Category Archives: A Balanced Life

Reminiscing

A Balanced Life, creativity, gratitude, , , , ,

Reminiscing is a curious thing.
A scent, a song, a scrap of paper tucked inside a book, and suddenly whole chapters of life come wandering back in. Some of these chapters are easily navigated, whilst others require a whole lot more attention. These may be filled with drama, heartbreak and lessons to learn. Lately I’ve found myself thinking about the many lives we seem to live within one lifetime.

The years teaching Japanese — chalk dust – yes, chalk dust. In a way I missed the way the colours could be blended, the light and heavy texture in writing Japanese characters. All that went as the curriculum leaned into laptop programs.

Hiragana, Katakana and Kanji charts. Some of which I am rediscovering as I unpack the multitude of boxes from the recent move. I thought that I had given away all my teaching materials and resources prior to the move. But here they are, popping up unexpectedly and triggering the reminiscing.

Memories of those delightful moments when a student suddenly got it. Language lessons were never really just about language. They were about curiosity, confidence, culture, and connection. We made year books, Japanese gardens and hopefully created an interest in Japan for young minds to explore. Long before “play-based learning” became fashionable jargon, there was the quiet understanding that children learn best when imagination is invited to the table. I presented to several conferences about creativity in language programs during my teaching career and if so inclined, you can read my  Conference Notes .

Another chapter was the deep dive into Steiner teacher training. Learning was painted, modelled, sung, and stitched. Tuesday evenings for four years, not an indulgence or a chore like traditional university-based courses. Where I created a pentatonic harp slowly carved out of a plank of Oregon wood, where I sang, where stories mattered. Seasons mattered. Wonder mattered. A place where creativity wasn’t an “extra” but the heartbeat of learning itself. This wonder still lingers today.

Looking back, it’s the people who colour the memories most vividly. Friends who arrived unexpectedly and stayed for decades. Friends who drifted gently out of orbit as life changed shape. And some who left far too soon – motorbike accidents or terminal illnesses. Leaving behind unfinished conversations, shared jokes that still echo, and moments that can still catch unexpectedly at the heart.

There’s a tenderness to reminiscing as we get older. Less urgency somehow. More gratitude. Not every chapter lasted forever. Not every plan unfolded neatly. But each season brought its own gifts, lessons, laughter and companions for the road.

And perhaps that’s the quiet magic of memory —
it reminds us that even fleeting connections leave lasting fingerprints on the soul.

Misplaced March

A Balanced Life, Easter, , ,

I seem to have misplaced March. One minute it was hovering there with good intentions and half-written lists, and the next—gone. No forwarding address. No polite note of explanation. Just a vague sense that I’d blinked, possibly sneezed, and missed an entire month. Mind you, I was still recovering from the last couple of months, so could be excused for not writing much.

Misplaced March is how we found ourselves retreating to the block for Easter, slightly bewildered but quietly relieved. There’s something deeply comforting about disappearing in a deliberate way—especially when the rest of the world appears to have done the same, thanks to a fuel crisis that kept many sensible people firmly at home.

The result? Silence. Glorious, uninterrupted, slightly eerie silence. No distant hum of traffic as wheels cope with the corrugations and no dust hanging in the air or wafting over the paddock. No weekend influx. Just the occasional breeze, the creak of settling timber, and the distinct feeling that we had accidentally booked the entire countryside for ourselves.

Not that we were entirely alone. We did have a couple of human visitors over the long weekend, but the wagtails, for instance, needed to check on us and had opinions.

They’ve been regular visitors, but this weekend they took on the role of neighbourhood inspectors—darting in with that purposeful strut, tails flicking like tiny metronomes of judgement. Every new item, every subtle shift in arrangement, was thoroughly investigated.

Moved a chair? Noted.
Left a mug outside? Questionable.
Dog sat still for too long? Suspicious.

They are, it turns out, both curious and deeply territorial. A fascinating combination. One in particular seemed convinced we were long-term guests who needed firm but fair supervision.

