She taught me to crochet by making granny squares for this blanket. I know she surreptitiously replaced the dodgiest of my squares - which, let’s face it was most of them. Despite its lack of aesthetic cohesion, and my two best (read least dodgy) squares that she included - it’s beautiful and one of my favourite possessions.

This brown blanket, created with my Nonna, reminds me of home, but I’m not sure what that means. I never lived at the house where it was crafted. The feeling is tied to the weeks of weekend visits it took to make it; the time spent together; the passing of knowledge from one generation to another; the bond that developed; the love that was given and received. So I snuggle deeper into the blanket, frayed from 40 years of use. The rough edge of a thread from one of my squares has come loose. I play with it as my mind begins to wander.

I was named after my Nonna. My dad insisted, and tradition dictated it. My mum hated the name, thinking it too harsh. They compromised on Carmelina, a diminutive form of Carmela. But there is really nothing diminutive about me, nor my Nonna for that matter. It’s a strange feeling growing up as a compromise. My family never called me by my name, to them I will always be Melina, Lina, Nina or Neens. Nonna always called me Carmelina. Maybe she had a clearer view of who I was all along. To be honest, I think she was putting her foot down and ensuring her name carried on - an entirely plausible scenario. She was a stubborn and determined woman - I had to get it from somewhere.

It wasn’t until my early twenties that I insisted that the world call me by my name. This is no mean feat in Australia where a four-syllable name was just too difficult to get your tongue around, but I held my ground. To the world, and more importantly to myself, I am Carmelina. I feel more at home in my name than my nicknames, and I won’t compromise that, not anymore.

I continue to play with the frayed brown wool. Oddly wearing my bronzed brown lightweight cardigan. The only brown material I own - apart from this blanket. Black makes up 90% of my wardrobe, so the cardigan doesn’t go with much. I wear it anyway on occasion as I do love the tones. It makes me think of Nonna, although it’s not her style at all. It provided no warmth like her thick hand-knitted cardigans, but she loved the colour. I’m not sure if the black wardrobe is me rebelling against my mum’s hatred of mourning clothes and the loss that they represent or that I’m Melbourne born and bred. Black crows from down south, according to those north of the border. Mayhaps it’s a combination of the two, either way, it stuck.

I have always felt more of a Melburnian than an Australian. This seems an odd thing to say, but it’s true. We have a very different way of being here in Melbourne than in other parts of the country. My time living in Darlinghurst, the most Melbourne of Sydney suburbs along with Newtown, confirmed to me that not all parts of Australia are created equal. Interactions are different, though this could be grossly unfair to Sydney. The cockroaches and mosquitos didn’t help. Sydney was a geographical escape for me at a difficult time. It didn’t feel like home at all. I’m sure if I were to relocate there now, it would feel somewhat like home. Actually, there is one thing stopping that from ever being possible - cockroaches.

Nonna was born in Newburgh, Orange County, NY. Her family emigrated there to escape fascism and the first world war ravaging Italy. They struggled with life in this strange land, returning to Italy a few years later. My American Nonna is no more American than any other Italian Australian, despite the geography of her birth.

My brief stint in Prospect Heights, Brooklyn, NY, proved an eye-opener. The differences were staggering and, if I’m honest, somewhat exhausting. It didn’t take long to find my preferred local shops in both Brooklyn and Manhattan. And there was Prospect Park. I would take Prospect Park over Central Park any day. It was the perfect way to decompress after a day in Manhattan, even when it was below freezing and covered in snow. NY didn’t feel like home, which shouldn’t come as a shock to anyone. Yet, I was surprised that the customs and habits of the locals were so foreign to me, given just how much American culture we consume in Australia.

My dad wanted me to visit Newburgh. I didn’t. Ninety-seven years after Nonna’s birth and months after her death, there didn’t seem much point. She was a toddler when they returned to Italy and had no stories of her time there. What would I witness that would have held meaning to a toddler? What meaning would it hold for me?

My American purchases, a frying pan, (unused) candle, seven books and a heavy Calvin Klein woollen coat were memories of my time there. The coat was an extravagance, too thick for Melbourne winters, but so welcomed through New York’s cold seasons. The frying pan purchased because the “fully equipped” kitchen’s pan was small and encrusted. I wasn’t about to leave a frying pan I had purchased behind. I blame it on my migrant upbringing—ditto for the candle. Despite this, I tend not to get attached to things, apart from my ever-expanding book collection. Yes, I suffer from Tsundoku/Bibliomania. I just can’t do digital - books are a sensory thing.

When I packed to return to Melbourne, I felt forlorn, like I was packing up my life, even though I had only been there a few months. I was overwhelmed by a sense of ending things in a place where I didn’t belong. To say I was confused as I packed my suitcases is an understatement. A loose thread against the silver-grey lining of the coat caught my attention as I folded it away. It would have to wait until I returned to Melbourne.

Seeing Nonna’s blanket folded at the end of the bed, on my return to Melbourne, my couch, my kitchen table, my bookshelves (oh my books!) felt like coming home - sort of. It was all familiar, yet I was slightly removed. My family thought I was yearning for NY, but I wasn’t. I was glad to be back. I put it down to jet lag and made the obligatory phone calls to family. We headed to Flinders Street Station to wander the city in an attempt to stay awake and reset to GMT +10. Somehow Melbourne had changed during my absence. Familiarity lurked around every corner and at every stop, but something was just a little bit off everywhere we went.

We returned and unpacked. First load of washing on, frying pan in the kitchen, candle in the lounge, books split between bookshelves and bedside table, toiletries and clothes put away. I pulled out the winter coat - remembering the loose thread I grabbed the scissors to cut it off before hanging it in the wardrobe. These things that held meaning 24 hours before were now just things to be stored. Suitcases away, Nonna’s blanket again caught my eye. I wanted to keep it out, but summer was in full swing - it was time to pack it away.

If the house was the same and Melbourne was the same, I must have changed. I sat on the couch, feeling displaced in my own home. Home was no longer about place, nor was it about things - even my books didn’t hold the same meaning.

My many travels and subsequent returns to the familiar had seemed to progressively erase my feeling of home. It wasn’t detachment, nor about feeling home elsewhere. The meaning that these things, items, people, places held had changed. They were not lessened, just different. I wish I could discuss this with Nonna. She seemed to not have these attachments that so many others have. My Nonno died in World War II a few years after they were married and six months after my father was born. Although she still had her family around her, her life was changed irrevocably.

Being a single mother in a country at war meant life was a struggle. She traded flour and sugar on the black market, sewed clothes for neighbours, and worked as a labourer on farms to feed her family. She did what she had to do to make ends meet. For Nonna, change was the only constant. It’s difficult to attach a sense of home to transient things. The more impermanent they are, the less meaning we assign them. Even where there is some permanence in certain aspects, say place or geography, instability in other areas affects our attachment to the stable parts of our lives. She felt “at home’ in Melbourne - with her family, where the insecurity and instability of her life had been replaced by comfort and consistency. But feeling “at home” isn't at all the same as a sense of home.

I wish I could ask Nonna about her sense of home, I wish we had discussed it when she was alive, but wishing doesn’t make it so. Her pragmatic attitude to life seemed to preclude attachment. In her opinion, you play the cards you’ve been dealt, and she did love to play cards. Missing Nonna’s wisdom, I’ve asked scores of people what constitutes home for them. The responses were, for the most part, predictable. Home is where they grew up, the family home, town, suburb, or where they currently reside. For others, it’s the language of their childhood, their mother tongue or the idiosyncrasies of their early years.

In The Poetics of Space Gaston Bachelard describes our house as our first universe. From there, we can explore the rest of the world, knowing that home is there for us to return to. But what if we view this on a grander scale? Our first universe, as seen through the eyes of a child? It's more than just our house. It's the people, the smells, the food. It's the language, accent and voices. It's the colours, the weather and geography. All the things that are particular to that time and space.

“Home is less about ownership and more about connection and memory some- times being away from home, home doesn’t feel like home anymore. Home is ever changing.”

Kan- Social Commentator, Friend

Is that what I was feeling on my return from New York? The ever-changing nature of home? There is a lot that rings true in what Kan says. Memory plays a huge part in our sense of home, even though it’s selective, even though it’s fallible. Bachelard suggests that memories of home are more poetry than history. We craft “images of intimacy”, which are “imbued with dream values that persist long after the reality has passed. Memory provides us with a sense of home without actually detailing the facts. Home is an emotive response to what we have experienced, whether it’s people, food, places or things. Our connection to those things, once embraced, resides within us more abstractly and emotively than it does in reality. Home can’t be reduced to bricks and mortar, or a person, or items; instead, it’s how those things make us feel. It's our connection to that feeling that gives meaning and provides a sense of home.

“How can secret rooms, rooms that have disappeared become abodes for an unforgettable past?”

Bachelard

Is it any wonder that we put so much stock in the memories and connections of our early years? We have carried them the longest, crafted and honed them to perfection, often until they bear little resemblance to reality. We place them on podiums in the great galleries of our minds and fail to question their value and meaning as we grow and inevitably change. Instead choosing to hold them in awe and regard them with reverence.

