrote every day as part of my work, practical reports explaining strategies, policies or analysing business acquisitions, but my personal and creative writing was sparse and sporadic. Then I started travelling and I started to blog regularly. I wrote poems and captured moments I never published for anyone and kept just for me. I wrote more and more until it became a daily practice, a part of how I live.

I have a story to tell and although those inner demons keep insisting that it’s not worth telling, my wildest dream for 2012 is to write my story, to write a book and to get it in the process of being published.

With kids from the Leprosy Slum School, Pondicherry

A few boys from the remedial school in Muthial Pet

My farewell dinner with my volunteering friends

Two of my orphan boys, Xaviyer & Rajeskar

Dance Party with DJ Bobby @ Seagulls, Pondicherry

Guru (Teacher) - Reverb11 - December 4

2011-12-05T23:20:00.000+07:00

What was the most important lesson you learned about yourself in 2011? Was it a sudden epiphany or a gradual realization?

In May this year, I walked one section of the historical Via Francigena path through Tuscany, a total of 120 kilometres, alone. I wanted to see Tuscany in a different way and I love walking so walking through the Tuscan countryside from town to town sounded perfect. In hindsight, I really had no idea what I was getting myself into.

I asked two questions only before I booked:

1 Will there be other people walking the trail at the same time?

2 Will I get lost?

The response I received was as follows:

“May is peak season and is quite busy so it's unlikely that you would be walking alone. The entire route is well signposted and we will provide you with a step-by-step guidebook so you won't get lost.”

Comforted, I booked. And bought myself what I thought was a semi-decent pair of trail shoes and a waterproof jacket. Preparation complete.

After much delay, I finally received the guide book a week before departing for San Miniato via Florence to commence the walk. As I flicked through the book to familiarise myself with the walking plan, a small alarm bell went off. There were compass directions provided and one particular instruction was telling me to…ford the stream. A stream? I have to walk through a stream? So I added to my preparations and bought a compass. A cheap, tiny compass that I tied to my dive computer I was going to use as a watch, with a hair band.

The walk was not the romantic easy stroll through Tuscany I imagined it would be. I actually didn’t see anyone else travelling the route until Day 5 of the walk when a group of 4 mountain bikers passed me and I later caught up to an English couple plodding along the path – unlike me they looked like professional walkers with zip off khaki coloured pants and hiking poles.

And I got lost. A lot. Every day. At least several times a day. On day 1, it took me thirty minutes to find the path to even commence the walk and then within thirty minutes of walking, not used to the directions and the signs, I was already back-tracking to make sure I was going the right way.

There were lots of different signs. Sometimes frequent, sometimes sparse. Sometimes on trees. Sometimes merely arrows painted on the ground pointing in the direction to walk. Sometimes the guide book and signs agreed and made sense and sometimes they did not. Then I would choose to either follow the signs or the directions in the guide book whichever made more sense at the time. Once I walked up and down the same hill eight times looking for signs I was sure I had missed. I even walked around in a circle two different ways. Once I was so lost, I decided to walk to a hilltop town that I could see in the distance but once I made it up to the top there was no one around because it was afternoon siesta time. Unsure which road to take back down out of the town I pointed my funny little compass south, the direction I knew I needed to walk and walked eight kilometres until I found a sign that I knew was right.

Sometimes I would get very stressed. My big toes were constantly throbbing, my feet and legs aching, I was hot and sweaty and tired. And I would find myself in the middle of a field or a country road with absolutely nobody around, lost, with no idea if I was still even on the path or near the path. Sometimes I would cry. I would walk and sob wishing that I was safely at my B&B with a glass of wine.

No matter how often I was lost or how hard it all seemed, I never gave up. I never wanted to give up. It was never an option for me. I knew that eventually I would find my way. I did. And it was actually in being and getting lost that made walking the Via Francigena the wonderful adventure it was for me.

And so I have gradually realised, that being lost is part of the great adventure we call life. It is the times that I am lost that I learn more about myself and life. Let’s face it, walking a straight line is easy but if you add a blindfold, a few steep hills and twist and turns it becomes a little more difficult and a lot more interesting. think the most important lesson I learned is that no matter how lost I am, physically or figuratively, I will always find my way.

One of the Via Francigena signs

Another Via Francigena sign, arrow painted on the ground

The path through the countryside, leading to a vineyard

The first people I saw on the same path as me in 5 days

Me in Montalcino

Anicca (Impermanence) - December 3

2011-12-04T10:17:00.001+07:00

What did you let go of this year? Whom did you let go?

“Stop looking all over the place for "the answers" - whatever they are - and start looking for the questions - the inquiries which are most important in your life, and give them answers. You do not live each day to discover what it holds for you, but to create it.” Neale Donald Walsch

It’s hard to think of what you’ve let go of when you’ve basically travelled to Europe, India and Asia with 20 kilograms of luggage stuffed into a wheelie backpack for most of the year. This year, my life has been one of impermanence. I’ve let go of home. I’ve left behind friends and family in Australia. I’ve said goodbye to friends on the road as we’ve continued on different paths. I’ve let go of clothes. I’ve let go of needing more than a roof over my head, clothes on my back, food in my belly and enough money in my bank account. I’ve definitely let go of money. What do they say…”it’s better out than in” or wasn’t that meant to be about your bank account?

Perhaps the most significant thing that I’ve let go of and I’ve only just let go of, is the idea that I have to have my life all figured out and that I have to have it figured out before I can come back to Melbourne.

I left Melbourne and started travelling/living in Thailand 2 years and 8 months ago after I hit a career blank. For 7 years I worked in a rapidly expanding financial services company that I loved like a second family. I had earned and been given many opportunities, some serious responsibility, thrown in the deep end with tasks I often had no idea how to do, until the last opportunity put me in a direction that I didn’t want to go. I panicked and searched desperately for a new career path. I knew my strengths and they were even supported by Myers Briggs and a careers counsellor. But it didn’t feel right. I wanted space to breathe, to explore, to travel, to dive.

So I left Melbourne and discovered a different, addictive way of life. And I started to ask myself why I lived in Melbourne. I’d never consciously chosen to live there, it was where I was born. And I asked myself if I wanted to live there. Do I like the climate? Well summer if we have it can be great but winter is f-f-f-freezing cold for me! Do I like the lifestyle? Yes I did but now I’m relaxed I’m not so sure, I really love wearing flip flops all year round. Do I like the people? Well yes, most of the time. But the most important question I’ve been asking myself Mary Oliver style over and over again is “What do I plan to do with my one wild and precious life?”

I asked these questions and I have answers of sorts. They’re just not the black and white epiphany that I thought they would be. And that is what I’ve let go of, needing and expecting that epiphany to come.

The Lovers at Sunset, Tangalla, Sri Lanka, September 2011

Udawalawe National Park, Sri Lanka, September 2011

Lone walk, Tangalla Beach, Sri Lanka, September 2011

Sangha (Tribe) – Reverb 11 – December 2

2011-12-03T13:14:00.000+07:00

This is my Reverb11 reflection for December 2. Please comment and share your own experiences. I'd love to hear your own reflections.

Where have you discovered community in 2011? What are the defining characteristics and essential qualities of your tribe?

Living life as a gypsy has often meant spending long periods of time by myself. I used to be scared of being lonely but what I have learned is that I actually like spending time by myself. There is silence when I want silence and time to ponder and savour the beauty and heartbreak of the world alone; to focus on what is in front of me without having to cater for the needs of another.

As much as I enjoy time by myself, I enjoy company too. As I have moved from place to place, I have found myself in different communities. A family in Italy, a family in Germany, a diving community, a volunteer community in India, a volunteer community in Thailand. I am grateful for the love, care, support and friendship these communities have provided for the duration of the time I have spent with them.

But it is my invisible tribe that is most important to me, my family and friends who have supported me on this journey from afar, who are with me in spirit and who I can always turn to for help, guidance, advice and love.

My tribe abounds with unconditional love. They love me no matter where I am in the world and regardless of how successful or how broken I am.

My tribe supports and encourages me with an unwavering faith in my ability to find and follow my path in life even if I walk around in circles a few hundred times or more. They are always available when needed, listen and provide honest insights (also known as telling me how it is). They hold and maintain the vision of the highest version of me especially when I cannot see it myself.

And most importantly, most of them will laugh, sing, dance and drink wine (or a non-alcoholic substitute) with me.

So to my currently invisible tribe, I hope you know who you all are – thank you! I am so grateful for your love and support.

Me walking Via Francigena, Tuscany, Italy, May 2011

A long stretch of gravel road, Via Francigena, Tuscany, Italy, May 2011

Lost, somewhere in Tuscany, Via Francigena, May 2011

Reverb11 - December 1 - Palabra (Word)

2011-12-02T12:08:00.001+07:00

Through reading blogs that link to blogs that link to blogs, I came across a month long daily writing practice called “Reverb11.” Reverb is a means of reflection on the year that has passed and looking forward to the coming year. It provides us with an opportunity to celebrate life and mourn losses together.

This feels like such a timely practice for me not only because another year is ending but because I’m also entering another transitional period in my life as my travelling journey comes to an end. What perfect timing to reflect with gratitude on the year that has been and even better timing to really become clear on what it is that I want to manifest in 2012. And it starts here….

Encapsulate your 2011 in one word. Why that word? What would you like your word to be for 2012? Why?

Watching life in Burlo, Tuscany, Italy

2011 has been the year of freedom. Once again, unshackled from responsibility, no work, no home, no obligations except a few insurance bills to pay. I have been free to roam and explore as my heart has desired. And I have. From Melbourne to England to Italy, Czech Republic, Germany, Switzerland/France, India, Sri Lanka and back to Thailand. Every day of this year, I have had the freedom to choose what I wanted to do, where I wanted to go, who and what I wanted to see or not see without the constraints of every day life obligations.

Focusing on sunset, Sardegna, Italy

My word for 2012 is focus. Floating in freedom has been gratifying but now it’s time to focus on what I want to create in my life and focus my energy on activities that support my intent. Behind the gift of freedom to myself was the intent to allow that clarity to enter my life. I’ve been hesitant to admit to myself that I know what it is that I want to create, but I do know. Now its time to trust my intuition and focus my energy and time in this new direction and live focused.

Outside my window, wonder

2011-11-24T19:12:00.000+07:00

Outside my window, roofs with mildewed tiles, a mile of jumbled black power lines, coconut palms and topical evergreens sway in the sometimes breeze.

Birds chorus at dusk before handing over to the cricket’s symphony or the frogs after the rain.

There is banging and clattering of dishes being washed in the outdoor restaurant below. Voices chatter. Thai words I don’t understand. It sounds cheerful.

Motorbikes rev sporadically but the main road traffic is surprisingly hushed. A lone dog barks at someone or something passing by.

Today I saw a Russian woman learning to ride a motorbike down a small Soi*. I know she is Russian. She wears tight white pants and heels in a puddled street. She is dangerously wobbly and seems confused by the throttle. I hope she changes her mind.

In between the trees, I see patches of sea. Chalong Bay. Sometimes it’s blue but mostly cloudy green. Occasionally a ute or pink passenger truck races along the long length of the pier that leads to the dive boats. At night it lights up like a colourful fluorescent runway with distinct sections of changing colours, pink to purple, blue to green and back again.

Every morning, as soon as I awake, I separate my pale blue-grey drapes to greet the waking day. This morning I squinted through the blinding silver glare as a sky half coated in cloud reflected the rising sun. At dusk, I sat and watched as the long stretch of porcelain blue broke through the dark rain swept clouds. My Nana used to say “If there’s enough blue sky to make a man’s pair of pants, it’s going to be a nice day.” There was enough blue although I didn’t think it was the right colour to chase the rain away. But Nana was right. Even though she’s not here, she is still right.

My favourite ritual is at night. After I’ve turned out the lights and before I climb into bed to sleep, I part my drapes, open my window, stick out my head and stare up at the night sky. Sometimes it’s covered in cloud but mostly it twinkles stars. Sometimes a handful, sometimes more than I could ever count. Science can explain them but I still stare up at them and wonder: How many are there? How long have they been there? Who or what made them? The answers I don’t care for, or need. I just like to stare outside my window with wonder at this world.

