She described the feeling as being like a polar bear on a small island of ice, everything melting away around her. There was no apparent panic, only the sense that everything she had held in high value was losing its colour, losing its grasp, losing its ability to dazzle.

The only unclaimed prizes in the treasure hunt of life which still stroked the strings of her heart, still retained soft hues of appealing colour, were the possibility of love and art; the infinite possibility of moving through this life, this passage, with another, and the necessity to create beauty so that the subtler truths, which are the important truths, not submerge in a mire of spreadsheets, appointments, public transport and marketing bombardment.

What a life it had been. The twenties were glamorous and harrowing; money, drugs,  entertainment, death and sex. The thirties were introspective, seizing on maps and doggedly travelling in the identified direction, only to melt down and resurrect financially, vocationally, more than a few times.

Now the forties. Left-over longings for children and family surface like old photographs packed away for some future purpose. Every intimate situation infused with the disappointment that the longing exists within, and may not be met without. The endless baggage dragged into relationships by suitors – children, divorce, separation, disappointment, resentment, financial decimation, homes stripped of their anchors, bitter ex wives, resentful ex husbands. And then the inflammatory trend on the dating websites of people claiming to have ‘no baggage’, or requiring prospects to also have ‘no baggage’.

When I bring this all right back to myself, I’m grateful for the ability to move one day at a time, and surprised that there is little panic in my seemingly intractable situation.

Last year in October I uprooted from my magnificent Melbourne life, packed up my eagle’s nest apartment with the spectacular city view next to the Botanic Gardens, and put my boxes of books and clothing into my friend’s S Kilda ceiling.   

Off to Africa I went, to set up my life there, to be close to my family and put in motion The Enterprise Powerhouse, a program to develop entrepreneurs in low socio-economic areas, which I’d been nurturing for a year.

I was welcomed back with warmth and interest: why would I come back here, to this place falling apart at the seams, the president taking his fifth wife, infrastructure collapsing under gross negligence and incompetence, corruption so rife that its become the norm. Why would I come back to the next African disaster?

Over and over again I said, “I just missed it. I missed my home, my country.” Every day, like an officer in the field I was out there, meeting, researching, running workshops, promoting, talking, talking, talking. Stuck in traffic, dodging potholes, feeding on Talk Radio 702, the most astute current affairs station available. 

Plugged in to the pounding, relentless energy of Jozi, gold mining, acid mine draingage, gansters’ paradise.  I loved the debate, the engagement in a new democracy, the ferocity of civil society in trying to hold leaders accountable, or people trying to hold onto what they've got. I love the connecting, the slow conversations, incredible art, ambition, humour, playfulness. I was drained by the absence of beauty in the urban landscape and the endless grey traffic jams.

I got The Enterprise Powerhouse to a respectable place, partnering with a social enterprise in Ivory Park and a high end corporate training facility in Woodmead, so secured a venue, some investment and community support. We pitched the idea to a multinational, but haven’t heard back from them. My feeling is they won’t invest, that the program is, perhaps, too bulky.

I came to Australia at the end of March as I had some contract work booked, and discovered I was completely burned out and in a career crisis. I felt incompetent, lacking skills and weary of humanity. I didn’t want to hear another person’s outpouring of complaint, grief or despair. Ironically, another project I’d been working addressed vicarious trauma and compassion fatigue. Whatever I put into the world is what I need, it seems.

Australia opened its big, wide dusty arms and took me in. First my magnificent women friends in Melbourne, and then my colleagues. We were educated in non-violent communication in our annual team training weekend, and it was there that I shared my distress about my career, and my fear about letting go of it. What emerged was that I long for some ease; a break from the hard work and bullish commitment that has me setting high expectations and loyally expending my energy in moving towards them. A life of ease. What a thought. What a very odd concept.

I started dreaming of a log cabin in Canada, in the Kootenays in BC, remote as you can get, with a dog and a fireplace. The hunger for big wide open spaces kicked in, huge nature with weather and beauty as it should be. Fortunately, I had some free time in the Byron Shire, on the north coast of New South Wales. So I went to the beach. A lot. I walked every day on Brunswick Beach, a pristine, long beach with bush to one side where I know snakes live, and ocean stretching east. In the sun, in the rain I walked into a squall and felt myself embraced by the wildness of nature, so grateful for it. Sea eagles glided above me, circling, sometimes in pairs, always a sign.

I’ve been back and forward to the shire a few times to teach the workshops and take time in nature. Last time a friend and I took a long drive to the Border Ranges National Park to pay our respects to some 2000 year old Arctic Beech Trees.  My time there is suffused with nature, and a different set of friends who all have rich spiritual lives, expressed many ways including music, massage, shamanic work, belly-dancing, food, gardens and luscious homes, creating beauty.

A couple of times I’ve had some good loving with male friends, and now, I am ready to deeply connect with my man. I won’t be having any more causal liaisons – it leaves me quite disappointed, and often feeling somewhat used, as the encounters are about intimacy and not creating relationship. I’m grateful to these men for helping me get to this place, finally, where I really value my love and intimate offering, and want to engage only with someone who is available, respectful and caring. Hmmmm...

 

Brunswick Beach

Border Ranges National Park

Majestic Arctic Beech Trees