“A lot of people refer to the family home. In fact, I still do too out of habit... I can’t identify home without first working out what makes me home-less... I guess home for me... is me... not just ME, nor some metaphysical space within me etc that I meditate and return to...home is me as in the equation. The sum of all my experiences and memories that makes me who I am.”

Keith, Self Confessed Army Rat, Friend

I was thrown by this, but it made sense. For Keith, it turns out, home is within. It travels with him. Home is the sum of Keith. Made up of his memories and experiences and all that has contributed to his life. So what would make him home-less? Losing his sense of self, and issues of old age like dementia and Alzheimer’s. Nonna had dementia, but it didn’t hit until after her 94h birthday. For all but the last 18 months of her life according to Keith’s understanding - she was home. I like to think that’s the case.

I understand how Keith feels. There is part of me that is always home. But I have, at various times in my life, lost my sense of self without suffering those terrible afflictions. Do I feel home-less then? Not quite. I feel displaced. Like I don’t belong. Still, there were always other elements that bring me back to that sense of home. Sometimes it’s people who have been with us our whole lives, sometimes it’s people who have been with us a short while. Time in a relationship, whilst a factor, is not the determinant of how much a person feels like home.

So what is home? Things? Somewhat. Places? More so. People? Yes. And what of memories? Definitely a trigger. In the discussions I have had about home, something was missing. It seems we are always trying to point to an external - person, place, object - because these things speak to who we are. Our sense of home builds our view of our own identity. It positions us in the world and allows us to understand who we are as people.

For me, it's all of these things and yet none of them distinctly. For me, home is about connection. My connection to people, to place, to memories, and yes, sometimes to things. But the most important connection is to myself. As Keith said, home is within ME. I am the weaving together of all of my previous connections and experiences. My understanding of myself is crafted from those things that people generally attribute to home via externalities.

Potentially, Keith and I have just internalised it differently. That’s not to say we are dissociative; quite the opposite. We are both fully engaged and mostly present. The new experiences we have join with the other memories and add to that sense of self. In my experience, when a situation or person doesn’t fit the narrative of who I am, they add to and strengthen my sense of self/home rather than detract from it. That being said, I still have a distinct sense of home, which is separate from myself from time to time.

When I feel less connected to myself or when my sense of self gets blurred, I lean more on my connections to the other. People, places, things and memories take on greater significance at these times. It’s not that they are otherwise unimportant. I just lean on them less for my sense of home when my sense of self is strong. Melbourne’s late autumn chill permeates the room as I cover myself with Nonna’s blanket and tuck the loose thread back into the weave. Home within myself, home under its warmth and the memories it holds.

The process of writings one's thoughts clarifies and solidifies them in a way that is not possible when they float in the ether or even when they are voiced.

I am that person that sits with thoughts to understand them deeply, critically, entirely. It's easy to do this in an academic essay. I can research, discuss both sides, and proffer a well-considered argument supported by a mass of citations, all in a voice that is uniquely my own. At least that's what the feedback tells me. But…

I haven't written creatively for almost nine months, barring the letter last November in the style of 18th-century educationist Maria Edgeworth which was a creative piece and a delight to research and write. It's been easier to lock myself in the academic world. All the while, the private rumination and self-reflection continue, thoughts, ponderings and analysing of nuances. Even though I am enjoying the two writing subjects this semester immensely, when attempting to write creatively, I am struggling to put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard as an ongoing process and actually do the work. 

So I, tired of excuses, put my pondering to good use, forcing myself to consider my reluctance. I have reached a place, personally, spiritually, emotionally, mentally, whatever way you want to see it, where I am good. Better than good, I am blooming. Just as I moved from photography to writing, is it time now to move on to something else? Do I still need the exposition and type of reflection that writing offered me? And so, here it is, in black and white, demon faced and laid bare before the world. 

Because of the way I write, because my subject matter is deeply personal, I am afraid. 

I am worried that I will be peeling back old scabs and opening old wounds if I write. Wounds long carried. Wounds that took a lifetime and, more recently, an intense period of 30 months to revisit, prise open, soothe, tend and heal. If I start writing again, what does my writing look like without that intensity? Without the deluge that was always threatening to come out. Will it be worth reading? Will it even be worth writing? I don't know what the stories inside me are anymore. I'm not sure it's possible to create them without the pressure of the inflammation that caused them.

Who am I as a writer without that pain gnawing away at my insides?

The short answer is, I don't know… yet. 
Deadlines are looming. It seems I am about to find out.

The story of Bill is my recollection of an incident that occurred in September 1994.  Mark and I had been married for 3 months.  I was never able to get details of Bill’s true identity, understandable but regrettable.  This piece is about my reaction to the events that disrupted a quiet Sunday. It is about shock, action, and our shared humanity.  I wrote it because the events moved me, causing me to reassess our connection to others, even strangers.  I was trying to convey this connection and its impact in the retelling.  

The information detailed is from memory.  Nothing has been added for effect.  Where I was unsure of anything, it was omitted. 

Bill

My phone vibrated on the bedside table, I turned to reach for it when a thunderous crack echoed through the house. I shook Mark, yelling at him to wake up. "Did you hear that?" He grumbled that he was sleeping and pushed me away, too affected by last night's wine to get up and investigate. 

I climbed over Mark and pulled back the curtain, expecting rain and fire and destruction. I saw nothing. The windows were frosted from the chill, the sky was blue, the world seemed at peace. Mark's complaints grew louder as he started thrashing in a bid to push me off. I tossed a pillow at him before moving to the other window. Mark continued moaning and kicked his legs in a bid for freedom. I pulled back the curtain, stunned into silence by the scene that lay before me.

A car had hit the power pole outside our house. The bonnet caved into a V around the pole. The timber was shattered, and the pole angled towards the roof of the car. The cables now tensioned and crackling strained against the weight of the pole. The Chrysler Valiant covered the width of the lane and jutted onto the other side of the road. The windscreen was cracked, glass was strewn across the bonnet. The driver's door was open. Then I saw him through the shattered glass.  

"Oh my God." 

I grabbed my crumpled jeans and jumper that I'd tossed on the floor last night. Feet shoved into boots. Mark was awake now.  

"What? What is it?"  

I couldn't answer. I grabbed the house keys and my phone and dialled 000. I ran outside to see what I could do. There had to be something I could do.

I ran the short distance from my front door to the Valiant. I could hear the electricity buzzing and crackling as the wires rubbed against each other. As I passed the tree in the front yard, I saw him clearly, sitting in the driver's seat, the door was fully open.

The recording seemed to take forever. "You have dialled emergency Triple Zero. Your call is being connected." And then she was there 

"Police, fire or ambulance?"  

"Police," I said then shook my head “Ambulance no Police. There's been an accident, a car's hit a pole, and he's dead, I think the driver is dead."  

"Take a breath, can you tell me where you are?" 

 I'd lived here for three months, but I checked the signs anyway just to make sure. "The corner of Victoria and Napperby St West Brunswick Victoria."

 "And you think the driver is not breathing?"

 My hand moved to touch the pallid skin of his neck. I felt for his carotid artery. Nothing. As if his eyes, frozen open and the greying of an already pale face weren't enough of a sign. "Yes."  

 She asked for my details, which seemed irrelevant, but I answered, because it was expected, because it helped bring me back from the shock.

  "Police and Ambulance are on their way, do you want me to stay on the phone with you until they arrive?" 

 "No, thank you, I'm OK." I hung up. This was a private moment. Not for me, but for Bill. I didn't know his name, but I needed to call him something - to recognise his humanity. 

Mark rushed out of the house "Fuck! Are you OK? Fuck!" His hand on my shoulder was the closest I could get to comfort for a while. The corner was at the convergence of two slopes, and a car was travelling towards us in Bill's lane. Mark ran to direct the car and watch for oncoming traffic. The driver pulled over and talked to Mark. There was more swearing, and whispers of their conversation reached me as the world started to fade, until there was just Bill and me. No-one should be left alone when they've died. You don't turn your back on the dead.  

He sat, seat belt on, eyes wide open, lips parted as if to allow his last breath out, as if that's how his soul had escaped. His skin continued to grey before my eyes, the blood draining from his face because he was still upright. Tears quietly flowed from my eyes. His right hand sat oddly on his lap, it had slightly more colour and warmth than his face, maybe the blood was pooling there. The last remnants of his life gathered in his hands.  

A newspaper on the passenger seat and a loaf of Tip Top bread in the footwell confirmed Bill had just been to the shops. There was no blood. None. He was devoid of colour, and there was no blood in the car, only the red of the bread bag stark against the cream carpet in the footwell. Bill hadn't died on impact. 

I looked across the car and saw Mark and the stranger directing traffic. Protecting Bill from further harm. The drivers slowed to almost a standstill as they passed us. Not out of deference for the suffering of another human being, but to witness the spectacle. That's all Bill's death was to them, a spectacle. I wanted to scream at them to stop gaping, to shout that this man deserved respect and privacy, but all that came was a strangled cry as the tears continued to flow.