* Soi is the Thai word for street

Outside my window, Chalong, Phuket, Thailand

My Just For Today

2011-11-22T22:57:00.000+07:00

Just for today, I will not worry about tomorrow, about what I could or should be doing

Just for today, I’m not going to let the constant questions run rampage in my head, I’m going to accept that I don’t know the answers right now

Just for day all those unanswered questions will sit silently

Just for today I am going to let go of worry

Just for today all my concerns about the future will be left where they belong, in the future

Just for today, I am going to be kind to myself, I’m going to allow myself to be human and not perfect

Just for today, I’m going to relax into my confusion and allow the grey haze wrapped tightly around my head to settle and loosen and eventually fade away

Just for today I’m going to enjoy what is before me here and now

Just for today I’m going to trust that the answers to my questions about the future will arise loudly from my heart when my head is ready to hear

Sunset from Buon Gustaio Trattoria, Naiharn Beach, Phuket, Thailand

Return to the sea

2011-11-21T00:20:00.001+07:00

The engine hums mechanically shooting rhythmic vibrations pulsing through the cabin as it propels our 75 foot boat towards our dive site. Today, the waves are small, and we gently rock and roll from side to side on the undulating ocean. The outward journey is just under three hours. I don’t wish any of it away. It’s part of what I love about diving, time spent just being on the sea. The movement, sound, vibration, soothe and excite.

It has been 8.5 months since I last submerged myself below the ocean’s silvery skin. 8.5 months of walking on dry, sometimes cold land, occasionally finding the opportunity to hold my breath and immerse myself in a beautiful liquid sea. But 8.5 months since I have been able to stay below for an extended period of time.

We arrive at our dive site. Koh Bida Nok. I stand, geared up and waiting. Sleek in faded black wetsuit. Aluminium tank on my back plus six kilos of weight. I am heavy and awkward and sweating in the tropical heat. Then finally the moment comes to jump and I stride forward into the warm azure Andaman sea. Regulator in my mouth, I exhale and sink far below the surface to that perfect point where I am weightless and free, suspended in the ocean’s deep blue. Breathe in and I rise. Exhale and I fall. Life becomes that simple.

For an hour, we glide around the rocky formation that is Koh Bida Nok. There are critters large and small to find and see. A small cuttlefish camouflaged with the sand that glows ominously in warning as we approach. A nudibranch, bright purple and white, slithers slowly, its antennae flapping in the mild current. Anemone fish dart back and forth whilst glaring mock-menacingly, asserting their territory. Shrimp hide in tiny rock crevices whilst a flat flounder hides in the sand. A goby guards the hole of its burrowing shrimp. Schools of tropical fish circle rocky bommies. A few black-tip reef sharks whiz silently by. One giant unblinking eye of spiky puffer fish remains fixed on me as it glides past, curious about the smooth black bodied, finned human hovering and blowing bubbles in its terrain.

Some creatures are shown to me by our dive guide but many I discover for myself. It is these self-discoveries that I love the best. Excitement spikes the pit of my stomach when I find for myself something small hidden away or a creature camouflaged against its surrounds. It’s as if I’m finally succeeding in slowing down and really paying attention to the world around me.

Mary Oliver asked, “Listen--are you breathing just a little, and calling it a life?” And in these moments when I am breathing fully, slowly, mesmerised and awestruck by the magic mystery of our planet, of this life I can answer that I am fully alive.

After one more dive, we pack up our equipment as the dive boat powers back towards port. The surface of the sea is now almost flat and I watch a million tiny stars dance upon its surface forging a path towards the horizon. The movement, sound and vibration accompanies our journey home but this time mirrors great peace.

Passing Koh Dok Mai on the way out

Fierce anemone fish

A pair of nudibranchs

Curious pufferfish

Me after a dive in Phi Phi

Schooling Fish

Beautiful rippled Andaman Sea

On the way back to Chalong

The Wave

2011-11-15T00:32:00.000+07:00

The wave rises before me. Goliath.
Heart pounds. A dash of adrenaline surges.
I watch its tip begin to foam and curl, quickly fill my lungs, then dive angularly down through the watery wall.
I find a space, a gap between the surging ocean and the sandy floor.
The wave presses me down, weightily rolls over my body, silently tells me who is boss.
In a second it passes and I am released, buoyed back to the surface to bob in the bubbly aftermath.

Flood Dogs

2011-11-13T15:41:00.000+07:00

The pictures alone could make you weep. Posted on Facebook daily for weeks, they showed stray dogs struggling to stay afloat and stay alive during the flooding in Bangkok and Ayutthaya. Dogs swimming through flood water too deep for them to stand in. Dogs clinging to floating debris, trees, branches, anything that would keep their heads above water. Dogs taking refuge on anything that was above the water level, small island embankments, temple ruins, even bicycles stacked on a ledge outside someone’s house. Then there were the inspirational rescue pictures. People wading through knee to waist deep water carrying rescued dogs. Dogs swimming to people on small boats, towards safety and rescue. People feeding stranded dogs. A Thai woman looking after hundreds of dogs stranded on a small bridge given temporary makeshift shelter with black tarpaulin messily strung over the bridge.

So when the call went out for volunteers to help care for the flood affected animals at Wildlife Friends Foundation Thailand (WFFT) I responded. I responded expecting that they would have been inundated with offers to help but I got a swift reply saying “please come”. One day later I was on a plane to Bangkok and then a mini bus down to Cha-am, 150 kilometres south, ready to help any way I could. And it was straight into it. I arrived at WFFT at 8.45pm and by 10.45pm I was in a dark field helping to unload two trucks loaded high with cages of animals evacuated from Bangkok, including a monkey with one arm and one leg, and a rabbit. Even this scene pulled at the heart strings. The dogs had been in cages for many more hours than the 4 hour journey from Bangkok and many of these animals had already been evacuated from Ayutthaya before the flooding hit Bangkok. But at least they were safe and would be well cared for here. WFFT had already commenced building fenced and covered enclosures for them. And supplies of dog food had already arrived. We gave them water and then collapsed into bed ready to face the next day.

In the morning, we started our daily routine. Thirty minute drive down to Cha-am to the government quarantine centre where 170 dogs and cats, mostly strays, were separated into different runs. Greeted by the barking dogs, we set down our bags and started cleaning each of the cages. Poop was swept and often scraped up. Hay removed and replaced with fresh hay. Cages scrubbed with disinfectant and washed out when required. Food bowls were filled and water bowls filled up. We then had time to socialise the dogs before repeating the routine again in the afternoon after lunch.

For a week, I worked along side some amazing people, volunteers from all over the world including the USA, Holland, Malaysia, Korea and Scotland. People who came with passion and were prepared to work hard to help another being who needed help. And it was hard work. We worked tirelessly in the heat and went home at the end of the day smelling of sweat, dog, sometimes poop, covered in fur, scratches, bruises and even some with dog bites.

But it had its rewards too. I spent time with some beautiful, loving and even inspiring animals. Titch and Fleck my gorgeous floppy timid puppies who loved nothing more than to be cuddled, sit on your lap or sleep next to you on the hay. Star, my star mamma dog who adopted 5 puppies in addition to her own 5 after their mamma died. And Stellar, my big gorgeous brown mamma stray dog who always beckoned me with her eyes, pawed at the door when she wanted food or attention, who jumped up and rested her paws lightly on my chest when I came into her cage and who loved having me sit next to her and pat her gently with love. I wanted to take them all home with me, to give them them a loving home off the street where they no longer had to struggle or suffer.

As I write this, the rescue operations continue in Bangkok. Inspirational and often heart-breaking photos are still being posted daily of dogs being rescued from flood waters. The flood affected animals are still being cared for by volunteers and staff at WFFT and are now being neutered by 5 volunteer vets. With the flood waters spreading into downtown Bangkok, the rescue and care operations are likely to continue well into December and they are asking for more volunteers. If needed, I will return as soon as I can.

If you want to help then contact Edwin Wiek at WFFT via Facebook or see WFFT website
WFFT's prime activity is rescuing wildlife and they do an amazing job providing a natural habitat and care for wildlife. You can support this important work by making a donation via the WFFT website.

If you are unable to help in person but would like to support the rescue and care operation, then you can make a donation to the Soi Dog Flood Relief Appeal. Soi Dog are doing a fantastic job raising funds to support the various organisations such as Soi Dog, WFFT and Elephant Nature Park rescuing and evacuating animals.

The WFFT field opposite the temple that has been converted into dog storage

Government Quarantine Centre in Cha-am where we housed 170 cats and dogs

Volunteers from Korean Animal Rights Adocates with Edwin, Barb, Louise, Marise and myself

Little Fluffy giving me a big kiss for being taken out of the enclosure for a run and some cuddles

Fleck

Titch

Puppy in one of the field enclosures

Another puppy in one of the field enclosures

Beautiful Stellar

Stellar and her pups

Puppy feeding time with Star

Star feeling a bit unwell

Another friendly stray dog wanting a pat

Heading back to Cha-am with some dogs for neutering

Waiting and Watching

2011-10-23T13:09:00.000+07:00

I am back in Phuket. Round 4 of my love affair with this island. It’s magnetic charm keeps drawing me back. Away from the over supply and development of tourist facilities and the sex tourism, there is a beauty and peace and tranquility here that pulls me in time and time again. It reminds me that my needs are simple. Food, water, shelter, sea and sunsets. Although I much prefer it if you can throw in a motorbike, some wine, air conditioning and friends as well.

Life slows down for me here. It’s a lot about waiting and watching. Waiting for work. Waiting for the rain to stop. Waiting for the right weather to go to the beach. Waiting to go diving. Waiting and hoping for a brilliant sunset. It’s the kind of waiting that if you’re not completely in the present moment becomes a wearisome boredom. Sometimes I find myself slip but for the most part there’s a peace and a patience in my current waiting. It gives space for watching. Watching the clouds pass by. Sometimes giant puffs of marshmallow. Other times silver veiling hiding the blue sky. Watching the storms sweep in over Chalong Bay with stealth and ambush the unprepared. Watching sets of huge waves crash on the shore of Naiharn Beach. Watching people frolic in the warm sea despite the warning of red flags not to swim. Watching dogs play fight on the sand. Watching life. Watching and waiting for the inspiration of small stones to make their way onto my page.

Like the gentle rise and fall of a boat bobbing on an emerald sapphire sea, there is a beautiful lull to my life here. It is addictive and it makes me wonder if I can ever make a permanent return to city life. The very thought of going back to an old frantic routine makes me panic, a little. My wanderings over the last 2 ½ years helped me to discover the threads of all the things I love, want to do and be but I’ve not yet quite figured out the way to weave them together into the tapestry of my life. And so, I’m using this time, for waiting, and watching for the inspiration to come and decisions to be made.

Two seasons in one frame, Friendship Beach, Phuket, Thailand

Storm rolling in from Chalong Bay, Phuket, Thailand

Sunset play, Naiharn Beach, Phuket, Thailand

Stormy weather, Friendship Beach, Phuket, Thailand

Mirrored sunset, Naiharn Beach, Phuket, Thailand

All about the cloud, After Beach Bar, Kata Noi, Phuket, Thailand

More small stones

2011-10-20T00:38:00.001+07:00

And here is the rest of my week captured as small stones (and if that doesn't make sense then see my last post or Writing Our Way Home for more explanation)

Biting into crunchy pillows of ciabbata bread, tangy mustard mayonnaise erupts oozing a trail of bright yellow lava down my dimpled chin.

Molten pools of pewter mirror sodden skies.

Sweet frangipani and earthy incense

Skip hand in hand across rain swept air

Tickling nostrils and stirring nostalgia

Before dancing off into the night.

Stripes meld.

Violet into blue into green into yellow, orange then pink.

The illusory slide of light arches over yachts and boats bobbing in an emerald sapphire sea.

Dark brown eyes tarnished by tell-tale tiny threads of fiery red flame.

Frangipani

Rainbow over Chalong Bay seen from Friendship Beach, Phuket, Thailand

Small stones

2011-10-15T01:01:00.001+07:00

Last week I came across a blog and website called Writing Our Way Home who teach people to slow down and fall in love with the world by writing small stones. What is a small stone? It is a very short piece of writing that precisely captures a fully-engaged moment. There are no rules or forms to follow it is just about watching, listening, smelling, tasting, touching and feeling something in the world. I was curious so I took their 7 day challenge to write one small stone every day. Here are some of the results and experiences from my world this week.
Let me know what you think.

