March 27, 2017 § 2 Comments
Without leaps of imagination or dreaming, we lose the excitement of possibilities. Dreaming, after all is a form of planning. Gloria Steinem
How do I start. 1 year, 9 months and 3 continents have gone by since I was last here. After many false starts and false promises I find myself cross legged on the couch in my Melbourne suburb home and ready to share a story. The windows are open and autumn is rolling in across the busy streets right up to our front door. And by god does it feel good! Not only to be here again, but to feel a sense of coming home – settled.
It recently dawned on me that it is exactly 3 years ago to this day that I made the decision to leave Australia in search of a dream.
I was living in Darwin and had gone to Bali to do a yoga teacher training course. Some whimsical desire to get away from it all and move from my head and into my heart. I never had the intention of becoming a yoga teacher, I just wanted to go away for a month, do lots of yoga and explore my mind – that inner world – sweep it out, open the windows, give it a good air and take the duster to it.
One morning, in a little seaside village of Bali, I found myself in a cafe where you could sit on top of the rice fields, eat organic eggs and watch the golden light rise over the sound of the roosters. Dark clouds were brewing in the east and my heart was dancing. I realised what kind of a negative state of mind I had been in in Darwin. I was reeling from a recent break up and stressed and anxious in my job. The weight of it only seemed to dawn on my once I saw again how things could be good.
With the morning sun on my face, my mind drifted to the previous day when I had stopped to watch an old man painting the gate at the guest house where I was staying. It wasn’t a huge gate by any standards, but it had taken him two whole days to complete. He sat there in such concentration, with steady slow even brush strokes, totally absorbed in his task. The man who painted the gate became my inspiration, my guru, I decided I wanted to be more like him – to be more present, to be more absorbed and joyous in each task, to love each daily ritual.
Because it is my nature to up and leave when inspiration hits and this was no exception to the norm, I started dreaming of my escape. I would quit my job back in Darwin and become… well I didn’t know what… maybe a yoga teacher?
The idea I had planted must have taken hold. Within that very same week one of my fellow students approached me with an offer to teach yoga in her women’s surf school on the west coast of France!
It didn’t take me long to come back to her with a loud and resounding YES!
You see, I had always wanted to learn another language. Not just to get by with a few words but to really know another language. For about a year I had been taking evening French classes with the idea that I would one day move to France and make this dream a reality. How elegantly life seemed to weave itself into place.
I decided I would take a year off, move to France, teach Yoga in the surf school and enlist myself into French classes. I would devote a whole year to learning French!
Little did I know that no more than 6 months later, life would continue on its mysterious path and in some intertwined and serendipitous twist of fate, I would meet and fall in love with a French painter. His name was Jon. When Jon was young he had a map of the world on his desk. In the bottom right hand corner was Australia. For any reason he spent a great deal of time when he should have otherwise been doing his homework looking at it. His eyes would drift through Europe to Africa, South East Asia and come to rest on that island continent straddling the Pacific and the Indian Oceans. He would wonder what the seemingly empty country draped by sea was like. Ever since, he dreamed of visiting one day.
By the time we met I had forgotten about the old man in Bali but in those early days Jon would tell me how he loved the work he did. How painting was a kind of meditation for him where his mind was set free through the labour of his tasks. I respect him deeply for this. In his beautiful and broken English he would say. “I love doing hand jobs”. I would try to hide my smile. I never did want to correct him when his English was muddled, because as well as being sometimes hilarious and enormously cute, it offered a peek into the structure of the language I was trying to learn.
It wasn’t until recently that I remembered the old man who painted the gate and I realised the poetry of it all. Pay attention to your dreams. Dreaming after all is a form of planning.