Sirens blared, and lights flashed over the hill, a police car from the right and an ambulance from the left. I looked at Bill and silently said goodbye. I stepped back onto the footpath. One police officer radioed for backup whilst the other stretched disposable blue gloves over her hand. She touched Bill's neck, checking for a pulse, nothing. She checked again, there was compassion and sadness in her eyes as she turned to her partner and the paramedics that had just arrived, shook her head and said "Deceased". One paramedic checked for vitals, and it was confirmed.  

"He's been dead for a while. Looks like he had a heart attack at the top of the hill before he started the car".  They all looked up the hill.  There were no skid marks, no broken glass along the road.  The angle of the slope had led him to this spot.  They muttered their agreeance before returning to the job ahead of them.

  I let out a breath I didn't know I had been holding.  

Some part of me had hoped that I was wrong, that Bill had a faint pulse and could be saved. That I had judged his death wrongly. I moved back to sit on the brick wall of our raised garden bed, Bill in front of me. I stared at the scene before me, watching it as if I were underwater. Noises blurred. Everything faded into the background - everything except Bill.

One police officer moved into the street, directing traffic. He asked Mark to stay until another patrol car arrived. The stranger said goodbye to Mark, they shook hands and briefly hugged before thanking each other and wishing each other well. It may have seemed odd to anyone watching, but it made sense to us. They had been through something, together. The stranger waved to me as he walked to his car. A sad little wave, an acknowledgement. I waved back, a silent thank you forming on my lips. He had not only protected Bill, he had kept me safe too.  

The female officer came to me and took details as the paramedics took a stretcher from the Ambulance. I remember the gentleness with which they removed Bill from the car, the care they showed, the sensitivity and respect they offered him. The sheet being pulled over his face as they strapped his body to the stretcher. The police officer spoke to the paramedics once the doors were closed. Another police car arrived followed by a tow truck, as the Ambulance pulled out.  

  The police officers thanked us. We turned to go inside, to continue with our day, although we weren't sure how to do that. I headed straight for the shower. My hands braced against the wall as scorching water mingled with the tears that would not stop. Is there a Mrs Bill? Waiting at home for him to return with the paper and bread so she could make breakfast? What if Bill lived alone, would anyone notice he had died? I reached for my towel, imagining two police officers knocking on a door, dreading the conversation they were about to have.

In absentia

You cast a light not meant to shine 
on parts of me long hidden, even from myself.   
You see me as I am
damaged
broken
a collection of wounds unhealed
not ready to be brought out from darkness.
Locked beneath the skin I show the world.  
Safe from all I thought
until you. 

There was too much danger 
being unmasked. From a distance 
I said we must part
circumstance decrees. I lied
to you
to myself.
The truth strangled by fear 
of being 
exposed
of feeling 
everything you offered
everything I could not give 
you in return.  In my thoughts
your shadow still dances with me 
as if it were my own.

I am a traitor to myself
bound by forces yet unnamed 
to a memory of what might have been.  
The truth lurking 
in corners and quiet moments.  
It lays with me at night 
as I stare into the darkness
my eyes shut tight 
against the tide that returns 
each day, filled 
with you.

Our need to prove ourselves, to be seen, to be heard, to be cherished and cared for genuinely, to be part of, cause our behaviours and bring about results which quite often replicate the outcomes of the past.  We question why it keeps happening.  Why?  When I am doing things differently, why do I keep getting the same result?

We make external changes, scheduling changes, geographical changes and expect that they will bring about those things we secretly crave but they don’t.  We beat our heads against brick walls and bemoan what befalls us.  It’s a difficult question with a simple answer.  

We get the same result because we are the same person.  

We each of us carry darkness.  Not evil, but things that touch parts of us that we don’t want touched.  Things that cause us to feel things we don’t want to feel, that bring up memories we don’t want to recall.  Our pain, our anger, our grief from all the emotions we hide.  Rejection, lack of worth, feeling unloved, being unable to trust… the list is endless and perfectly tailored for our own lives.

We take these things and throw them into dark and narrow dungeons within ourselves to forget them.  Deep wells from which they cannot easily return.  Our own personal oubliette.  The forgotten room.

We place them there for a number of reasons, because we don’t know what to do with them, because society tells us to hide these things away.  We throw them into the darkness because we fear what acknowledging them says about us, what havoc facing them may wreak upon our lives.  No matter how much we throw into this forgetting place it never fills, it is a bottomless pit from which they cannot escape.

Unless we intentionally release them.

This is not a case of releasing the hounds, I don’t mean unleashing your personal demons on an unsuspecting public.  This is a journey to our darkest realms.  A quest to sit with all that we have chosen to hide from the the world and ourselves.  A pilgrimage to the truth of who we are.

We each begin our journey in our own way and for our own reasons, for me it was a number of things, relationships, a sense of loss and a feeling of not understanding my place in the world, of not being seen or heard.

I was adrift, floating on a sea of emotion and trying to keep that treadmill of life going because that’s what we do, because that’s what’s expected.  We soldier on, or as my Dad would say, wash your face and face the day.  Problem is, the days were getting bleaker and I was sinking.  

Me, with this semi-charmed kind of life.  I was floundering.

I was stuck in a loop.  Problem was I was no longer in a place where I could dismiss it by pushing blame onto someone else.  I kept finding myself face to face with the same brick wall and I wanted it to stop.

This is not a journey to be taken lightly, nor one that should be attempted alone.  I know.  I have attempted it several times, stepping just outside my comfort zone and feeling I have achieved so much.  I had barely picked up a shield let alone slain the dragon.  It is too great an expedition to accomplish single handed.  You need someone to help you stay strong when you feel like running.   Someone who will hold up the mirror when you face your inner demons.  Someone who will understand when you collapse feeling you are unable to move forward.  

I was privileged to find such a someone.  Kerrie Basha (aka BOHOMOFO).  

I had met Kerrie whilst I was in Sydney on my last geographical escape.  I knew she would be able to help me find my balance, even though I didn’t know what I was really asking her to help me with.  It took time for me to be ready, but when I was I made contact and we began.

People were excited when I said I was beginning a mentoring program, but they were shocked that I was the mentee and not the mentor.  I’m a grown woman, I can admit when I need help. Distance not an issue with technology and video calls being our method of conversing as well as messages throughout the process. 

Working with Kerrie allowed me to see myself for who I truly am, without the armour and war paint.  It gave me the opportunity to see beneath the scars, to find parts of me that were well hidden, long ago.

Kerrie works closely with you to uncover the truth about yourself, your truth and not someone else’s version of who you should be.  Together, we stripped away the many layers of covering that are placed on us throughout our lives, the expectations and demands of others, the tricks and quirks we learn to sidestep the negatives in our lives, the lies we tell ourselves to not have to deal with what truly ails us.  

We peeled back the layers, with care and consideration under Kerrie’s guiding hand, rather than the fast ripping off of the bandaid that is so often seen in mainstream guidance or counselling.   

We spend our lives seeing through a glass darkly, not seeing our true reflection. Our only view of ourselves witnessed through the the eyes of others.  Kerrie helps you bring light to the dark shadows that keep us from meeting ourselves for who we truly are.  

Kerrie is an amazing woman.  She holds space for you as you work through your personal demons, and yes my friends, we all have those.  There was never any judgement, not even on the 145th round of yes… but…, although I do note that what I doggedly held onto became part of our next module.  Nicely done Kerrie.

Kerrie has an innate ability to help you see the bullshit and lies you feed yourself without making you feel bad about it.  

She has done this work herself so knows just how hard it can be.  The modules are bespoke - I mean seriously personalised, and if you commit to the process the changes it brings are nothing short of life changing.  Kerrie made time and was available when I needed her even though it wasn’t my scheduled session time.  When the distracting and counter productive thought processes reared their heads in an attempt to not deal with it all, she gently guided me back to where I needed to be. 

The simplest way to describe it is that I’ve been stripping myself down emotionally and rebuilding myself from the ground up.  It’s about learning to feel comfortable with your emotions current and past, and understanding why you feel them, the good, the bad and the ugly - yes Kerrie, I know, there are no bad emotions.  It’s understanding your relationship with them rather than glimpsing them and tucking them away, filling the void with excuses and logic and distraction, a task that we are supremely talented at as humans.

WARNING - I do need a disclaimer in this post:

Do not do this alone, get assistance from someone who has done it and works in this area.  This process is confronting, in your face and dark.  I cannot overstate that.  I thought it would be easy because of my “previous work”  It wasn’t.  

I have not only delved into my shadows, I have lived in the shadowlands, courting and coaxing the parts of me that as humans we don’t want to face.  Finding out things about myself that I didn’t like, didn’t want to admit to and genuinely struggled with.  

There were tears - so very many tears, days and days filled with them, sometimes it seemed they would never end.  There was anger and resentment, there was guilt, there was pain, so much pain, but there was also release and understanding and acceptance.  