A silveresque trail.
Its wetness shimmers delicately in the post-rain sun,
Leading the way to its creator.
Slimy, sluggish body housed in a delicate brindled shell.
The snail moves with undetectable movement.
Its trail, the only tell-tale sign.

The unseen sun,
Permeates the silvery marshmallow expanse thickly carpeting the sky,
Its glaring light magnified through the drape that hides.

White capped waves wash over weather-worn rocks, bubbling and foaming before slinking back down to join their inky mass. WhooSHHHHHHHHHHH. WhooSHHHHHHHHHHH. WhooSHHHHHHHHHHH.

The constant rush of sound mingles with the salty, sticky breeze.

A soothing caress carried on invisible wings

Tiny bare feet skip lightly over moist smooth sand.

Little pale skinned legs gallop towards the silver sea.

Favourite green and yellow martian lycra swimmers sit snug on straight bony hips.

Bare white chest momentarily dry.

Into the small waves he skips and sits down with a gleeful splash.

Black mop of cropped hair plastered, salty.

Dark Asiatic eyes squint in delight.

“Look at me” he waves to the ones he left dry on the sand.

A piece of peace

2011-10-11T17:44:00.000+07:00

The rain streams down from silver grey sky. For two hours it has alternated between drizzling and pouring. Incessant. I am stranded but at least I am dry. For now.

Curled up on a cracked brown leather arm chair with a cup of hot milky coffee in my favourite cafe, I sit and watch and wait for the right moment to leave. It’s not going to stop anytime soon. I know. I’ve seen this monsoon rain before but today I was not prepared. Not anticipating the relentless downpour, I ventured out in short cotton dress and leggings without my poncho. If I want to make it home this afternoon then I will have to ride in the rain, my clothing, my skin, unprotected. It will be a wet, cold, stinging journey home. This I also know. I've done it before.

The shower wanes. I brace, anticipating the moment to grab my handbag and make my escape. Then seconds later it intensifies once more. Too heavy and too wet to safely drive home. I sit back.

I wait. And watch. And wait. And watch. The rhythm of the rain. Streaming for endless minutes, ebbing teasingly before intensifying once more. The pattern repeating.

Somehow, in my waiting and watching, I find a small piece of inner calm. Or rather, it finds me, sneaking upon me in the breaths between the waiting and watching. Accepting that in this moment this is where I am and there is nothing I can do to change it. I relax and enjoy the beauty of the falling rain and a small piece of peace.

Then it starts pouring harder once again and the moment passes. I look at the clock. It’s 3 o’clock. I’ve been held captive here for two and a half hours and all I can think is “Bloody hell, am I ever going to make it home today?”

Chao Fa West Road, Chalong, Flooded

Rain passing by, Naiharn Beach, Phuket, Thailand

Night-time rain, Ao Chalong, Phuket

More night-time rain, Ao Chalong, Phuket

I remember

2011-10-05T16:44:00.000+07:00

Was it all a dream? These peaceful days of slumber and solitude are all I know, now. But there are colours, faces, sounds, that leap up at me when I am lost in the tranquility of my surrounds. They dance in front of my eyes, taunting and reminding me, “Don’t forget us, we were real.”

I remember the heat and how sweat constantly trickled down my back, accumulating in the gentle curve of my lower spine.

I remember driving my scooter, alert but carefree as the wind whipped my hair and the dirt stuck to my face, forming muddy glue.

I remember her colours, vivid shades of blue, green, red, pink, purple, orange and yellow, sparkling against a curtain of grey and dusty brown.

I remember dancing. I remember wanting to move my body like never before in celebration of the life I was living. Inside. Outside. In the pouring rain.

I remember laughing with friends. Stories shared. The light and often comical side of life found in a land that is different and sometimes more difficult than the ones we know as home. Laughing from a place deep within my belly bubbling up through and out my heart. It roared. I couldn’t keep it in. I didn’t want to.

I remember the faces of children, some shy, some smiling, some staring solemnly or curiously at me. A foreign stranger.

I remember dancing with young girls, their hands in mine, twirling around and around and around, laughing that loud, hearty belly laugh. Dizzy and spent, falling down and then getting up to do it all over again.

I remember going home that night, a huge indelible smile on my face. Buzzing. More high than any drug could take me.

I remember sitting on the rocks at the beach watching the waves roll in, crash and splash as my orphan boys hunted for crabs. It was me and the hundreds of locals, on a regular Sunday afternoon. I was part of the crowd. A part of life. Content.

Now, I am separated from this place by the Bengal Sea and the sea of time. It is past. I am present. And my present keeps moving, unstoppably forward so that these memories grow more distant and farther behind me. This is life. This can’t be changed.

It was not an easy way of life. Physical comfort was short. But oh, how I loved this time, this place. I never wanted to be anywhere else.

And I still don’t.

We share a piece of soul, India and me. She keeps calling for me as I call her name. I felt her pulse and it became mine. Sisters of heart. Forever entwined.

Remembering how to breathe

2011-10-02T00:02:00.001+07:00

I walked along a dark deserted beach,

On sand full of shooting stars.

I crept up upon a turtle

Building her nest, labouring hard.

I stood and watched another,

Drag herself back to the sea.

I watched as a big wave rolled in,

And swept her away from me.

I sat for countless hours,

Drinking in the beauty of this shore.

I watched each and every wave roll in,

I could not ask for more.

I watched the sun rise and a new day dawn

And each day I watched it set.

I watched the stars and the moon come out,

These I won’t forget.

I stood close to elephants,

Wild and roaming free.

Little did they know,

This was a dream come true for me.

I rested and did nothing,

I wrote a lot and read a little too.

I walked miles upon the empty beach,

These things I needed to do.

I spent eight days alone here,

Some times tense and some times free.

I gave the gift of time to me,

And remembered how to breathe.

View down Tangalla Beach

Sunrise at Tangalla Beach

Elephants at Udawalawe National Park

Green Turtle dragging herself back down to the sea at Rekawa Beach

The Lovers at Sunset, Tangalla Beach lagoon

Catching stars

2011-09-30T00:33:00.000+07:00

Tonight I stood on a deserted beach, alone. My feet sank into the cool, soft sand, connecting me deeper to the earth. Before me, the sea, jet black except for the white foamy tops of its breaking waves, rushed in towards me with a roar then bubbled softly as it slinked back towards its mass. Occasionally the breeze flicked at my loose clothing and tousled my hair as it passed by me, leaving me enveloped by the warm night air. I turned my head up towards the cloudless sky, star-gazing. Slowly, I spun around, eyes locked to the heavens, absorbing the magnificence of it all. These tiny twinkling dots, radiating brightly in the felt black sky, seemingly just for me, so close that if I stood on tippy toes I could reach up and catch one between my cupped hands and bring its magic closer to me on earth.

Tonight, I stood on this beautiful deserted beach, alone but a tiny part of this beautiful world.

Leaving India behind (that voice, not quite mine)

2011-09-26T18:16:00.000+07:00

I left Pondicherry, my home of almost two months, only two days ago. Now, I find myself in a completely different world. A world where there are no crowds, no dirt, little rubbish and no man-made noise, only the breeze rustling the fronds of the coconut trees, some squawking crows and the surf pounding the beach, just 30 metres from my cabana, before surging across the sand in a foamy roar. I am alone except for the sometimes too friendly staff and a handful of other guests content to maintain their own distance. I have fallen asleep listening to the rumble of the sea. I have walked miles along the golden sandy beach, alone and sometimes with a friendly local for company pointing out where a turtle has dragged herself ashore to lay her eggs. I have laid beneath coconut trees partly shaded from the Sri Lankan sun watching the sea whilst listening to my favourite music. I am in yet another paradise and if I could stay in this moment it would be perfect. But for all its peace, beauty and serenity, my heart is not content here. It longs to be back in another crazy world, the complete opposite of where I am.

My ever wandering mind, rewinds, thinking back over the last two months. Memory after memory pops up like tiny brightly coloured fireworks. The display is so spectacular, I whisper to myself, “Was it all a dream?” I revisit photos, solid proof of what occurred before. No it wasn’t a dream. It was all so very, very real. My eyes linger over each picture and I remember the sounds, the flavours, the people, the action, the emotion. I ride the roller coaster once more feeling each different moment in time, the joy, the frustration, the happiness, the sadness, the tiredness, the connection, the disparity and the contentment. I deposit each memory into my heart, allowing it to be gently enclosed, trapped, immortalised within my own life, forever.

For more than 3 years, I thought India called my name but it was my own heart that cried out for my return. In the moments I was quiet and still, I heard it spoken softly and slowly over and over again in a voice that was not quite mine, “In-di-a. In-di-a. In-di-a.” And in the moments I was distracted and not wanting to listen, it called out fervently over and over again with more urgency, “India, India, India!” I heard it in the morning in the blinking moments after I awoke. I heard it in the middle of a meeting, sometimes turning to see from where the voice had called. And I heard it in my daydreams blending in with the background noise until in a quiet moment it jumped out, loud, shaking me out of my reverie. The voice called time and time again until finally I answered.

I came back to India hoping without expectation to reconnect to the joy I felt last time I was here. I was not disappointed. Amongst the frustrations, hardships, dirt and poverty, joy lurks here too, waiting to be stumbled upon in unanticipated ways. I found joy when I was driving in the dirty, crowded streets, dodging buses and trucks, just another tiny spoke in the wheel of life. I found it in absurd moments so foreign from my Australian life that I couldn’t help but laugh. A cow interrupting a conversation with a loud moo as it passed by our gate. Parking my scooter next to a cow on the only dry piece of in my flooded street and then wading home to a porch full of floating shoes. Watching a family of buffaloes create peak hour chaos as they moved slowly down the middle of MG Road oblivious to the mayhem around them. And I experienced it in a trip down the street to purchase a sewing needle and black cotton that unexpectedly turned into a scavenger hunt, each clue provided by a helpful stranger.

Joy appeared in the moments I sat with little Anita, listening to her read, spell, and answer my questions testing her school work, caught up in her enthusiasm to learn and interact with me. I found it in the service of my favourite waiters eager to show me kindness and make sure my needs were met. It was ever-present in the laughter and friendly waves of children I passed on the streets or maybe it was more in the laughter and the waves that I gave back. Joy was there watching my orphan boys get soaked by waves splashing up over the rocks at Pondy beach whilst dressed in jeans and t-shirts as they hunted for crabs. I found joy in the eyes, hugs and kisses of a little street puppy and as I watched her heal, grow, and then be adopted by a loving family. And there was joy too, in the quiet and not so quiet moments spent laughing with new friends.

Joy was always in the dancing. It was there, watching the orphan boys freely and unselfconsciously singing and dancing their hearts out Tamil style and then laughing with them at my poorly replicated dance moves. It was in the singing and dancing performances of the slum school children eager to welcome me to their school and then embracing me in their arms as we sang and danced until near exhaustion I wanted to collapse. And joy rained down upon me at an outdoor dance party where I danced with friends and strangers, moving freely, uninhibited to our individual rhythms but as one pulsing mass whist the rain tumbled down upon us washing away our sweat but not our enthusiasm.

Now I am here, alone, in this quiet, tranquil place, I feel like I am coming down off a massive high. Maybe I was a little addicted to the chaotic energy that surrounded me back in India. As I sit and watch the waves roll in, I allow, little by little, a new rhythm to take hold of my life. I accept, little by little, that I have once again moved on from a place and time that I have loved with all my heart. As with the end of any beloved relationship, I feel the pain and the sadness of the forced separation but I have lived the gypsy life long enough to know that there can always be a return.

In the distance, past the sound of squawking crows, the rustling coconut fronds and the thundering waves, I can hear that voice, not quite mine, call out once again, slowly and softly. “In-di-a. In-di-a. In-di-a.”

Tangalla, Sri Lanka

Sunset @ Tangalla, Sri Lanka

Beautiful little Ivy

Participants in the Ganesha Vinayaka procession

Dancing all night long (courtesy Izumi Yamaguchi)

Xaviyer and Rajasekar at the beach with their crab

Little Anita at remedial school

These streets

2011-09-15T01:48:00.000+07:00

These streets, they once confused me. A riddled grid, with no familiar landmarks to give me a sense of north or south. And although I drove them with a compass attached to my wrist, I was always, always lost. My trusty map, battered, torn and worn from over-use now barely holds together but still holds all the answers. If only I knew where on the map I am. Street signs are hidden or over-rated but if you live here long enough you know the streets like you know all the rooms of your house. No thinking required. Driving whilst honking, dodging, searching and looking, perplexed me. Frustrated, I was convinced I would never be able to find my own way around without getting lost. It is now six weeks since my arrival and I am still learning the streets but I know my way to the places I frequent. I even know a few different routes. Some street names I know but many I do not. I just know that they lead me to where I want to go and where I want to be.