March 1, 2014 § 3 Comments
Morning wakes sleepy and drug like. I dream’t about a house the plan was something like another. I had made a garden out the front and it resembled the one here. The dream slips like sand through my waking morning mind and away. A heavy stumble to the kettle and a slow and steady gaze out the open window. The couch is near enough to tempt me back into a horizontal position but I resist. The kettle begins to boil and slowly ever so slowly bit by bit I begin to wake. This precious time, the early morning half dreaming half waking groggy bliss before the day creeps in and with it the anxieties of life. I want to cherish these moments more, pay closer attention, spend more time with them. That is the idea.
Toast gets pushed down then forgotten, then pushed down again, then burnt and forgotten, then finally remembered and eaten slightly black and cold with lukewarm tea that was also forgotten.
This will like any other day, come and then away and like the toast be forgotten. A day lost in a dreamy warmth with no memory to fall on, to live in. There is almost some regret in letting it pass so quietly. My thoughts flitter, they are transient, watched only by a half open and sleepy eye. I am aware that I am not defined by who I am now, I am fleeting and I am constantly and forever changing.
I am in a place that is not quiet yet home. Its slowly nestling its way into my heart but in the meantime I miss the longer shadows that I know will be creeping around down south. I miss those things that are crisp and clear – the breath in white puffs as it escapes off the tongue.
It is this early morning time as well as that exact same moment just before bed that I know is when I am most honest with my thoughts and the way they express themselves on paper. It is this honesty I want more of, to spend more time in. That space like a quiet and small peeping winter.
February 2, 2014 § 3 Comments
I love the Darwin light this time of year, bathed in deep grey clouds, colours become heavy and soaked. These photos were taken in the mornings blue hour after a night of pounding rain that left everything distinctly amphibious.
A new year has started, and in just one month Darwin and I will celebrate our first anniversary. I have a new job, the fourth since arriving here, and I have just moved house for the 17th time in the last 10 years. A little late, but happy new year to you all!
November 24, 2013 § 3 Comments
Three years ago to this day I started a blog, inspired by living and working as a cook at Friendly Beaches Lodge and, of all things, an article in a Jetstar inflight magazine about blogging. Before I read the article, I didn’t even know what a blog was (yes, mainly becuase I had been living under a rock in Tasmania). Whilst I don’t remember exactly what the article was about, I do remember that something in me stirred and at 25 000 feet above the Bass Strait en route to Melbourne I decided to start a blog. It would be a food blog, with stories and recipes and a focus on sustainable, local, seasonal, unplugged cooking. But, most importantly it would be a place to keep me creative, to force me into the kitchen and taking photos, a place to try to pull words from my thoughts and scrawl them on a blank screen. And so I wrote, “What better thing to do on a hot spring day than start a food blog…” 3 days later I was unexpectedly on a plane to Sierra Leone and my “food blog” was momentarily hijacked by travel stories.
Since then I have often enjoyed, occasionally hated, been frustrated, exhilarated, both ashamed and very proud of this place. I have tried very hard to be honest with myself and have had to learn to be brave, to throw words out to the world and that strangely intimidating public realm. But here I am with 3 years of stories from my wooden spoon and my favourite blue ceramic pot. I am so grateful to each of you who have read this blog. You who have put up with my terrible spelling and my often flippant nature in the kitchen, thank you so much. It humbles me no end to think that I may sometimes write something that someone wants to read and cook something that someone wants to cook.
A small cause for celebration, here are some of the recipes from the last three years that I love the most.
September 15, 2013 § Leave a comment
July 8, 2013 § Leave a comment
A weekend away out bush has left me longing for more time in wild places. To lay under the stars, my back wrapped against the curve of the earth, feeling the fragile wieght of it beneath me. Hollow, like the shell of an egg holding me up. Weightless. The vastness of the stars above refected in the vastness of the molecuelar detail of the earth below. These two reflections at once extraordinary, large, elegant, detailed and paradoxically humbling and simple. The sun rises and sets, the earth continues its orbit, the moon spins, the sky turns. The water falls across the rocks, the leaves under foot crackle as they dry in the heat, the earth breathes in and out, my breath rolls along with it.