Should you go on a similar journey, I cannot tell you what you will go through, because our shadows are all our own, but know that when it feels like you cannot take any more and no-one understands what you’re going through (people will tell you they do, but to truly sit with our shadows for extended periods is sadly too rare in our modern world), know that there are people who have been through it and they have your back, even if it’s just someone writing on the other side of the planet.  

This work is hard, ugly hard.  Its punishing and exhausting but it’s also liberating. 

Would I recommend you proceed with this process?  Yes, but it’s not for everyone, you have to be ready for it.  This is not a process for the faint hearted.  If you decide to do it, go into it with the right intentions and your eyes wide open - they need to be in the shadows.  

Would I recommend Kerrie?  Definitely, she is kind and compassionate with a wicked sense of humour, but above all, she knows what she’s doing.  She’s done it, and she is incredibly gifted at holding the space for you to do the work you need to do.  She stays with you through it, she’s there when you need her and she gives 100%.  I am truly grateful that I found her and travelled this path with her as my guide.

So what’s the outcome?  This time and money spent, this pain and these tears, what end point have I reached?  Well, there isn’t one. I am not enlightened, I don’t have all the answers, and I am certainly no guru. 

What I do have now is a true understanding of myself.  

I have solid boundaries  - I didn’t truly have any before, the ones I did have were arbitrary, rendering them useless - a terrifying reality.  I have an understanding of why people do the things they do and don’t equate it in anyway to me, I don’t react when my triggers are pulled, the big shiny red buttons that used to invite people to hit them like a sideshow strength test have now shrunk to regular sized buttons indistinguishable amongst the understanding and boundaries I now cloak myself in.  If they get hit now I don’t jump, if I feel a twinge I have the knowledge and the skill to find out why it’s causing me to rail against it.  

This is an ongoing process, but it’s so much easier now.

I have lived in the shadowlands, and now, when I do need to revisit, it is no longer a dark and foreboding place.  It is no longer a place of forgetting, but a place of remembering and reconnecting.  

Do I trip occasionally back in the real world?  Sure I do, uncoordinated clumsiness aside, I will make mistakes, let my boundaries slip and have my buttons pushed occasionally and that’s OK.  

Yes, I am perfectly human, flaws and all, but I now know I don’t have to be perfect, I just have to be perfectly me.

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]]>Into the Shadowlands...CARMELINA CONTARINOTue, 30 Jul 2019 12:57:06 +0000https://www.carmelinapascoe.com/thestorytellerablog/doable543dd92ae4b01ddd00dd3bcc:547ebeeae4b0d194ae33584f:5d402d8c6620060001a66659So the question came this week.  What’s it like to live on your own?  The answer popped straight out without thought or consideration.  Lonely, but doable.  I don’t mean this in a sad way, it’s just the reality for me, and I know this is not the case for everyone. 

Just so we are clear, no, I do not want a room mate. There are positives to living alone, it’s my space, I can have things just as I like them. I can put something somewhere and find it next time I look for it, Mum and the great remote fiasco aside.  There is no compromise on what to watch when the TV goes on, or indeed, no one watching it when I want silence.  There’s no concern about being appropriately dressed, or someone else being in the bathroom when I need it.  Food stays in the refrigerator or pantry (who knew??).   And if I can’t be bothered completing a task now, it will wait until later, small apartment tidiness not withstanding.  I can do what I want, choose my own schedule and worry only for my own needs.

But here’s the rub, I am not an isolationist, sure I have my moments, but I need the company of others.  No man is an island.  It occurred to me on my first solo trip in 2013, three and a half weeks of traipsing Europe alone before being joined by the family. for the last 10 days.  I arranged to meet people in various locations before I left, but the vast majority of my time was spent alone.  The thing that struck me then was that the experiences I had were unable to be shared properly. The retelling of them is not the same as living them and often the nuances fail between your lips and someone else’s ears. Sharing an experience, even if it is mundane, elevates it.  

So, an experience shared is greater than the sum of its solo parts.  But why?  It cements it in a way that a solo experience doesn’t.  It moves from being mine to ours and that it goes from just my opinion of it to a compounded one, even though those views may widely differ.  It’s that confluence that makes it greater. Its significance is multiplied rather than added.

So is it a body that I’m missing?  No. It’s the intimacy.  I don’t mean to imply that I am desperate for a partner, far from it, I am in no rush to find someone. It’s just one of those things that’s missing, like the charger cord for the cordless vacuum cleaner, the vacuum is here but the rug still needs cleaning. Just as I’m getting over the small bits I can’t get off the rug, I’m getting used to being on my own, although I must admit, I just ordered another charge cord, there is only so much you can tolerate on a navy rug.

So what do I mean by intimacy? It’s not about sex, but rather a connection with another.  Having someone who will understand when you come home exhausted, or share your jubilance if you’ve had a great day..  Someone who will lie about how terrible dinner is, or at least laugh about it as they order a pizza.  Someone who will surprise you with something because they knew you would like it, even if its something trivial.  It’s someone to share your joy and wipe away the tears.  Someone who can communicate with you without words.  That person who just gets you. That person who is all that for you too. That person who will share your life and bear witness to it, as you bear witness to theirs.

This intimacy is built through time, both quality and quantity.  I have it with my kids, although they are grown and living their own lives, Deanna in Queensland on an extended holiday before returning to uni, and John working towards his goals, so I feel the lack of intimacy keenly at the moment.  Although blessedly I have been seeing a little more of him lately and she will be returning to Melbourne soon.   There are friends, and always extended family, people that will fly from interstate or invite you in for a cup of tea when they think you need support. People who will manage to fit you into their hectic schedules even though they have no spare time, because they care.  There has been much messaging and many phone calls from family and friends, both near and far, this has been wonderfully therapeutic and gratefully received.  Dear ones without whom I would find it difficult.  

Inevitably, I find myself with more time to think, the ponder meter has gone through the roof, I have been taxing my family and friends with these thoughts and they have been blessedly supportive. Apologies to Anna who is receiving the brunt of them and Dan who has to hear them due to proximity.  I share an intimacy with my nearest and dearest and whilst it does not replace having someone here, it goes a long way to making this solo living doable.

So where to now?  Well, just over a week ago I moved into my own place, my first solo dwelling.  

Yes, I finally bit the bullet and have a place on my own.  It has remained, surprisingly tidy and ordered.  Maybe it’s because the basket on the table and the many bags upstairs are yet to be unpacked. Maybe it’s because you can tidy this place in 15 minutes.  Most likely the reason is that it’s small, with no room for build up.  The term bijou comes to mind, but i don’t know that elegant is accurate.

The pictures on the wall are off centre, sitting on existing hooks for the moment, the lamp sits oddly blocking the book shelves, and the blanket I have been crocheting for years sits in front of the cupboard under the stairs.  The windows leak air and the table looms large in the kitchen so you can cook and sit at the same time.  The early 80’s bathroom takes me back to a time that time itself has forgotten, and the light in the hallway flickers due to a dud starter, There is much still to do, but I will get there.  

Whilst there are things happening most days to bring order, it’s the small things that make it feel like home now.  It’s the scent of my fabric softener permeating the house and the furniture as the clothes dry (ever so slowly) in the lounge.  It’s the luxury of eating food chosen and prepared in my kitchen - even though it’s only for one. It’s the feel of being snuggled under blankets on my couch as I read or watch a movie.  It’s the sounds of music that match my mood as I’m moving around the space.  It’s the sight of the veritable forest as I sit ensconced in my egg chair in the courtyard.  A forest in Carlton you ask?  Yes, a secret one, you just need to know where to look.  It’s being surrounded by what is familiar and absent for too long, a sense of homecoming.

As silly as it sounds, my table and bench, my couch, my bed (how I’ve missed my bed!) and of course my egg chairs, despite being oversized having being purchased for a much bigger apartment, fit this small space perfectly.  It has a good feeling, even though I still haven’t finished unpacking.  There are some places that just feel right, and despite the “cosiness” of this house, or maybe even because of it, it feels like home.

It is sad that we were not able to work things out, but the decision taken almost 18 months ago was the right one and thankfully, the parting has been amicable and harmonious, which seems odd to most people but apparently surprisingly refreshing.   I did not celebrate the end of my marriage, for that is not a thing to be happy for.  Would I have liked things to have worked out?  Of course, but in the end we just needed very different things.  There has been much that we have been through together over the last 25 years and there is a respect and appreciation of the other which I am grateful for.

The last few years and months have been nothing short of tumultuous in so many ways.  There has been no part of my life that has been left unturned, and as confronting as that is, running the gauntlet daily and having every pasture turned into… if not a mountain, at the very least, a steep hill (I am vertically challenged at the best of times), has been difficult and at times, if I’m being honest, crushing.  I have changed so many things about myself already, regular readers will know the score on that front, I have chartered a new course for myself, I have let go of relationships, and I have quit smoking (again, and yes Joe, it is true).  