Here, the streets are where life takes place. All day, all night, there are people, animals, activity, life. Air conditioning is a luxury the majority do not have. Concrete and corrugated iron houses are hot even with a ceiling fan. The streets offer a cool but dusty oasis. People sleep here, wash their bodies and clothes here, cook, sit and beg, talk to neighbours and friends, build things, sell fruit, vegetables and fish, urinate, spit and even dump their rubbish here. Goats, cows and street dogs roam freely, sometimes even pigs. This is their terrain. The traffic clogs its width from dawn to dusk, moving or parked stationary but never quiet and never orderly. Road rules rarely apply. Priority is based on size. Don’t argue with oncoming buses and trucks in “your” lane, just get out of their way, pull off the road if you have to. This is not a fight you want to risk. There is but one goal, and that is to get yourself to your destination any way you can. Leap frog other road users. Get yourself in front. But for all the chaos the dodgem traffic creates, there is surprisingly little speed in the city. The limit of 20 kilometres per hour is more or less abided by if not more liberally interpreted as 30 kilometres per hour.

Driving in morning peak hour, I feel alive, connected, part of the action of this town. This is where the energy is as everyone starts a new day. Bus loads of happy, shiny, children on their way to school create the most chaos. Girls with neatly pigtail plaited hair with big blue bows and boys with oiled hair, almost all of them with decorated foreheads, red spots and white stripes, fill the buses to the brim. Stopping to allow the children to exit, they take up precious space, forcing the traffic to squish together to go around them and sometimes creating a temporary one lane parking lot when there is too much oncoming traffic.

Children, fortunate to have their own bicycles, pedal to their own rhythm, turning out from side streets in front of traffic as if they own the road. Side by side they take up more valuable space on the road, oblivious and careless to the traffic swerving around them. Elderly bicycle rickshaw drivers steadily pedal their heavy loads, passengers or boxes of goods or furniture. Watching them, I feel weary and part of me longs for deep rest, to be free of a heavy load. Cars, scooters and motorbikes dodge the old rickshaws as well as the holy cow often standing in the middle of the road at the most inopportune time. And every morning there is Laskshmi, the elephant, plodding towards the temple on her way to work.

Women, clad in brightly coloured saris, walk the side of the streets, baskets, pots and other heavy parcels balanced easily, even elegantly on top of their heads. They, too, move steadily, not rushed, more obstacles to dodge. Along the canal road, dozens more women sit along the side of the road with their small catches of fresh fish laid out for sale on upturned boxes or sheets on the ground. The fishy stench announces their wares for sale long before their small stalls come into sight. Opposite them, other ladies sit on the ground behind bunches of bananas, guava, apples, pomegranate, custard apples and mangoes laid out for sale.

Sometimes I drive these streets, my purple scarf wrapped around my face and neck, in an often futile attempt to prevent the ever-present dirt kicked up by trucks and buses and cars landing on my skin. A flimsy barrier it may be but it doesn't block out life. Every day, I ride these streets with an open heart, grateful for the dirt, the chaos, the colours, the sometimes unusual sights, the people, the cows, the energy and for this period of time to be on these streets and part of this Indian life.

Saving Ivy - Part 2

2011-08-26T13:11:00.000+07:00

“I don’t understand” I tell the woman on the other end of the phone. It was a bad connection and the woman was either speaking English with a Tamil accent or speaking Tamil, I couldn’t tell which. “Wait, wait, I put you on to someone who speaks Tamil.”

I ran out of the bathroom where I had gone to make the phone call to escape the noise from fourteen orphan boys creating chaos in the volunteer house living room. “Manoj, Manoj, can you talk to this lady from Blue Cross about the puppy, ask if they can take her? I can’t understand her.”

Manoj took my phone. After a minute he hangs up. “No, they are in Chennai and can’t pick up the puppy here.”

It wasn’t exactly the question I wanted answered. I wanted to know if there was somewhere in Pondicherry that I could take her. I wasn’t ready to give up on the Blue Cross yet and decided to email them in English. The auto response I received acknowledging receipt of my email was in English. A drop of hope . I crossed my fingers and waited for their reply.

Ivy was dirty and her wounds needed cleaning and disinfecting. Partially filling a bucket with cold water, I dampened a cloth and dribbled the water over her, holding her still with my left hand. She obliged without complaint so to make it easier to wash her properly, I placed her in the bucket with her two little front legs dangling over the lip. She whimpered and moved her legs in a futile effort to escape but once I started massaging my Herbal Essences shampoo through her fur, she stopped.

After she was rinsed clean and had shaken herself off to dry, I tended her wounds, cutting away some of the matted fur and using antiseptic wipes from my first aid kit to gently clean them. She stood still the whole time somehow knowing that I was trying to help her. With no fat to keep her warm, she began to shiver. I wrapped her in my purple scarf and placed her in my lap to use my body heat to warm. Her shivering soon stopped. I gently stroked her through the scarf and watched her sleep fitfully, my heart aching for this little soul who so far, had lived all alone in the world, without a friend or someone to care for her, hunting for food, always hungry, unable to sleep peacefully, ignored, unwanted, unseen, living a rough existence without love, the only one she knew. I would not give up hope of a better life for her.

Before heading out for dinner with friends from the IVC house, I quickly checked my email on my iPhone. The Blue Cross had responded and with it came some more hope. They provided me with the name and number of a lady in Pondicherry called Marion, from an organisation called Dayakara. I quickly googled to find out about them. Dayakara is a trust run by Marion and her husband, both of German origin, who have lived in Pondicherry and run Dayakara using largely their own funds for over 30 years. More than 20 dogs, 3 horses, pigs, ducks and a goat live a free-range existence at Dayakara but the article indicated that they didn’t have capacity to take in any more animals. It didn’t sound like this would be the final solution but I crossed my fingers and planned to contact her the next day anyway.

The next morning, Marion contacted me before I could contact her. “Please bring your puppy ASAP” she emailed and text me. “You’re saved” I sang to Ivy joyfully, “you’re saved.”

I went home from my ayurvedic treatment to shower and take Ivy to Marion immediately. As I approached the back door, I already knew something was wrong. The cleaning lady had been whilst I was out. The plastic chair that I had placed outside to block the outside stairs was now sitting inside near the back door. Stepping outside, I looked around. Ivy wasn’t there. Anxiously I started to search and call for her. I checked the back steps. Everything I used to block them had been cleared away. Her water and food bowls were gone. I checked the downstairs shower and toilet. Not there. I climbed up the stairs checking the back terrace, toilet and showers. Not there. I climbed the next set of stairs to the locked rooftop and peered through the gate, calling for her. Not there. Crying, I ran back down the stairs and grabbed my keys to unlock upstairs. Maybe she had been put inside? Not there either.

I threw on my sunglasses and flip flops and walked along my street, an oily, crying mess. I looked down the side streets, I looked at each house and feebly called her name. I reached the end of the street. No Ivy. I walked back, crying, convinced she was gone and wondering why the cleaning lady would do this, she was just a little puppy and she was about to be saved.

The walk home calmed me down so that I was capable of talking. I rang Arasu, the director of my volunteer program and asked if he knew what the cleaning lady had done with the puppy. “She rang me this morning and said the puppy had made a mess. I told her to clean it up and leave the puppy there until you got home.” At those last words I started to cry. “But she’s gone, she’s not here,” I sobbed. “I’ve found somewhere to take her. Can you please call her and find out where she put her?” I asked.

Twenty minutes later ArasuAnja. “I’ve found her. Can you come with me to take her to Auroville in 30 minutes?”

Without knowing exactly where we were going, Anja and I rushed off on the scooter with little Ivy wrapped in my purple scarf held tight against my chest. Ivy loved the ride. Alert, she watched the traffic and scenery pass by and from time to time stuck her nose up in the wind. Content, she sat snuggled in my arms, going with the flow once again, surprising me with how easy going and cool she is.

Eventually, we found Dayakara, near Auroville but not part of it. Marion quickly ushered us inside to put Ivy on the table for examination. Wounds cleaned and disinfected. Toe nails clipped. Vitamin injection. One more injection that made Ivy howl pathetically in fear. “She definitely has a lot of worms” Marion told me. “We will need to worm her tomorrow.” Marion also told me that Ivy was probably around 3 months old and was a Doberman crossed with an Indian dog. With small paws, she would only be a moderate sized dog. We put her inside a cage distracted by a big bowl of food and walked away.

Ivy is now safe in loving, caring hands.

A week later, she has already gained more than 500 grams and her wounds are healing although slowly. Ivy has a guaranteed home at Dayakara with Marion and the rest of the animals but the ideal outcome would be to find her a loving home. The odds are against her as she is female and an Indian cross-breed. Both are unpopular traits in domestic dogs here as pure breeds are in fashion and males preferred because they can’t get pregnant. But regardless of what happens, Ivy’s days as an unwanted street dog are now over.

Saving Ivy - Part 1

2011-08-22T18:29:00.001+07:00

Dropping by the other volunteer’s house to meet some friends for lunch, I found a tiny, sick and injured puppy wandering the street. Alone and without a collar she was obviously an orphan and not owned. She was also emaciated. Fur over bones with a bloated stomach full of worms. Covered in dirt with a section of skin and fur missing from her side revealing raw flesh, not yet infected. On either side of her head, skin was torn away from the soft folds of her neck just below her ears. The torn fur was matted with dried blood and puss and dirt. The wounds were infected. A pussy discharge trailed from the inner corners of both her eyes. On her cheek and on top of her head, more areas of exposed flesh was slowly healing. She was so small I estimated that maybe she was 8 weeks old. So young. Too young to be on the streets all alone without a mother.

She looked terrible, her wounds and layer of dirt a little repulsive but she was still gorgeous. This tiny little puppy with huge ears that stuck out from her head like wings. I touched her gently with my fingertips, trying to avoid her wounds, feeling the knuckles of her spine like hard lumps beneath her puppy fur. She lay down at my feet and rolled over to offer her tummy to my fingers. I wondered if this was the first time that a human had ever touched her with kindness. She stayed at my feet for twenty minutes as my friends gathered around and we tried to figure out what to do with her. To leave her on the streets would probably mean death. If starvation didn’t take her then infection from her wounds probably would. Knowing this, how could I leave her here on the street?

We contacted our local friend to see if he knew of a vet but by the time he responded, it was too late. The little puppy wandered back up the street. With nowhere to keep her and no idea of what to do with her, I let her walk away. Torn between wanting to help and the seeming helplessness of both her and my situation. I watched her walk around the corner, fighting the urge to chase after her and hold her safe in my arms. Flushed with guilt, I turned away, sending her a silent prayer, that she may stay safe and that we may find her once again.

Three days later, the incessant barking of a dog caught my attention as I left the IVC volunteer house, the last in a scooter convoy with my friends on our way out for dinner. As I drove past the barking, I spotted a small familiar figure standing in front of the gate of the large barking dog. I turned around, yelling out to my friends to stop, and went back. Behind her, another dog, a large male, limped over to her. Despite his lame leg, I sensed danger for her and I quickly scooped her into my arms. My friends came back to find me holding the emaciated, dirty, little puppy and they knew we couldn’t leave her this time. We locked her inside the gate of the volunteer house whilst we went out for dinner and tried to figure out what to do.

Returning home to check on her, we find her a little distressed at being locked up in a strange place all alone. Unable to leave her by herself, we stayed with her and I jumped online to try and find a way to save her. Ivy (named after after IVC (India Volunteer Care) because I found her outside their volunteer house), curled up underneath the one and only lounge chair in the house. She closed her eyes to sleep, but she found no peace. Her eyes twitched and opened at the smallest sound. I wonder if she had ever enjoyed a peaceful sleep. Perhaps this is the only kind she has known, on guard, ready to react and protect herself every moment of her life.

As she slept fitfully, I googled veterinarians in Pondicherry and emailed them asking for help. I googled for animal welfare organisations and found an address for the Blue Cross listed at a university in Pondicherry but I could not find it on google maps. So I look up Blue Cross India directly and found a listing for Chennai, phone number, email and address. I email myself the details and planed to contact them the next afternoon.