So, I did not have a divorce party as insisted upon by so many people, sorry to disappoint - not sorry.  I can’t be joyful about the end of my marriage.  Instead this weekend has passed in two very different worlds, Saturday spent preparing, letting go of all that no longer serves me, and today, Sunday, the day my divorce became official, Sunday I woke, ready and energised, but not in a frantic way.  Today I woke ready for what the future may hold.

This morning, I did raise a quiet Bellini (ok, and a Bloody Mary) with Saskia, my friend and Sydney flatmate, to acknowledge the past, to honour it and to celebrate what is to come.  Today, I smudged (burnt a hole through my new pants in the process, but hey it was worth it) and continued the work of the last few weeks, months, years, quietly giving thanks for all that has been and ensuring I am open for all that is to come.

It was by no means a perfect Mother’s day, I called Mum, but she was out and about so the call was brief, at midday I spoke briefly to Deanna who was on a road trip and had a very short message from John in London, but it was a good day, a day of internal peace and calm, the likes of which I have not felt since... I can’t remember when.  

It was truly a blessing and a good start to all of my tomorrows.  They won’t all be this way, but I begin from this point.  To quote Arthur Ashe: “Start where you are. Use what you have. Do what you can.”  So, I start here, now, using what I have, doing what I can.  The world, whilst not shiny and new again, is open and irresistibly inviting, like the warmth of a wood fire on a cold winter’s night.

I need to acknowledge all of those that have helped me reach this point, and I apologise in advance for anyone I have omitted, I am getting on in years.  Thank you Mark, Deanna, John, Mum & Dad, Cass, Alfio, Daniel, Joe, Karly, Anna, Dan, Shane, Ticky, Steve, Kan, Keith, Dominique, Cath, Saskia, Paula, Kerrie, Sandra, Sloan, Joni, Harry, Oender, Matt, Amanda, Victor, Simone, my grandparents and every one else that has helped me through.  Thank you to those who watch over me, who guide me, who offer advice that I seem to not heed, who touch base and wait patiently for me to respond, what would my world be without you? 

With love and gratitude, 

Always,

Carmelina 

Initially I took a 6 month lease with the plan to travel in 2019.  Travel far and wide, and experience life, but a funny thing happened whilst I was waiting to get there, Life started happening to me and I was exposed to things that have changed me, opened me up to some incredible people and some amazing experiences.  I have since decided not to travel, that there were reasons to stay, but some of those reasons have changed.  Relationships ended, my son is moving to England, my daughter is moving out with friends, but I don’t feel like travelling now, there is no need to go.  I was approaching it all wrong, it was a means of escape, not adventure, but the thing I was running from was myself, a Sisyphean task to be sure and a fools errand.

For the last couple of months I have found myself drifting, not aimlessly, not lost, but letting go.  Letting go of expectations I held for myself (no mean feat, I set the bar pretty high and fell short on many occasions) and those I held others to.  Letting go of what the world should hold for me, of who I should be within it, of what I should accomplish.  Letting go of what life should be, of perceived freedoms, of the pursuit of happiness.  Letting go of the scoreboards, of the ladders, of the disappointments and the fears.  For the first time in my life, after reaching that point where I like who I am, I have given myself permission to let go of it all and just be.

So I have embraced life, with all it’s light and darkness, the happiness, the love, the tears and the pain, the quiet moments that I do love so, and the crazy frenetic pace that overcomes us at times, to truly embrace it all, and just accept it as it is, without trying to control it, to experience life in a way I haven’t before, to be open to all that the world has to offer.  Not in a crazed say yes to everything way, but in a judicious manner.  I am not chaining myself to what should be, or what must be.  At 48 I am allowing myself to let go of my ego, to let go of restraints and demands, and it is incredibly liberating.

I left my apartment on St Kilda Road two weeks ago.  Due to a number of circumstances and opportunities, I am currently without fixed abode, no, I am not living on the street, I have been so very fortunate that there are a number of people who surround me that have offered not just shelter but their homes and their kinship (not all kin is blood).  So to those people I am grateful beyond measure.  And so, in no particular order, thank you Joe, Mark, Mum, Dad, Dominique, Daniel, Deanna, John, Mia, Anna, Catherine, Amanda, Cassandra, and Saskia, you have offered your homes and your hearts and for that you have my eternal gratitude and a place in my heart.  My life would not be as rich as it is without you all, my door is always open to you, and I know these relationships will continue to grow and develop as time goes by.

With much thanks to Joe, Kensington has been home for the last two weeks and will be until the end of January.   I have already fallen for the area, strolling the old stock sale yards and the constant cooing of the turtle doves, it almost feels like I’m in a country town, with all the benefits of being right on the edge of the city.  This seems the perfect spot to deepen my patience and cement my ability to let go, my inner control freak is so quiet now, I can actually hear the world around me.  The silences are filled with the sound of the wind through the trees and the birds cooing, life is being lived without stress, even though there are still stressful things happening around me.  The days pass much as they did before, work, eat, sleep, repeat, but there is no harsh edge to them anymore, despite Joe’s best efforts to convert me to drinking Kombucha.  There is discussion and there is laughter (quite often about Kombucha), there is friendship and familial bonds, and these all lead to a level of understanding and ease that brings a simple and easy life.

3 more weeks will see me heading to Darlinghurst, yes thats right, Sydney will be home for 3-4 months as I have much to do there for work.  Beyond that there are no plans, and for the first time, I am okay with that, genuinely.  I will return to Melbourne for visits whilst I am away and I will most likely return, although I may fit in a trip to visit John in the UK at some point next year.  But I am open to whatever life brings to me.

Thomas Jefferson said “We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal; that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights; that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”  Although, I think he got it wrong (apologies to Mr Jefferson),  happiness is too fleeting.  I think we should pursue something that has more lasting effects and a more positive impact on us and the world around us.  I think we should be pursuing contentment.

I am truly fortunate, to be surrounded by family and friends and the amazing team I work with every day.   I am alive, I am free and I am content.

Maybe I’m just an old soul and people saw that in me when I was a child and a teenager.  Maybe I just never grew up, and the light they see in there, that glint in my eyes, is my inner child still bursting with life.  Maybe it’s just good genes, my parents both look years younger than they are.  Maybe I’m destined to look the way I did as a toddler all through my life, although some may consider that a curse.

I think it’s because I allow myself to feel.  To feel all of it, the highs and the lows, the joy and the pain, the laughter and the tears.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m do not display these things overtly, ok, the highs and the joy and the laughter I do, but the rest of it, the lows, the pain and the tears are things I generally hold to myself.  I do not wish to cause anyone else to feel these things, so I process them, by and large, alone.  I have found over the years that whitewashing over them does not help, I can’t pretend they are not there, there are repercussions to such actions which are less than delightful.  They do not disappear if you pretend they don’t exist, instead, they manifest in other ways, in tiredness, in stress, in illness, my mind and body conspire to ensure that I will take time to process things.

So, to avoid the subconscious self sabotage I do my utmost to work things through, even if its just reaching the point of acceptance.  Those around me will have heard me say many times “It is what it is” or “It’s not good, it’s not bad, it just is”, or even ‘It’s just shit”.  There are many things we cannot change about our lives and the things that happen to us.  The only thing we can change, the only thing we do have control over, is how we respond to them.  Change what you can, accept what you can’t and find the humour in every situation.

There is much laughter in my life, much joy and much happiness and for that I am eternally grateful.  I am fortunate in that I can find the humour in any situation, yes, sometimes I have to stop myself from laughing at inopportune times, and I have had strangers look at me oddly as I start chuckling to myself whilst out in public, but it’s a price worth paying. 

The only thing I really struggle with, always have, probably always will, is what I call the nothingness.  That void, that emptiness where there are no feelings, some people prefer it, but for me, I would rather spend a year in tears than in the nothingness.  In closing ourselves off from our feelings we are closing ourselves off from the world.  Feeling, lets us know that we are alive, it’s what makes our lives worth living and it keeps us linked to our humanity.

I am fortunate, the people that surround me, by blood and by design are pretty damned wonderful.  Yes I would rather see the good in people than the bad and I know that we all have our faults, I am not blind to my own, nor those of others, but we can choose to focus on what is bad, or we can accept that it’s there, that we and the world we live in are imperfect, and choose to see both the world’s and people's inherent beauty and goodness.  It’s not difficult, it surrounds us every day, all we have to do is look for it.

So there you have it, my secret to the fountain of youth. It can’t be bottled and there is no pill.  By blood and by design… good genes and feel everything.

For those of you that are going to ask for photographic proof here it is. Ok, maybe there is something to what they say after all…

People are often shocked when I say that.  “None?  Not at all?” It is after all our job to learn from our mistakes and to do better next time.  I’d like to think I have done that.  Sure, sometimes I have been a slow learner and the mistakes have been repeated, but I do not regret them.  “No” I reply, “Not any”, and here’s the reason why…  I like who I am.  If I had done things differently, or made different choices I wouldn’t be the person I am today.

I cannot change where I have come from, nor the factors and choices, both good and bad, that have influenced my life, but I can decide how they will affect me and the person I become from those experiences.   Why would I regret the very things that have made me who I am?  Regret does not change the past, it only hinders the future.  Should of… would of… could of…  These words, the very action of regret locks us in the past and prevents us from living in the present or moving forward, and there is so very much for us to be grateful for now, as well as much more to look forward to.

So what do I like?  Checking my ego at the door and speaking plainly, there are many things.

I am loving and understanding, loyal and dedicated, kind and generous.  I wear my heart on my sleeve and am an incurable romantic.  I give of myself freely and am compassionate but don’t tolerate fools or those wilfully causing pain to others.  I have the courage of my convictions and fight for what I believe in.  I listen and my door is always open to those in need whether it’s as a cheerleader or a shoulder to cry on.  

I am an optimistic realist (a rare breed) and believe in silver linings.  I believe the universe is on my side, even when it has a funny way of showing it.  I know things and I feel things that others don’t.  I can read people - most of the time.  I give great advice - most of the time.  I can cook and sometimes do. I am open to feeling and experiencing the world, even knowing that it can and will sometimes cause pain.   I believe in leaving the world a better place than what I found it, even if it’s in the smallest of ways.

I like my body and the bumps, scars and wrinkles that inhabit it.  I like my freckles and the grey streaks in my hair (most of the time).  I like my eyes, even though they give way too much away.  I like that I laugh and smile a lot and I like the dimples that come out when I do.  I like that I can find something to smile about, even in difficult times (well most of the time).  I like that pain and suffering make me stronger not tougher or harder.  I like that I spread joy.  

There’s more, but I’ll stop, this is not about being a braggart but rather a soliloquy on my gratitude for all that I have become.  It has taken a long time to to get to the point where I like who I am and it feels good.  That’s not to say I am perfect, far from it, as those nearest and dearest will attest. As I have said previously I am still a work in progress.  There are many kinks I still need to work out, and traits that need tweaking, but I am aware of them, have been for some time, this has been a long, slow and often painful journey of self discovery.  I continue to work on those other traits and will write about them at some point in the future I’m sure.  But for now, it’s so gratifying to be at a time and place where I like me, no regrets.

The tears started and I tried to hold them back, as I had so many times before, but I couldn’t any more, and despite my fears of being judged, of alienating her, of being seen as weak, she understood.  There were no useless platitudes, no judgement, just a sharing of a pain and a sadness that shouldn’t be borne alone. 

It was a brief discussion, no more than twenty minutes, but that’s all that was needed.  It doesn’t lighten the load, nor stop the mind from whirring, but it helps to be heard and understood, it helps to know you are loved in your darkest moments, and isn’t that what we all want?  To be loved  To be understood and accepted for who we are, faults and all?  To be told that we are not alone?  To be reminded that what we often see as weakness is actually part of our strength?

So the tears stopped hours ago and I still feel their sting, but I do know this, come what may, we are not as alone as we believe ourselves to be.

I have started this piece 27 times.  Too many conflicting ideas, too many thoughts, too many distractions and interruptions.  Ok, 27 may be a SLIGHT exaggeration but you get the idea.  Could be all the coffee in the last two days but hey, late night chats with the kids and early morning airport runs have their price.

The reality is I am having trouble getting my thoughts out because I’m not here.  I’m not claiming to be a disembodied spirit (Casper & Wendy, your jobs are safe) but I am not present.  At a time in my life when I am cementing who I am and what I want, I oddly find myself not where I should be.  I am displaced and it’s causing no end of restlessness.

I am not being mindful, in the modern parlance.  I know all the things I should be doing to help me focus.  I know all the things I should be avoiding to stop the drifting thoughts.  But I can’t, not right now, I’m busy.  Not in a I’ve got too much on kind of way, I mean I do, I always have, but I’ve always managed to be present regardless of the busyness, maybe even because of it as a means of getting by.  I am instead busy with the thoughts that fill my brain.  They traverse it like a tornado, taking out everything it their path and constantly returning, I feel like a boxer, punch drunk and coming back for round two (three, four…) because reasoning them out the first few times clearly didn’t work.

It’s not because of the “noise” that surrounds me, the visual and aural distractions are neither stimulating, nor entertaining.  They are, if I’m to be honest, rather grating right now.  Things that I would normally find engaging are more an annoyance.  I find myself craving silence and peace,  and it’s a strange craving for me. Those who’ve met me may find this puzzling, fear not my friends, you’re not alone in your bewilderment.

It’s not answers I seek in the silence, it’s not clarity, it’s not even understanding.  Just stillness.  A quiet of the mind.  We all face times when it’s just too much.  When the pace of life runs roughshod over us.  When we are unable to change the situations in which we find ourselves.    When we are unable to effect change where it is so desperately needed. When we find ourselves out of step with the world. When we just need the noise to stop and the thoughts to cease their whirring. 

That peace can be difficult to attain and unless you’ve committed to enlightenment, nigh on impossible to maintain.  You can find it serendipitously, in quiet moments, or in creativity or love. You can find it deliberately, through medication or meditation or mindfulness.  You can find it through living more intentionally and authentically.  But it does not last, and let’s face it, we wouldn’t value it if it did.  We need the rain to appreciate the sun.

So I seek it now, in this busy time, and I accept it where I can find it.  I’d like to say that waking in the middle of the night brings it, that I find it accompanied by the chill of a winter’s night and the stillness of a world that sleeps, but that would would be a lie.  The silence in the middle of the night can be a deafening roar and then my friends, we’re back to square one.  But I do find it in small moments.  I find it in a deep breath when that’s all I can muster, in the wind blowing through the trees, in the wonder as you gaze out over an incredible view that for a moment is all your own, in the gathering storm clouds, in the laughter you share with friends and family, in the love that they dispense so freely, and when I’m really lucky, I find it in the memory of quieter times.

Whatever guise you find it in, I wish you peace.

There are some people that make you feel like you are home.  Regardless of distance, or time since you were last together, or even how long it’s been since you’ve talked.  Home, you see, is not a house, it’s not a building, nor the scent as you walk in the door.  It’s not even familiar sounds.  Home is the way the people that love us make us feel.  Some people, are just… home.  

Wether its family or friends, if we’re lucky we find the people (or have them thrust upon us at birth) that will always take us there.  They keep the home fires burning whilst we are away, wether its 14km or 14,000km.  

It’s been 2 months since I last saw my parents.  It was the Sunday before I flew to Utah and between jet lag and weeks of interstate work trips, it just hasn’t worked out to see them sooner.  Don’t get me wrong, there have been plenty of phone calls, video chats and text messages, but I was in the US for my birthday and Mother’s Day and interstate for Mum’s birthday.  Despite my absence the love still flowed.  It was palpable, even from a distance.

So, Sunday was put aside to visit my very patient and long suffering parents.  There was much catching up to do and much food to be eaten, after all a visit to Mum and Dad’s isn’t a visit without food.  We drove the 45 minutes to the farm and as we pulled into the driveway we immediately noticed smoke billowing on the right.  I watched as flames rose whilst we continued towards the house and was greeted by the sound of 2 crackling fires as I left the car.  Now that winter was here it was time to clear the farm and burn the offcuts from the previous year.  Yet somehow it was like they had set these fires just for me, as if to welcome me back.  No, we don’t have some fire burning welcome ritual in my family, but these fires, they drew me in.

We wandered inside and were greeted with many hugs and huge smiles.  All hands on deck to prepare lunch and set the table. followed by much conversation and many stories being exchanged.  It was an unusual visit, Mum & Dad’s place is normally filled with family ranging across more than 70 years, but today, there was a serenity about the visit that whilst irregular, suited the day perfectly and matched my mood to a tee.  Time moved slowly, mayhaps because it was a long weekend, mayhaps because there was no pressure to rush to the next location.  

Wanders around the garden lead to lighting two more fires, yes, all the correct precautions had been taken and the fire brigade had been notified.  Two more piles of branches and boughs, of clippings and cuttings.  They lit easily, being old piles that had dried over many months, and the flames burnt hot.  We could feel the heat from meters away, not that that stopped me from moving closer to add more leaves or dried grass.  It was unbearably hot (think instant tan) and yes I burnt myself grabbing some twigs from the edge of one of the piles.  I just can’t help myself, I must have been burnt at the stake as a witch in a previous life. Thank goodness for Aloe Vera plants I say.  I just didn’t see the embers glow as I reached down, and that’s the thing, the embers burn unseen in the ash.  They can burn for days and weeks unnoticed.  

Those embers that we can’t see or feel, those embers that burn long and deep keep us going during the tough times and during the absences.  They stay aglow, untended, whilst we go about our lives, until we can return to those we love, until we can return home.  We reload the kindling and wood and watch the flames rise higher.  The waves of warmth embrace us as and the sound of the crackling timbers fills our ears.  The scent washes over us, clinging as only smoke can, until we can no we can no longer detect it.  And then, when it’s time to depart, we are cloaked in it and we take a little piece of home with us.  