With no children at the Day Care centre until Wednesday given the long weekend, I wrapped Ivy up in my purple scarf and zipped her into my imitation longchamps bag, her little head sticking out of the small gap I left open so she could breathe and see. Carefully placing her between my feet on my scooter, I slowly drove the short distance home, regularly glancing between the road and my feet, in case she tried to jump out. She sat still, placid and seemingly unperturbed. Her big ears flapped all the way home.

I took her to the outside area at the back of the house, her temporary home. Using a plastic chair, bucket and dust pan, I blocked off the stairs to the second level to keep her in a confined, safe area. With a good night cuddle, I put her down and watched her curl up on the step. At least for one night she was off the street and safe. Unsure if I would be able to find an option other than returning her to the street, I wished for her at least one good night’s sleep and prayed that help would find its way to her via me tomorrow.

Little Ivy outside the IVC volunteer house

The Constant Dirt

2011-08-09T20:50:00.000+07:00

Lightning flashes light the night sky, momentarily turning midnight blue to bright white and warning of approaching rain. When it finally arrives, the first light drops quickly turn into giant splatters filling the gutters to overflowing within minutes. The sound of falling rain and water gushing from spouts onto the ground muffle the honking and motors of the evening traffic, ferrying passengers home to shelter. The rain beds down the dirt in the air and brings with it a cooler, more bearable temperature. The earthy damp smell unique to rain that has fallen on hot dry land is blown into my room by the stormy wind rousing sentimental memories of summer rain in Australia.

In my spearmint green bedroom, the temperature is cooler but still uncomfortably warm. I feel the urge to stand outside in the rain, allowing it to drench me in coldness. Instead I walk momentarily through the rain to the outside shower. Closing the door to the outside rain, I stand under the cool, sprinkling water as it slowly wets my hair and skin and the layer of dirt and sweat runs onto the tiles and down the drain. I am reluctant to turn off the water for as soon as I do my shower cupboard becomes a mild sauna and a new layer of sticky oily sweat coats my skin.

No matter how many times I shower or wash each day, I end up feeling the same, uncomfortable, as oil, sweat and dirt coat my skin once more. Although my body is well used to Asian climate, the heat and accompanying humidity here is overwhelming and the only way my body can cope is to sweat, all day and all night until I lay down in my bed to sleep. During the day I wear a singlet to absorb my sweat and loose Indian clothing to cover my limbs and allow air to circulate over my skin. My hair is tied up on my head to cool my neck. But it doesn’t matter what I do or what I wear, I feel constantly bedraggled and I’m sure I look that way too.

The air carries constant invisible particles of dirt ready to coat my skin every time I venture out. It doesn’t help that many of the roads are part bitumen, part dirt and rocks. As I ride my moped through the crowded streets, dodging bicycles, rickshaws and motorbikes, more dirt is flicked into the air and settles on my skin so that my once clean body is coated once more.

I hand wash my clothes daily to prevent sweat and dirt staining the cloth. But no matter how much I scrub, my whites are never quite white. Black hides the dirt well but is the worst colour to wear under this hot Indian sun.

I went to the beach thinking that a dip in the Bay of Bengal would cool and refresh me. The cloudy surf was warm with a strong undertow that I didn’t think suitable for swimming. I dipped my body into its murky shallows to cool my skin but as I stood up out of the water the humid air wrapped itself around my body leaving me sticky and feeling unclean once again.

The only lengthy respite I have discovered was a day spent at Mango Hill Hotel’s swimming pool. A long soak in cool water and like magic my sweating ceased replaced by a cleansed freshness that stayed with me long after I returned to my Pondicherry home. But I didn’t come here to spend my days at a swimming pool. I came here to interact and to be of service where and how I can.

Adapting to the heat and dirt is taking me a little longer than adapting to my living arrangements and the general chaos here. I can’t escape it although I can find temporary reprieve which is more than many, many people who live here in simple huts, no electricity and no running water. I'm not comfortable but then I didn’t really come here to be comfortable. I’m grateful to be here in this incredible country. Still, I'm hoping for a day where I can at least get out of bed and not start sweating straight away.

Some boys from the orphanage swimming at Mango Hill

View along Serenity Beach towards Pondicherry

Fishermen children playing in a boat, Serenity Beach

My Indian Life

2011-08-05T14:38:00.000+07:00

Unexpectedly, my arrival into India was soon followed by a 36 hour dose of culture shock. The orderly, clean and comfortable life I had known during my visit to Europe, was suddenly replaced by very basic accommodation, a constant layer of sweat and dirt, crazy honking traffic, bright and loud late night temple processions and a very laid back approach to getting things done in its own sweet time which I did not yet understand.

In a gesture of kindness, I was left to rest and recover from my flight. “We can talk about your volunteer schedule later” were the manager’s parting words as he left the house and me without any idea of when I would see him again. I felt abandoned and disconnected in a strange place, with no idea of where I was living, where to go, how to get there or how to return. And although right outside my room, in the living area of the Day Care Centre and Evening Remedial School that is now my home, were a dozen three year old children having their afternoon nap watched over by their four sari-clad carers, I had no one I felt I could ask to help me or explain to me how things work around here.

I had expected things to be different. A same day induction, to be shown how to get around town and the key necessities to my new life. I had expected to be housed with other volunteers who could show me the ropes instead of being housed on my own. I had expected greater domestic comfort, hot water, air conditioning, a more modern, equipped and cleaner looking kitchen as well as clean sheets, towels and a bed cover. I expected to be given instructions and a timeline about how things would proceed including all the information, introductions and contacts to select my project and commencement day as soon as possible. But these were just expectations and not how things were to be.

My innate need for clarity and order in my life was instantly challenged pushing me outside my comfort zone. Everything was grey, blurry, unclear. My immediate panicked reaction was to get back to what I knew or at least as far away as possible from what I perceived as chaos. I felt the impulse to run, to cut short my trip, to escape. But I didn’t. Instead, I sat still and felt my discomfort and breathed acceptance into its core. And little by little, the discomfort began to disappear as I melded into this new, different way of life.

A week later, the shock is just a faint memory. A new order and disorder has been created in my life here and I am now accepting that nothing happens as I expect it to happen. I have made new friends. I know my address and can generally find my way back home even if I do get lost trying to find my way most places. I love riding into town on my moped, dodging through traffic and honking the horn like a true Indian. I have settled into my new home and even like my “rustic” spearmint green walls and cold water showers after sweating non-stop all day. My privacy here is limited and I’m often climbing over the three year olds to get to the kitchen or toilet but I get to play with them when they are not staring at me in shock or crying because of my foreignness. And I have four lovely Indian ladies here looking after me, making me coffee every morning. My volunteer projects have not quite started, although I am slowly making progress and am almost ready to commence in Indian time of course. Everyday I get to surround myself with the sights, colours, flavours, scents, sounds and energy that is India. I couldn’t be happier to be where I am right now in this crazy, chaotic, sweaty, dirty but incredible country that I love.

My bedroom

The kitchen

One of the many temple processions passing my front door

A Wordless End to Europe

2011-08-01T18:16:00.000+07:00

From Sardegna to Prague to Hrensko to Bavaria to Sciez, Geneva and Gruyere I have witnessed and shared beauty and friendship. For these moments in time, I am grateful.

Sometimes there are no need for words but to be in the world with an open, grateful heart and a sense of wonder. These last few weeks has been one of those times.

Sunset from Porto Piccolo, Baia Sardinia, Sardegna

Sunset afterglow from Porto Piccolo, Baia Sardinia, Sardegna

Baia Sardinia Beach, Sardegna

My favourite window shutters, Fabriano, Italy

View from the Old Castle, Prague

St Nicholas Church, Prague

Pravčická gate - the largest rock bridge in Europe, near Hrensko, Czech Republic

Kamenice River, Mezni Louka, Czech Republic

Schloss Neuschwanstein, Germany

Schloss Hohenschwangau, Germany

Lake Geneva

Me on Lake Geneva!

View towards Geneva Fountain and Lake from St Peter's Cathedral, Geneva

More Geneva

Gruyere Castle, Gruyere, Switzerland

Gryere cheese maturing in Gruyere, Switzerland

Eidelweiss, Chateau-DdOex, Switzerland

L'Estate Sarda (Sardinian Summer)

2011-07-01T17:26:00.002+07:00

I close my eyes for my afternoon siesta. I am deliciously sleepy after another long, slow lunch. Spaghetti with clams, fresh mussels with lemon juice and parsley, grilled eggplant drizzled with olive oil and my favourite, crunchy pieces of toast smothered in mascarpone and then adorned with anchovies, these really are a small piece of heaven in my mouth. Our feast is accompanied by cold local wine, Vermentino di Sardegna which we pour and drink in small portions so that we lose count of how many glasses we’ve had until the bottle is suddenly empty. We eat fresh, ripe peaches. My favourites are the ones that look as though they have been flattened between two heavy books. The flesh is a pale lemon colour, almost white and it is sweet without the acidic tang that some peaches can have. Lunch is finished with the symbolic espresso and a shot of cold mirto rosso, a sweet, red Sardegnian licquer made from the myrtle tree that grows here.

Listening to the lulling lap of the sea against the pebbly shore, I drift into a contented sleep where my dreams are ablaze with the colours of this Mediterranean island. Bright golden yellow, pink, red, purple and orange of the nameless flowering plants around Baia Sardinia and our villa, their prolific tiny flowers changing from one colour to the next and attracting giant black buzzing beetle-like bees to sample their sweetness. Iridescent purplish pink of the Bougainvillea that transform the white walls and granite stone of the houses into a wall of colour. Bright pink, baby pink, palest pink and pure white flowers of the Oleander trees that line the roads. Deep green of the thick thatches of wide stranded Sardegnian grass and the deeper forest green of the pine trees and the shrubs that surround the beaches. There is even the familiar olive green and peeling smooth grey of the eucalyptus trees and the prickly red of the banksia tree that catch me by surprise and remind me of home.

All around me, mountains of granite boulders that change colour depending upon the time of day, sometimes grey, sometimes tan, sometimes creamy gold and late in the day a blue grey before turning mauve and deep purple grey as the sun sets behind them. The brilliant blue of the cloudless daytime sky, fading into a paler blue where it meets the sea at the horizon. Under the full glare of the summer sun, the Mediterranean Sea sparkles more brilliant than any diamond ever could. At its depth it is a deep, dark blue and as it becomes shallow towards the sandy shore it fades from aquamarine to turquoise to topaz to a pale jade green until it is just clear water around my feet. Shadowy, silent, sea gulls that circle the pre-sunset sky. The fiery orange of the sun setting behind the steel grey sea and deep purple grey, shoots sprays of pink, purple, apricot and lemon light into the midnight blue evening sky. As the last of the orange flames slowly fade leaving only midnight sky, more and more lights appear in the village on the other side of the bay, and soon their twinkle and shine outnumber the silvery specks of stars in the sky.

These are the colours of my summer and the colours of my dreams. I wake from my slumber sleepily content. I’ve returned to island life once again. I always seem to find my way back here, time and time again, to this slower, simpler life. I pack my bag with the basic necessities, beach towel, sunscreen and book and head to the pebbly sandy beach to lie on the warm sand heart to heart with mother earth. And to watch my favourite gem once more and occasionally immerse myself in her cool, healing embrace. There is a rhythm to my time here, a pattern that repeats itself every day. Eat, sleep, read, beach and swim. And although it repeats, there is no boredom or desire to break the pattern. I have the best of Italy to enjoy here and I look forward to doing it all again tomorrow.

View from our villa over granite boulders

Long Beach, photo courtesy of David Mancini

Bougainvillea in Baia Sardinia

Sardegnian Sunset

Circling sea gull pre-sunset

A Very Long Walk Under The Tuscan Sun – The Epilogue

2011-06-22T17:19:00.001+07:00

I have to be honest. I had no real understanding of what I was getting myself into when I decided to walk a section of the Via Francigena, the ancient pilgrims trail that runs from Canterbury to Rome. I knew that I would be walking 119 kilometres through the Tuscan countryside by myself with only a guide book and signs to tell me which which way to go. I would visit some of the well known Tuscan villages including San Gimignano, Monteriggioni and Sienna along with some other less visited towns. It sounded fabulous to me. A little bean of excitement jumped up and down in my stomach before flipping around in a whirlpool of doubt. But as I sat with the idea for many days, my excitement grew and my doubt settled down into a small stagnant pool. I booked the trip.

I have long wanted to visit the hilltop villages in Tuscany but at this time in my life I don’t want to visit places as a tourist. Although I am not working in paid employment at the moment, I’m not purely on holiday either. My travelling is about challenging myself and putting myself into situations where I am uncomfortable. My travelling is about seeing the wonders and beauty of the world and learning how to express that in my life. Most importantly, my travelling teaches me about myself, to really see and understand who I am, to understand the purpose of my life and how I can offer my gifts to be of service to the world.

There were two things I intuitively needed at this time. Time alone in nature and to walk. My last six months spent in Melbourne fell across Autumn and Winter. I walked to and from work almost every day. Four kilometres there and four kilometres back. My journey took me through Yarra Park around the Melbourne Cricket Ground and Fitzroy Gardens to the top end of the Central Business District where I meandered down Collins Street and Bourke Street to Kings Way. I walked for the exercise and to spend time in nature, to bracket and balance the time I spent in an office amongst glass and concrete towers.

Walking enabled me to watch Autumn transform the leaves from meadow green to sunny yellow to rustic orange and then brown like a crinkly paper lunch bag. And as Autumn turned to Winter, I watched as the trees, unashamedly, allowed their leaves to fall gracefully to the ground, their bare branches stretched up towards the heavens in exalted prayer. The icy winds scattered the leafy carpet until it disappeared and what remained was transformed into an earthy mush by the winter rains. My daily walk raised my energy levels and exalted my spirit until I glowed on the inside and out. It opened up my creativity channel so that new ideas and inspired words poured through me waiting for expression as soon as I could put pen to paper. And it became addictive. If it was raining (not torrential), I pulled out my umbrella and walked. If I was running late, I walked, a little faster than usual (and was still late to work.)

I thought that walking eight kilometres per day through city parks would be good training for my 119 kilometre Tuscan Walk. After all, I only had to walk an average of 20 kilometres per day and I had been walking almost half of that quite easily. I felt walking fit. I estimated that my at my normal walking pace of six kilometres per hour that I would walk perhaps four hours per day leaving me a good part of the day to enjoy each town. But oh how I got this wrong. In the city I walked on concrete and bitumen paths that were evenly surfaced and the only hill I walked up was the mild slope of Bourke and Collins Streets on my journey home. In Tuscany, I walked on gravel paths, rocky trails, through long grassy fields, on the skimpy grass verge on the side of busy roads with. I walked up hills that looked like they would never end, pausing to try and catch my breath every twenty metres. My body was constantly tired. My legs and feet ached and my right big toe throbbed. Some evenings I could barely leave my hotel room except to eat dinner. Other times I would explore the town slowly, often sitting in a piazza or near a church to rest my body and watch life happen around me.

In Melbourne, I knew the way. I knew which paths to walk through the park and which roads were the right short cuts to take. In Tuscany, I walked a path I did not know. And although I had signs and directions, they didn’t always agree or make sense and so I got lost, a lot. Sometimes I was saved from becoming lost by kind strangers who called me back to the correct path. Other times I retraced my steps to check signs and the guidebook directions to correct my own path. Sometimes I put my faith in my compass, finding south and walking south until I found the path again. Sometimes I was frustrated, with myself and with the guidebook and the signs and the confusion I felt. But I never felt panicked or the desire to give up. Even in the thick of being lost, I always knew I would find my way. And I watched and laughed as my stubborn determination came out time and time again to keep me going, not allowing me to quit just because things got tough.

To me, it was just a walk, a long, solitary walk through a beautiful part of the world. But when I tell people what I did, especially Italians, they look at me like I’m a little bit crazy. Eyebrows rise in surprise as they stumble to fathom that I really did walk 107 kilometres alone, unguided and was not part of a guided group. My eyebrows rise in surprise at their reaction, especially when I am told how dangerous it was for a single female to walk alone in Tuscany. The only time I was scared was when I was walking on the edge of a busy road with cars speeding past. The roads are narrow, there was no footpath and to be honest, Italians drive aggressively and at least 40 kilometres above the stated speed limit. As soon as I heard cars approach I would squeeze myself to the side of the road, sometimes jumping into the thigh high grass amidst prickles which I would pull out of my pants and legs once they had passed. I would often run, not walk, around a bend in the road praying out loud, “Please don’t let me die to day” when I knew the drivers couldn’t see me.

I didn’t know what I was getting myself into and I am glad that I didn’t know. Because if I did know, then maybe, just maybe that part of me that wants to play it safe would have over-ruled the part of me that longs for adventure and I would never have walked the walk. But I did walk and although my injured toe stopped me a day short of making my final destination, I discovered and experienced the beauty and quietness of the Tuscan landscape in solitude and in a way I would never have experienced if I drove through it. I connected with nature, with peace, with contentment and with joy as I walked the path and with courage and determination when I was lost. Finally, I admit to myself that I am courageous and that I am an adventurer, words that others have used to describe me but I would never use to describe myself. And I know now, without doubt, that I am not afraid to walk into the unknown alone.

A Very Long Walk Under The Tuscan Sun – Part 3

2011-06-16T20:16:00.000+07:00

Now that my tears are shed and dried, I accept the situation as it is. I have walked a long way away from the Via Francigena trail and I have to walk back to where I saw the last sign. This is at least 45 minutes back along a gravel, country road that has already seen the soles of my feet. I am hot, tired and my swollen right toe is throbbing fiercely, begging me to stop and rest. But I ignore it. I need to become un-lost. Once I have found my way, I will stop for a while and eat the sun-warmed prosciutto and pecorino panini I packed in my bag before leaving Sienna. This is the third time I have been lost today of all days with 29 kilometres to walk. And not only have I been lost, three times, but I have narrowly escaped being bitten by a big white dog protecting its territory, an Agriturismo, that I was passing through on the trail. My pants weren’t so lucky, bearing the puncture marks intended for my calf.

I hear a car approaching from behind me. “Maybe I should flag it down and ask for directions or at least a lift back?” But as soon as I have the thought, I hear the voices of my elders telling little Kymmie, “Never accept a lift from strangers, you don’t know who you can trust.” And then my own voice kicks back in “Do you really want to give in just yet?” Instead, I let the car speed past me, covering me in yet another layer of dust and I continue to trudge along the road as the car disappears into the distance.

As the pain in my toe increases along with my fatigue, I finally accept my physical condition and decide to walk only to the nearest town and then get a taxi the rest of the way to Murlo. After all, this was the agreement with the agency who organised my trek for me when I discovered that Murlo was not officially on the Via Francigena and that my guide book did not provide directions to walk there. After days of walking alone, getting lost and finding my way, I thought that I could just do it and find my way there. I even bought a huge detailed map to show me all the roads in detail only to discover that a map is no use if you don’t know where on the map you are. I can still see a town to my left, the one that I think the Via Francigena passes through. I just need to find the road that leads there and then find a taxi.

I hear the rumble of a car engine approaching in the distance and brace myself for another coating of dust. The car, is actually a van, a white Volkswagen work van. As it approaches, it slows down and then comes to a complete stop next to me. Peering into the open window, I see two familiar faces, the two builders who helped me earlier in the day when I was lost for the second time.

“Ciao” I greet them cheerfully, happy to see their familiar faces in the middle of this country road. The probability of running into them again, yet alone here is so low it should be non-existent but here they are. I send up a grateful prayer for the divine grace that has sent them here.

“I’m lost again” I tell them shrugging with my palms facing upwards. “I am meant to be walking to Merlo.” I act out walking using my index and middle finger of my right hand, “but the Via Francigena doesn’t go there and I lost the signs back that way” I point in the direction that I am walking. “So I am walking back to find the signs again.” I try to speak slowly, hoping they can understand some of the many English words I am speaking.

The short bald headed man sitting in the drivers seat closest to me scratches his head and then gets out of the car. He takes my guidebook from me once again which we look at the together. I run my finger over the red line that marks the Via Francigena.

“Via Francigena?” he asks.

“Yes” I reply. “I think it is back this way.” I point in the direction I was walking. “Maybe 45 minutes walk. I need to turn but can’t find the road.” I point to my left showing the direction I believe I need to turn to stay on the trail. “But I really need to get to Merlo. That’s where my hotel is tonight. It’s not on the Via Francigena. I was going to walk to Quinciano but now I just want to get to any town where I can find a taxi.”

“Taxi, hmmm” the man says then turns and speaks Italian to his curly haired friend in the car. I don’t understand what is spoken but I get the idea that it might be hard to find a taxi. I may have to keep walking.

“Where does this road go?” I ask the man pointing in the direction I was originally walking.

“That way, Radi” he tells me and then points to it on the map.

“Wow, I really am a long way off the Via Francigena” I tell him. Radi is half the length of my index finger from the red Via Francigena trail.

He talks to his friend and then starts talking to me in Italian. I don’t understand what they are saying but I think he is saying that they can give me a ride.

“Wait, wait,” I tell him. “I call someone who speaks Italian.” I call Amore and explain the situation and hand my phone over to the bald-headed man. I don’t understand most of what he says to Amore. His Italian words spoken quickly, roll into each other but there is one exception. “Merlo?” he asks Amore as he tries to understand where I’m going. And then the penny drops. “Murlo!” he exclaims. The word purs out of his mouth, sounding like a cow’s ‘moo’ with a trilling ‘rrrr’ rolled together. I had been pronouncing the name of the town the Australian way. ‘Url’ as in curl or hurl. They talk some more and then he hands the phone back to me
“They can drive you to the next town” Amore tells me. “It’s up to you. Then maybe you can get a taxi.”

I hesitate. I really want to complete all of the walk, on foot but my toe throbs a little harder to convince me to accept the ride. I have no doubt that I could ignore the pain and continue walking but what is the point if I am in too much pain to enjoy the destination. I sigh in resignation.

“Ok,” I tell Amore. “I’ll accept the ride.” I hang up.

The bald-headed man looks at me. “Merlo,” he says and starts laughing. His friend joins in. “Murlo is that way” he points in the direction I was originally walking. Then he shows me on my map.

“So this road goes to Moo-rrrrr-lo?” I ask attempting to roll my ‘moo’ and ‘rrr’ together to pronounce the name correctly but it comes out sounding really awkward.

“Si,” he nods. He gestures to the van to confirm if I wanted a ride.

“Si, si, grazie” I nod and walk towards the passenger door of the car. They have already booted the young man who appears to be their apprentice, out of the main cabin and into the back of the van with the tools.

I climb into the cabin, seated between the two men, a little unsure of exactly where we are going but confident that it will be closer to where I want to be.

The bald-headed man starts chuckling again. “Merlo.” And they both start laughing.

“Moo-rrrrr-lo” I try and say it correctly again. It still sounds awkward. I laugh.

They ask me my name. “Kym,” I tell them. “Kym” they respond slowly as if to practice pronouncing my name. “Si, Kym,” I confirm.

“Ti chiamo?” I ask the bald headed man, wondering why I can never remember my basic Italian lessons when I need to.

“Luigi” he tells me.

“E te?” I ask the curly haired man.

“Angelo,” he responds.

“Where from?” they ask me.

“Australia.”

“Ahhh, Bella Australiana,” I hear them say amongst other words I don’t understand. They laugh. I laugh.

The van bounces up and down along the gravel road to Murlo.

“You from Murlo?” I ask. Luigi tells me no and where they are from in Italian, gesturing to the distant left with a wave of his left hand. I don’t understand but I nod and smile.

We pass a road sign showing the names of towns. In the middle, it shows “Murlo 9.” I was close.

“Merlo,” Luigi points and laughs. We all laugh.

Luigi points at the small compass I have tied to my dive computer watch with a hair band. I bought it from a sailing shop in Greenwich, London when I realised my walk was more complicated than I expected. It wobbles around after he flicks it. Him and Angelo start laughing. I join in. “Lo so, lo so,” I tell them nodding my understanding of the joke. I know, it didn’t help me much today. “Ma ieri, si!” I tell them it helped me yesterday. They keep laughing.

We turn onto a bitumen road and stop bouncing around in the cabin. Within a few minutes, Luigi pulls the van over to the side of the road just before it splits in two different directions. Angelo opens the door and gets out to let me out.