I remain ever grateful that there are people keeping the home fires burning for me and for whom I will always tend the embers and stoke the fires, regardless of time and distance. In the word’s of Billy Joel :
“If I travel all my life
And I never get stop and settle down
Long as I have you by my side
There's a roof above and good walls all around
You're my castle, you're my cabin
And my instant pleasure dome
I need you in my house
'Cause you're my home
You're my home”

It’s a closeness of conversations that can last for hours and meander from the mundane through to the ludicrous.   Discussions that are filled with laughter and tears and comfortable silences of contemplation or understanding.  There is an openness that you share that no subject, no matter how personal, or incendiary, or seemingly dull is off limits, that sharing of things you wouldn’t normally share with the world… present company excepted of course.

When someone understands you, how your mind works, that intimacy turns conversations into a dance.  Two partners entwined, caught up in the musicality and movement of your talk, responding to each others moves and taking turns following each others lead.  You know, that kind of intimacy. 

Conversations where the silences sit comfortably between you, embracing you like a warm blanket on a cold night as you watch the lights in the distance or the dying light if the sunset over the horizon.  Silences that make you smile and think everything is alright with the world.  Silences that for no reason end in a small smile that grows into raucous laughter.  Silences where you feel each others pain and rest a little easier knowing it’s OK.

That kind of intimacy, that kind of understanding of each other, and knowing that you are understood and accepted and cherished because of who you are.  That’s the kind of intimacy that we should all find.  We should all be that lucky.  So, come on… let’s talk...

Even something as simple as organising a catch up with those we care abut can be a logistical nightmare.   I’ve got something on that night, or I’ll be at “x” that day.  It used to be a week or two before you could get together, now it seems we are planning things months in advance and even then they fall through because of unforeseen circumstances or obligations or the inevitable crash.  I confess, I’ve been guilty of cancelling because I’ve packed too much in and desperately need some quiet time.  Sadly, it’s those closest to us that often end up with the cancellation because they “get us” and they’ll understand.  Or in the worst case, we cancel on ourselves, dropping the things that are important to us, the things that excite us or bring us balance.  We are so busy doing and ticking boxes, meeting other peoples expectations and demands, no matter how trivial, that we forget to just be. We forget to actually LIVE.

So here I am, about to turn 48, having had a very busy and stressful 2 years full of upheaval, setting a new course into unchartered waters.  I’ve been leaning towards it for a few years now but felt guilty about taking that leap, caught in thoughts of how it would impact those around me, thoughts of how selfish I was being, thoughts of letting everyone down.  But there comes a point in your live when you can’t just drift through anymore.  

And so, I have decided to live my life, not just go through the motions, but actually live… consciously… meaningfully… intentionally… deliberately…

Yes I have made steps towards this over the last few years, but now, I am looking at wholesale change.  Will it be uncomfortable?  Hell yes!  Will I question my choices?  Sometimes yes, but I will not make them flippantly so I am prepared to live with their consequences.  Will I have to let go to some of the things I’ve accumulated and clutched onto over a lifetime? Definitely, but they are only things, and they only have as much meaning as I give them.  And that small voice, the one that has been sitting so quietly, waiting for the silence, that voice that whispers at night when the world sleeps… 

What about the people?  

Well, they will still be there, the ones that matter, the ones that hold a place in my heart, they will not disappear, the interactions may change and the schedules may alter, but they will be there.  Except… 

Except? it whispers quietly… 

Except the ones that don’t. There are some people, sadly, that bring us nothing but pain, to those I wave goodbye and wish them well on their journey.  A journey that I, unapologetically, will not be a part of.  I have my own path to travel and it will be filled with the amazing collection of family and friends that bring out the best in me.

So it’s going to be a long and winding path.  I will stop and smell the roses, hell, I’ll stop and plant the roses on occasion too.  There will be times when you will question why I am doing what I am doing, but understand, it is the right thing for me, and for those around me.  No, I am not going to live on an ashram (my Yiddish is terrible) and I am not running away to join the circus (I can’t even balance a bicycle properly) but I am being me.  That may horrify some people and send others into fits of laughter, but there are some out there, some that will quietly (or not so quietly) cheer, they will wish me well on my journey and join me from time to time along the road. 

So here’s to a deliberate life, one filled with love and laughter, with helping others, with making the world a better place.  A life filled with wonder and with the quiet moments that matter.  A life worth living.  Come walk with me.

It struck me when we climbed to the top of a rocky outcrop that I was on the edge of Australia.  Don't get me wrong, I have been to the edge many times, on many beaches both bay and oceanic, but this was different.  This was no contrived meeting between civilisation and nature.  It was wild and untamed.  It was Australia as it was originally, this was my country (or at least this part of it) in it’s natural state and it was mesmerising.  

Not the cold, the rain, the wind, nor the lack of winter clothing could stop us.  We climbed, squeezing between bushes, seeking secure footings and gasping at the beauty of the scene in which we found ourselves.  Behind us the forests and mountains raced back as far as the eye could see and before us the ocean whipped up by the wind sent wave upon wave crashing against the the rocks on which we stood.  The pristine beaches behind us in the bays, the flora and fauna, the rocks that had been standing guard and holding the shape of this land for millennia, the dramatic landscape was breathtaking.

So there I stood, on the edge of Australia, mesmerised.  Bass Strait lay before me, wild and windy, stormy and bitterly cold.  There I stood on the massive rocks, smoothed from centuries of rain and wind.  There I stood dressed only in a t-shirt and jeans in the freezing biting cold (the apparent temperature was 5.4 degrees celsius).  There I stood, sharp pains in my ears, tears streaming from eyes and unable to remain still in my continuous battle with winds that were gusting at 65k/ph.  There I stood, on the edge of Australia wrapped in natures thrall and wishing I could stay forever.

No social media except in the kitchen and the bedroom, No TV, not even newspapers (by choice).  Few people, and all of these voids were filled with space, so much space.  There were times when I sat and watched the light enter the room from the windows and splay across the wall, watched the shadows it cast, and allowed my mind to roam.  There were times I watched the sun dance across the park, watching the grass grow greener as the last remnants of snow melted before my eyes.  I would get lost standing on the terraced garden at the front of the Chateau facing Chateau Verdun and Aston, feeling the wind as it raced through the valley and blew against my face, accepting the challenge of trying to breath it all in as it hit me.

It was in fact two weeks of meditation.  Being able to switch off and get lost in the moment.  I often do this at home, staring out to the garden watching the birds pecking for worms, or the way the leaves blow in the wind, or just being lost in the contrasting colours, the varying shades of green, the black/brown fence, the herb garden against the window.  It wasn’t until just now that I realised thats what it was.  I always felt a little guilty about it - like I was zoning out, but it has just occurred to me that this is my meditation.  Sometimes, when I’m walking in the city I will just watch, not in a voyeuristic way, just watching life occur around me and being lost in the moment.  I’ve missed some of my best photos this way, but have gained so much more by being deep in the moment.

So, two weeks of meditation, two weeks of not thinking (well except for a few days of work and travels) two weeks of bliss.  What did I learn during this two weeks?  I learned about the smell of the wind as it travels up the valley, I learned to love the bite of the wind as it hit my face.  I learned about the beauty of the moss growing on the north side of the trees and the stone of the chateau. I have always been a fan of moss.  I was reacquainted with it’s softness and vibrance and the delight of walking on patches of it, the cushioning of which can only be compared to that of a cloud.  I learned the sounds of the river Aston, as the levels increased with the melting snow.  

There are many more examples, but the lesson, the switching off and watching the world pass by, the being lost in the intensity of life without the busyness and connectedness of modern day living.  That will be my great takeaway from my time at the Chateau.  Watching the passing of time.  That and the amazing people of Les Cabannes, Chateau Verdun and Aston, but that’s a story for another time.

Because of flight times it was inevitable that I overnighted in Paris, and by Paris I mean the grand tour of Charles De Gaulle.  First to recap.  A final Vin Chaud (mulled wine) in Les Cabbanes before I left, not enough fluids during the day, a large (for me) quantity of champagne on the flight to Heathrow along with a vegan meal (read no absorbing animal fats), an emotional yet very contained flight followed by a remarkable recovery.  The flight from Heathrow to Paris saw me feeling nauseas so I hydrated like the desert absorbing rain.  Felt much better after that.

Now, just to be clear, when I travel I am super organised.  I mean I can tell you which way I need to turn out of the airport to get to the next location, how long the trip should take and what you will see along the way.  This time not so much.  ‘Twould appear that Chateau life has gone to my head. Flew into Paris and ran the gauntlet of taxi drivers touting for business.  Lost count after 23 asking me if I needed a taxi and trying to direct me to their cabs.  The trick is to not stop, so power through I did.  Went to the hotel bus stop where I met a British couple from Perth returning home after a European tour.  Got to chatting.  Took the bus to the next location to catch the next bus.  Asked the drivers on both busses if we were on the right bus.  The replied yes.  The ride on the busses took forever, or maybe it just seemed like it after a long day of travelling.  No, no, it was an hour all up.