“Bosca Della Spina, 50 metres” he points to our right. Within fifteen minutes of them finding me lost in the middle of an Italian country road, I am a very happy 50 metres from my hotel and it is still early in the day, just after 1.30pm.

“Grazie, grazie, grazie, grazie. Molto, molto grazie.” I place my hands together near my heart as I use the only Italian I can think of to convey how grateful I am that they have saved me from a further three hours or more of walking. They laugh and drive off calling out “Ciao, ciao, Bella Australiana.” Smiling, I wave at them and then put my backpack on one last time and start walking towards my hotel. Raising my eyes to the heavens, I pray. “Please, please let my room have a bath tub.”

Looking for a sign

Relaxing in Murlo, no bath tub but a beautiful view

My big toe, 2.5 weeks later

A Very Long Walk Under the Tuscan Sun - Part 2

2011-06-08T22:16:00.000+07:00

I wish I could sit here all day eating juicy red cherries and watching the traffic pass me by, to rest my aching feet and weary body. But I need to get to Murlo where my accommodation is for the night. Again, I’m praying and crossing my fingers that maybe this time my room has a bath. I long to soak my tired body in hot, foamy water and let the the lingering tiredness dissolve away. Everyday, I have prayed for my room to have a bath tub but so far my prayers have gone unanswered.

I left Sienna 4 hours ago and after being lost twice already, I estimate that I have, at least, 4.5 hours of walking to go. So I pick up my sweat-dampened back-pack and put it back on my shoulders and resume walking. One foot after the other, I fall back into my natural rhythm, not fast, not slow. Once again, I am surrounded by orderly rows of green grape vines, barren of fruit. And as I breathe in the euphoric scent of sweet Jasmine, I realise, once again, that I am barely breathing. That in the tense, frustrated moments of feeling lost, my body has clamped down and my intake of life sustaining air is shallow. I breathe in one long, deep breath after another. My body softens as it relaxes. I wonder how much of each day I live like this, breathing so shallow as if I barely want to be in my body. Because I do want to be here, in this body, living every moment fully, now and always. Despite my tiredness and frustration at sporadically becoming lost, I don’t want to be anywhere else in the world. I want to walk each step, one at a time, savouring each full breath of this jasmine-scented Tuscan country-side arriving at my destination whenever I arrive.

Continuing to breathe deeply, I check my next instruction in the guide book.

Veer left down the path past the farmhouse

I continue down the white gravel path, grape vines to my left and the farmhouse to my right until I hit a T-junction.

At the T-junction, turn right. Note the greenhouses on your left.

Before me are some metal frames set up in a half-cylinder structure. They are not enclosed and I see a whole lot of weeds but no plants. I look to my left and to my right but see no other greenhouses. So I turn right on a sandy coloured dirt path and continue down the flat path until I reach another T-junction.

At the T-junction, turn right. Note, go over the bridge.

I look around, puzzled. The bridge in question is to my left. To go over the bridge, I need to turn left but the guide book says to turn right. I look to my right. The path meanders around a corner, past some tall conifer trees. I cannot see a bridge to my right. I pause. Now what do I do? I decide to place my bets on the bridge. Walking up to the bridge I spot not one but two Via Francigena signs. The horizontal red and white stripes are painted on a tree to the right of the bridge and just in front of it is a small rectangular metal sign on a wooden post depicting a yellow pilgrim and the words Via Francigena within a yellow border. I am walking the right way and so I continue along the path. But I am confused and perplexed by the guide book. Although I’ve seen the signs, a little seed of doubt bounces up and down in my stomach, questioning if I really am going the right way. As I walk, I read the guide book for my next direction

After the equestrian centre, turn right. Distance 900 metres.

I continue walking. Two little boys ride their bikes past me chatting happily away in Italian I don’t understand. “Ciao piccolo” I call out to them quietly. Up ahead, they are greeted by a man riding a grey mare, with no saddle and no stirrups. He speaks to them in Italian. From what I can comprehend from his body language, he tells them to keep their distance from the horse and to turn around and go back. Obediently they do. And I am left alone on the path. At least I know the property I passed is probably the equestrian centre.

I walk past Via Francigena signs frequently. They are mainly small stickers with arrows stuck on sign posts but there are also the red and white stripes painted on trees. So I know I am walking in the right direction. After 20 minutes, I appear to have walked a long way past the equestrian centre but I haven’t seen any signs telling me to turn right. Trusting the signs, I keep walking. As long as I see the signs, I must be on the right path.

From time to time, cars speed past me, throwing up a cloud of dust behind them and over me as they pass. I can feel the dirt settle in a greasy layer of grime over my face. As I wash the grit from my mouth and lips with my drinking water, I send out another silent prayer that the I may be blessed with a bath tub in my room this evening. Although annoying, the cars reassure me that I am not completely alone on this remote country road. Scattered amongst the rolling hills are few farmhouses. Looking back, I can see rusty coloured Sienna in the distance and a few kilometres to my right is a small village. I look at my map. I’m not really sure which village it is. Is it Sant’Agostino? Is it Isola D’Arbia? I hope not for then I’m really lost. I have a sense that I’m meant to be walking towards the village but still there are no signs.

After walking for 45 minutes, I reach a small side track on the right hand side of the crest of a hill. There are no obvious Via Francigena signs. I walk up to the electricity pole on the corner of my current path and the side road. The red and white stripes painted on it. If I was meant to walk down this path, there would normally be an arrow pointing in a straight up direction. But there isn’t. Nor is there one telling me to continue on my current direction. Do I turn right? Or do I continue straight ahead? I re-read the instruction in my guide book.

After the equestrian centre, turn right. Distance 900 metres.

It leaves me none the wiser although I am sure I have walked way more than 900 metres, more like 3 kilometres. I look around. There is nobody to ask for help. I have to make a decision. Unconvinced that this is the correct side road, I continue walking down my dusty country road.

I scan the trees and poles along the side of the road for Via Francigena signs. 10 minutes pass. There are none. Why are there none? And why hasn’t there been an obvious sign for me to turn down a side road? The lack of signs should be an obvious sign for me to turn back but I don’t. I keep walking and walking and praying there will be another sign. “Sometimes there hasn’t been a sign for more than a kilometre” I tell myself “so maybe there will be one around the next corner.” I reach the next corner and there is still no sign. I reach another side road with a sign depicting its name “Strada di Radi (Roma)”. I search my map but the road is not marked and it’s not mentioned in the instructions either. I can see a small town, Radi, on the map, but the Via Francigena doesn’t pass through there.

I keep walking and the throb in my swollen toe crescendos. I am so very tired but there is nowhere to sit and rest. The road is surrounded by a ditch full of long grass so I keep walking. Again, I survey the landscape around me. Rolling hills and more rolling hills, not even a farmhouse close-by. I am in the middle of nowhere, on a country road that I don’t know the name of with only a vague idea of where I am and my only way out is to keep walking. My eyes fill with tears and roll down my cheek leaving a muddy tell-tale sign behind them. After 80 minutes of walking down this path, I decide to do what I don’t want to do, to back-track. I let my tears flow for a few minutes longer, allowing some of my frustration out and to subside. Then drying my eyes and smearing dirt over my face in the process, I refocus on the task at hand. With long, deep breaths, I re-muster my resolve and I start walking back, from where I came.

A Very Long Walk Under the Tuscan Sun - Part 1

2011-06-04T22:21:00.002+07:00

It’s mid-day and the Tuscan sun is reaching it’s peak. The temperature has caught me by surprise. It’s technically still spring but the temperature has been peaking in the low 30’s. I’m wearing long black sweat pants and a white long sleeve top to protect my skin from burning. Both are covered in dirt and dust. I’m hot and sweating. And I’m lost. Again.

My guide book tells me if I follow this path I should come out at the SR2 (a main road) which I should then cross over and continue on down a gravel path. Instead, after walking through long, dry grass that reached the middle of my thighs, praying that there were no hidden snakes, I hit a confused dead-end. Directly in front of me is a new road under construction and to my right is a field full of more thigh-high dry grass with no path in sight. I am puzzled. I just walked past a Via Francigena (VF) sign 100 metres back and prior to that a local Italian man called me back to walk down this very grassy path instead of continuing on the road that veered right. I followed his direction because the guidebook had stopped making sense at least one kilometre ago.

Today I don’t feel like retracing my steps to check the signs and the guide book’s instructions. Instead, I climb over the orange plastic barrier between me and the road construction site and carefully walk over lumps of dirt and rocks, looking around to see if I can find any VF signs or any other path. There is nothing. I grunt aloud in frustration. I can’t afford the time or kilometres to be lost today. I have a total of 29 kilometres to walk. This is day 5 of my walk and I’ve already walked 3.5 hours up hill and down hill. I’ve been lost for at least 30 minutes retracing my steps numerous times trying to find Via Bianchi di Sotto and subsequently my way out of Sienna’s confusing streets and I’ve escaped the snarling jaws of an angry white dog which left a hole in my pants and thankfully not my leg. And I still have at least another 4.5 hours of walking to reach Murlo, my destination for today. My feet are constantly throbbing and I can barely put my pressure on my swollen big right toe. I have no time or physical capacity for backtracking or getting lost, again, today.

My instincts tell me that the path was in the field of overgrown grass but I don’t want to walk through it in case of snakes. About 100 metres ahead of me, I can see a metal gate, the formal entrance to the construction site and then a couple of hundred metres farther is what I think is the SR2. So I walk through the construction site, walking under the rusty yellow arm of an earth mover before squeezing my bag and then myself through a gap in the gate. I pause to drink some water and take some weight off my throbbing toe for a few moments before heading towards the main road.

The SR2 is busy with cars in both directions and there is only 50 metres of footpath before it ends and the two single lanes of the road takes over, winding its way over a hill locked in by metal barriers. Too much traffic for walking on the narrow, shoulder-less road this time so I climb over the metal barrier and walk along the sloping grassy hill next to the road. Cars and motorbikes speed by. The occupants turn their heads and unashamedly stare at me as they pass. Others honk their horns. I ignore the attention and continue on.

After walking down the hill I reach a gravel road coming from the direction of the grassy field that meets the SR2 but it doesn’t continue on the other side and there’s no VF sign. Maybe my intuition was wrong. Maybe I’ve headed in the wrong direction. I study my map in the guide book again but it’s not much help. It is not detailed enough, only showing more significant roads. I scan the other side of the road and can see a long winding white gravel road in the distance but I can’t see where it starts from and I’m not even sure that is the road I am looking for. I take a deep breath and reassure myself that I will figure it out and find my way.

I stare back down the gravel path I’m standing on. It appears to be coming from the direction of the grassy field but it winds behind a house and I can’t tell if it reaches all the way to the field or not. I try to decide if I should do what I really don’t want to do, to walk down it and see if I can pick up the original trail, to back-track. Then I see two middle-aged men building a stone wall around a house that is on the left of the path. I walk over to them.

“Mi scusa. Buon giorno. I am lost.” After four days of being lost at various times, I still haven’t figured out how to say I am lost in Italian. They stop what they are doing and look at me curiously. This lone grubby, foreign female, wearing sweaty clothes, a black cap, a very full backpack and over sized sunglasses.

“You know Via Francigena? I am walking Via Francigena but came off the path up the road. I need to get to Murlo. Is this the esse-erre-due (SRD)?” I point towards and along the main road just near us. The shorter of the two men, stocky and very tanned with short shaved black hair takes my map from me and looks at it. I point at the red line indicating the Via Francigena, the path I was walking and then at the main road marked on the map as the SR2.

“Is this the esse-erre-due?” I ask again gesturing at the road behind us.

“It’s the esse-esse-due (SS2)” he answers.

“Really, but my map says it’s the esse-erre-due (SR2)” I respond, confused. “I think maybe I should walk down this road here to find the path?” I ask him showing walking movement with my index and middle fingers on my right hand and pointing down the gravel path.

“No, no” he responds shaking his head. He points at different towns on my map and talks to his friend, a taller stockier man with dark chin length curls, in Italian I don’t understand. Then he starts walking towards the main road. “Come” he says gesturing for me to follow him. I do as told. “Look. Isola D’Arbia, here.” He points at the map. Then points diagonally to our left. “Here, Sienna.” He points at different spot at the map. “Sienna, over there” he says pointing in the opposite direction behind us. Then he rotates the map, to put the towns in their correct orientation relative to where we were standing.

“Ahhhhh, si, si, ok” I say, confirming my understanding of my position.

“Sant’Agostino” he says pointing at a small dot on the map and then points directly in front of us.

“Si, si” I nod. “So Via Francigena that way” I trace my finger along the red line on the map and then point to my right.

“Si, Via Francigena” he responded pointing in the same direction.

My intuition had not let me down. I was heading in the right direction after all but just needed some confirmation.

“Grazie, grazie, grazie” I tell the man as he hands me back my guide book. “I was going the right way after all.” I smile relieved and grateful for the reassurance. “Arrividerci” I call out as I start to walk once again. “Ciao, ciao” both men call after me with a wave and recommence digging their hole in the ground.

I continue walking along the main road still confused if it is SR2 or SS2 but more sure I am walking in the right direction. In only a few minutes this is confirmed as I reach a gravel road with a VF sign pointing to the other side of the road where the gravel path continues down a hill in between fields of orderly lined grape vines. After a break in the traffic, I cross the road and take off my heavy, sweaty back pack which I plonk on the ground before taking out some warm but juicy red cherries. I sit on the top of a low brick wall separating the gravel road from private property, taking my weight of my throbbing, aching feet. One by one, I drop a plump cherry in my mouth and savour its sweet juiciness whilst watching the cars and motorbikes speed past me. I smile, relieved, tired, content. Not lost…for now.

Early morning Sienna

Sienna many kilometres in the background

10 kilometres down, 19 to go!

A VF sign in the long grass

Me, the path and the vineyard!

The post with no name

2011-05-01T20:14:00.000+07:00

It’s cold. My body is covered in layers of clothing but I can still feel the crispness of the air surrounding me. I want the sun to touch my skin, to warm my reptilian blood. All morning I have sat at my computer crunching numbers, explaining strategies and fees, in an office that is currently colder than the world outside. The building’s boilers have been slow to warm up after a five day Easter Break. My feet are numb. My hands feel like ice blocks. I walk briskly to fire up my metabolism, to try and keep me warm me through the long afternoon at my desk.

As I weave through plodding packs of lunch-going workers, I look up at the sky. It’s a sheer pale blue, lightened by the glare of the sun that I cannot yet see. The tall buildings surrounding me block its immediate entrance to my world. Not so long ago, it was palm trees shading my body from a too hot tropical sun. Right now, too much concrete is the barrier. I want to feel the sun slap me across the face and jolt the coldness from my body. I cross the road to the sunny side side of the street but the sun feels distant . It has already commenced its winter retreat.

I glide with long, powerful strides towards my city oasis, the concreted earth passing unseen beneath my feet. Too long surrounded by artificial and man-made structures, I long to see and feel the dirt and rocks our planetary home is made of. I want to lay down on hot, golden, silky sand and feel the earth’s heart beat under mine just like I did mere weeks ago. That world was my life, not just a dream. Then I blinked and my scenery changed.

Within minutes, my lunch time mecca lies before me. A lush lime green expanse of grass amongst old wise trees deeply rooted in the earth whilst reaching for blue heaven above. This very sight makes me want to take off my shoes and socks and feel the blades tickle and crumple underfoot. I want to lie down, arms outstretched and embrace the magnificent earth below. I want to dance from tree to tree, wrapping my arms around their thick, smooth trunks, cheek to tree, feeling their wisdom, their strength.

Here it is not busy. Workers sit and lie on the grass in small groups or in solitude, eating lunch, talking quietly, stretching and sometimes exercising. Despite the rush of city traffic circling its perimeter, nature ensures that within its domain, all is calm, all is peace. It cradles the often tired and weary workers and breathes energy into their souls so they can continue through the day.

I don’t hate my life here and despite it’s artificiality, I don’t hate the city. But I feel boxed in, contained by tall buildings, office walls, working hours and the whole Monday to Friday regime when all I want to feel is free. I close my eyes and breathe in a long slow breath and instantly I’m taken back to my island paradise. I can feel the immense ocean around me. I feel supported and warm and free. My arms and legs are stretched out and I move through space and time by simply breathing in and out, I can fly. There is no weight, no heaviness, no restrictions. I feel my own depth just being in the ocean’s depth. I keep my eyes closed long enough, holding onto this feeling so that when I open my eyes again to the busyness of this city’s business, I still feel it with me.

Lunch is over. And along with others, I walk back towards my office in a concrete and glass tower which teases me with views of the sea. This is my life right now, the result of choices I have made. Still, my longing for freedom remains. Although soon, I will know it once more, as I pack my bags and head to the other side of the globe, my longing is deeper than this. I want to know a freedom that is not reliant on travel for gratification. I want to know freedom in an everyday life.

Caught between home and roam

2011-04-08T12:47:00.001+07:00

For the past few weeks, I have been staring at a blank piece of paper, perplexed as I contemplate the question, what do I want to do next? My normal reactive answer is, “I don’t know.” But that’s not the truth, just an automated response. Buried below an entangled mesh of irrational fear and anxiety, the true answer lies.

Each time I have come back to Melbourne after lengthy sojourns overseas, the question of home is forefront in my mind. Melbourne is the city of my birth, the city where I grew from a child into a woman, the city where I have lived the majority of my life, the city where most of my family and friends reside and the city that features as the backdrop to most of my memories. I love Melbourne. Coming back here, it never fails to remind what a great city it is and how fortunate we are as Australians and Melbournians to have the freedom, choice and opportunity that we have here and often take for granted. But despite all of this, I still find myself in the same state of mind, I was two years ago. I don’t want to live here right now and it makes me wonder if I will ever want to live here permanently again.

The reasons I don’t want to live here are interwoven and they are more like questions about how I want to live my life and what I want it to look like. What work could I do that makes me feel alive, that doesn’t feel like the Monday to Friday 9 to 5 dying for the weekend hard slog? I’ve had the taste of a sweet life doing something I love, where everyday feels like a happy Friday and weekends don’t exist but I haven’t yet figured out how to recreate that in Melbourne. And whilst there is beauty in the transition of seasons, summer is unreliable and the grey of winter seems to dominate ruling with a bitter coldness that painfully permeates my bones so that even a tropical monsoon rain season is more tempting than facing another Melbourne winter. When I am here, I long for warm weather and warm seas. Last of all, I wonder how I can live a life here that feels adventurous and free? How do I live with commitments or return to a corporate office environment and still feel the same freedom and adventure I have felt when diving and travelling? I’m not ready to give that up but I don’t know how or if I can have that in Melbourne.

Whilst my urge to roam is strong, there is an equal part of me that is calling out for home. Somewhere to rest my weary shell where I can be surrounded by the friends and family that I love. Where I can be surrounded by my own belongings in an organised fashion and not living out of a backpack. Where I can access unlimited opportunity and finally unleash all that I have to offer. There is a part of me that fears financial ruin, that understands the opportunity cost of the choices I have made and is nagging me to “settle down or you will never buy a home, you will sabotage your career opportunities, you will end up working until you are 80 or living on Age Pension if it still exists.” The arguments have spun around my head, tossed between bickering Gemini twins, the practical versus the free-spirited, the head versus the heart, trying to decide: Do I opt for home? Or do I opt to roam?

Parking the complex issue of home, I pondered the question of roam. "So if you don’t stay, where do you want to go?" I started with my usual response. "I don’t know." But when I removed the self-imposed, invisible boundaries restricting me to Asia, it felt like a complex jigsaw puzzle with too many pieces. I selectively held up pieces one at a time, trying to determine where in the picture of my life it fit and if it fit at all. I had to make a final selection of pieces so that the puzzle would fit seamlessly together and form a picture that spoke to my heart. Finally, after weeks of selecting, re-selecting and rearranging pieces, I finally ended up with a beautiful picture that made my heart leap with excitement and I knew I had a plan.

In case you haven’t guessed. Roam won. In real life, all the pieces are falling perfectly and easily into place. Home will either be found whilst roaming or it will be here when I return. And the things that I am looking for, my questions about place and purpose in life are constantly unfolding, here in Melbourne and abroad. Roaming is part of my process, allowing space, time and synchronicity to reveal my truth. At times it is confusing, frustrating and causes me desperate despair as my head struggles to see the big picture that is still blurry and out of focus for my human eyes. But my heart knows that all of this is just part of my human experience and that one day, roaming will help to bring me home.

Transition

2011-03-09T18:08:00.001+07:00

There is immense sadness in leaving a place and people that one loves with all their heart without knowing when or if one will return. As I pack my belongings to return to Melbourne once more, my face contorts in pain, my heart is clutched by sorrow and tears stream down my cheeks. This is the transition process I go through each time I move on. I pack and cry, pack and cry as I detach my heart strings from a life I have loved and prepare to leave it all behind to step into the great unknown once more.

For me, this place is an imperfect paradise. I love its tropical seas, golden sandy beaches, hot and humid weather, stunning sunsets, flavoursome food and ripe juicy fruits. I love the ease of being here and how when I work, it doesn’t feel like work. I love how every day feels like Friday and I don’t long for the weekends. I love the diving and how easily diving can be part of my life here. But for everything I love here there is still something missing. Within me is a deep longing to fulfil a greater purpose I can’t yet clearly articulate. Here, this longing is stuck and the relationships and synchronicities to help excavate this purpose seem to be missing. And so to stay here, is to live in a paradise, unfulfilled.

My stubborn heart wants to stay here. It doesn’t want to move on or leave. But something greater than me gently pushes me on and speaks the silent truth only I can hear. And I cry. I cry tears from recognising this truth. I cry tears as I slowly and painfully untie the invisible strings that attach me to this place and time. I cry as I say what feels like final good-byes and the grief overtakes me. I cry tears into the ocean. I cry tears into my suitcase. I cry tears into my noodle soup. I cry tears onto the one I love.

For all the sadness I feel there is equal happiness and joy to be felt too. I find solace in my longing to know purpose. I find solace in my belief and trust that life always supports me. I find solace in the excitement of the unknown and the new canvas I am about to paint. Most of all I find solace in returning to friends and family whose unconditional love and support is the one constant in my life.

My Amazing Life

2011-03-07T15:23:00.000+07:00

Some days in my life, I can’t help but feel elated from the very joy of living. This joy stems not from something specific but from all the small pieces that make up the whole of my life. My life’s not all highs but it’s not all lows either and when I average out the peaks and troughs the median line appears somewhere in the region of extraordinary on the chart of life.

I haven’t always known in a physically tangible way what I have wanted to create in my life. My first choices were made on the basis of wanting to be and feel secure. Later my choices were based on the need to be of service to others followed by the longing to be part of something bigger than me, to lead and create a better way of doing things. Currently my choices are based on the longing to see beauty in the world, to feel free and to do what I love doing.

When I look back at the course of my life, I can see how all the synchronicity has guided my life’s course this far. From leaving university studies behind temporarily, to starting a career in Financial Planning, taking on leadership roles, and then leaving a career behind and becoming a dive master and scuba instructor in Phuket. There were signs I followed and seeds that were sown. Inner whisperings and knowings and information received from others that I listened to and acted on. And on top of all this a persistent optimism and curiosity about what the unknown path could bring.

Life does not always feel amazing. Whether I am living in a tropical paradise or in a concrete metropolis, some days life feels ordinary and I wonder what I am doing and why. But if I take a breath and look closely at all the pieces of my life, sometimes with the help of the backwards-facing crystal ball, I can’t help but be amazed by all I have done, felt and experienced on the journey to this point in my life right now.

Through silent tears of joy, I whisper to the world “Thank you, thank you, thank you. Thank you for the extraordinary and the ordinary, the pain and the pleasure, the doubt and the hope, the connection to all and the loneliness that comes and goes. Thank you for this beautiful piece of clay to shape and mould in any way I like with all the tools on offer to create this wonderful masterpiece, my amazing life.”

Washing Elephants in Siem Reap, Cambodia

Receiving a blessing at Angkor Wat, Cambodia

Me diving in Bali

Coming back into Chalong, Phuket after another great day diving

Me fun diving at Shark Point, Phuket

My first Manta Ray, Manta Point, Nusa Penida, Bali

Sea Horse at Padangbai, Bali

Me just after sunrise at Tengerra Crater, Java, Indonesia

Stunning after sun-set at Kata Beach, Phuket

Chalong Pier at 7.45am waiting to head out on the boat diving once more

Whale Shark Number 2