Second bus driver finishes and another driver gets on, we were now heading well out of the airport precinct which was a little concerning.  At the next stop I checked with the new driver who informed me I should of gotten off at the first stop.  OK, so I just stay on this bus to get to back there.  No, the bus was going back to the depot.  I would have to get off and wait for the next one.  No problem I can do that.  Everyone gets off at the last stop including the couple from Perth who spoke no French but were happy to be at there hotel and I was about to alight when the driver calls to me and tells me he would drive me back to the hotel.  Considering it was 10.30pm and I’m sure he wanted to get home, it was greatly appreciated.  We drive back, me in my personal limo-bus, just a little happy at getting to bed.  

After much profuse thanks in 2 languages (he spoke English too), I walked to my hotel.  Proceeded to the check in desk only played the what’s your name game?  Ascot? Asco? Taso?  I handed the gentlemen my passport only to be told there was no reservation in that name.  My good humour was slipping somewhat at this point.  I showed him the email and he entered the reservation number, took 5 goes to get it right.  I booked my hotel room on Sunday, amazed at the cheap price I booked it for. No, this isn’t going where you thought it is, turns out I had booked it for the 19th, for 2 people, foreshadowing another trip perhaps?  The poor man behind the desk could feel the exhaustion oozing from me and advised he could change the booking to that night but that it would cost extra as the rate was higher.  Not a problem, I just wanted to sleep.  Turns out I still got a discount off the rack rate - thank you, turns out membership does have it’s privileges.  Laughs all round and I was off to my room 11.30pmnot bad.

So, it turns out after living in low temperatures, where the hottest your room ever got was 11 degrees, but it usually sat at 8-9 doesn’t prepare you for hotel rooms.  I set the thermostat to the lowest possible which was 16 degrees, it was pleasant enough when I walked in, but I could not sleep, not a wink.  I couldn’t keep my eyes open, yet sleep still alluded me.  Not even BBC world news could send me off.  I had to turn the TV off as my eyes were hurting like all hell.  So I spent a hot night in cold Paris tossing and turning.  At 5am I gave up watched some news and started getting my bags organised.

Jumped into the shower and oh my lord! 35 minutes of hot water later (my apologies to the environment, but I am reliably told that water is not an issue in France) I was human again.  Well I didn’t sleep so I had to get something out of this.  Finish packing my bags and I head to the shuttle train conveniently located under the hotel, the arrive every 4 minutes and it takes 10 minutes to get to the terminal…

Have you ever stood at the entry to a shuttle train station and just given it a “you’re shitting me, right?” kind of look.  Me and that station, we eyeballed each other a good long while before I entered to catch the train.  Ah well, it was a quick and efficient trip.  A good way to start the next leg of the journey.  I did have a bit of a chuckle.  Even without seeing Paris, this was still an adventure.

Note to self - don't make travel arrangements when you haven't slept properly due to 100km/hour winds blowing your windows open.  It 's bad enough in a normal house but having to check a 94 room castle in case any others are open twice due to ongoing gusts each night for two nights leaves you a little less than functional.  Ah well, it’s the kinks in our journeys that make them memorable.

In Singapore now after a 12 hour flight and sitting in the outdoor area absorbing sunlight - it’s amazing how little daylight you see when you are travelling, airports always strike me as closed in, no matter how big or glamorous they are.  The lack of daylight gets to you when you are travelling across the world and you don't realise how much until you see sun again.  Seeing as I ‘m landing back home late at night, it felt like a good idea to get a little sun now. On to the showers then a brief wait until I board again.  See you all back in Melbourne!

Scene:    Airport Toulouse, Carmelina sits and waits for BA checkin to open.

40 minutes of waiting for the check in to open.  I snapped a couple of photos but will post them later.  An anxious man approaches me and lets forth a rapid stream in French.  I advise him I speak very little French and ask if he speaks English, He says yes but don’t worry.  I told him it’s ok and asked him to continue.  “Do you have an unaccompanied child on this flight too?”  I was surrounded by my luggage which I was yet to check in. No, I explained, but I’m sure they will be take good care of them, I am sure they will be fine.  “Thank you”  he murmured as he walked away, returning to his seat to watch his child take off.  There is nothing you can do as a parent once you have escorted you children into the airlines care.  Watching the plane, as futile as it is - your children can't see you looking from the plane through the terminal windows - offers a small amount of connection and comfort.  I sat there watching him watch the plane.  We sat there for a good long while, me feeling for him and he feeling anxious for his child.  He was still there after I checked in and departed.

Airport security when you are a well endowed female can be troublesome.  For the 3rd time on this trip my serious hold undergarment set the alarms a ringing and for the the second time I received a FREE FULL body massage, talk about service.  They reached places that haven’t seen the public eye, well… ever.  It is comforting to know that French security take it seriously though.  The guy training the girl that was patting me down was a little unsure she had done a thorough job and asked the lady swabbing my carry on wether my bra could set off the alarm.  She asked if she could feel.  Why not?  The trainee had certainly copped a handful.  The lady reached for my underwire and gave it a sold grasp before confirming that yes, it was indeed a solid piece of undergarment engineering and that yes that would be what set the alarm off.

I don’t know if it was as consolation or a prize for being woman handled in front of an airport full of strangers, but, I must confess I stole 2 small packets of dried fruit from the lounge in direct violation of the signs that said the food in the lounge must be consumed in the lounge.  I am hanging my head in shame.  This is not rebellion, this is greed.  Those figs were damned good.  I am not proud of this, I am also not proud of the fact that I posted before I left, getting to the gate after passport control at the last minute.  Thankfully someone else entered the plane 3 minutes after me and I was in 2 A so didn’t disrupt anyone getting into my seat.

And so I find myself sitting on a BA flight from Toulouse to Heathrow, the sun streaming through the window so hot that I feel myself burning under its gaze, it’s almost like I am sitting in the car in 40 degrees watching my arm tan and darken as I ride.  I have never felt this heat whilst flying before.  Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines… How did Shakespeare know? 

I have put my sunglasses on, not to stop the glare but rather to cover the tears that are streaming down my eyes.  I don’t know if it’s the champagne that I had with my meal, or the music my phone is shuffling for me.  I don’t think it’s leaving the Chateau, I’ve never felt this emotional when leaving a place before, I am convinced it is something else.  I am not sure what yet.  But there is a sadness welling in me that I am unable to stop at the moment.  I am doing my best to prevent those around me from knowing that i am an emotional mess but Who wears sunglasses on a flight?  I mean properly, not on your head but over your eyes?  Druggies and the the emotionally unstable that’’s who. 

I have had to remove my glasses as they have fogged up and it is impossible to type with them on.  Jo - the wonderful Purser who has been so attentive all flight has just brought me a mountain of tissues and offered to sit with me which I declined.  Poor thing - that’s not in her job description and I can’t tell her why I am crying.   The strains of Sight by London Grammar are filling my ears and telling me to keep it together which I am trying to do.  Two steps forward one step backward right?

I know I am going to feel like a nong when I read this back, which is why I don’t edit my blog posts.  They are the raw thoughts I have.  The Ship Song by Nick Cave next,  more writing followed by San Jose (the Frankie Goes to Hollywood version), Jo wanders past to do a final waste collection and asks if I’m OK.  Yes, I think I am.  Looks like we’ve made it through, I think we’re good - she says confidently whilst teetering on the edge.  At least I’m smiling again. A quick trip to the bathroom and Jo asks if I’m OK - yes, I am, She says she wants to give me a hug which makes me feel all AWWWWW, you know?  Quick tip - don’t look in the mirror on a plane when you’ve been crying, I looked like shit, no really, this is not an exaggeration.  Quick splash of cold water, fluff the hair out to cover the less than perfect visage and we are good to go.  It’s the champagne, the champagne and this damned over heating of everything!

We land - my phone is still on French time and I am panicking that I have 20 minutes before boarding closes.  Why would they book me on flights so close together?  Has the airline industry gone mad?  NY winter coat on, I am sweating, backs packed and belt off a tad early - why do you make a dinging noise to tell us to keep our belts on?  Half the plane takes that noise as it’s OK to unstrap.  I rush off the plane, 7 steps in I realise, London is an hour behind.  Well done Carmelina, you knew this, clearly the champagne is still winning.

Another near miss at Heathrow on the bra front - thank goodness for those full body scanners!  If I had another pat down today, I’d have to look at changing professions.  Journalism, to write about the injustice to the over endowed.  Get your mind out of the gutter you cheeky devils!!

Quick tip - when you have eaten 2 packets of semi-dried figs, had lentils for late lunch and have drank pear and peach juice, along with 2 cans of coke (that and chips - now you know my weaknesses), don’t be a hero, don't go through passport control and security again and wait until you put your bags down at the far end of the lounge to use the facilities.  Just don’t do it. Trust me on this one.  

Have to go and board for Paris and I’m guessing go through passport control again even though I have not entered another country.  Ahh the joys of non-direct flights.

This will all make sense soon.  I am totally blaming the bottle of champagne (mini - don’t judge me) #champagnedereims at altitude with heat does strange things to you.