There is something reassuring about their vigilance and their chatter. While I may have misplaced March entirely, the wagtails clearly haven’t lost track of anything. So I have decided to rename the small building “Wagtail Cottage”.

Time here has a different texture. It stretches and softens. Days are marked less by clocks  and more by light shifting across the ground, by cups of tea, and by the slow realisation that not much has happened. And that this is, in fact, the point. I’ve also decided to stop calling it “the block” and use the term “the retreat” going forward.

The fuel crisis may have kept others away, but it gifted us a rare kind of Easter: one without the usual background noise of doing. Saturday saw the trip into town for the Easter Parade in the main street and the market. Crowds, noise, new smells for the dog and a desire  to return to the peace and quiet.

Instead at the retreat there was watching.

Listening.

Noticing.

The (almost) full moon rising and viewed through a moon gate.

Clear night skies with stars sparkling. And being gently reminded—by a small, determined bird—that even when time slips through your fingers, life continues to unfold in the most attentive, present way imaginable.

I may have missed March, but nothing else is missing at the moment.

Shedding skins

A Balanced Life, crossroads, , , ,
Shedding Skins and Waiting for the Fire Horse

As the Year of the Snake slithers quietly offstage, I find myself emerging from my first-ever bout of COVID feeling very much like I’ve been left on a warm rock to dry out — peeled, tender, and oddly shiny. If the Snake is about shedding skins, then I appear to have taken that instruction very literally. feeling like I’ve taken the zodiac memo very seriously.

Shedding skin? Check.

Plans dissolved? Also check.

Slightly bewildered but oddly reflective? Absolutely.

It’s no wonder that I’m looking forward to welcoming the Year of the Fire Horse (火馬) in mid February. For those unfamiliar with the Fire Horse’s reputation: it’s bold, impulsive, energetic, and not exactly known for waiting patiently while others catch up. Which I find mildly amusing, given that most of my carefully imagined “new year, new momentum” plans are currently on hold, stacked neatly next to a pile of unopened boxes and a conspicuous absence of sufficient bookcases.

Plans ? : Pending Further Lunar Advice

Self care MandalaRather than forcing forward motion while my energy is still re-calibrating, I’ve decided to take a more celestial approach. All my previous plans are provisionally shelved (mentally — not physically, obviously) until the full moon, when they will be reviewed, revised, or ceremoniously discarded.

This feels sensible. Also slightly theatrical.

If you’re going to pause your life, you may as well do it with lunar oversight. And of course the following New Moon is the start of the Lunar New Year, so perfect for new intentions and new starts!

In the meantime, I consulted the Tarot for guidance on this strange in-between phase — part recovery, part chrysalis, part hermit, part spiritual waiting room.

The cards for this healing limbo produced the Page of Cups, The Hierophant, and Seven of Pentacles. Translation: be gentle, return to what you know, and stop poking the soil to see if anything’s growing. Apparently, patience is still a lesson.

Message received. Loudly. Repeatedly.

The Great Bookcase Stalemate

Unpacking, meanwhile, has hit a natural bottleneck. I have boxes of books. I do not have lots of bookcases. It was pointed out to me (somewhat unhelpfully) that the move was because we are downsizing. This has created a kind of philosophical impasse: until the shelves arrive, knowledge itself remains in limbo.

Yet, in rummaging through boxes, I’ve found myself inexplicably drawn back to my old Japanese textbooks. Possibly inspired by the knowledge that a grandson is about to start learning Japanese at the high school I did my very first teaching round at. Out they came, slightly foxed, faintly nostalgic, still politely demanding effort.

So now, instead of aggressively organizing my life, I’m reacquainting myself with kanji — tracing characters, marveling at how some things remain lodged in the body even when the conscious mind insists they’re long forgotten.

It feels very Snake-to-Horse appropriate: shedding the old skin, then rediscovering what was always there underneath.

Not Quite Galloping — And That’s Okay

If the Fire Horse is about momentum, courage, and leaping forward, then perhaps this early part of the year is about learning how to mount up again — slowly, with care, preferably without falling off in public.

Healing, after all, isn’t a dramatic sprint. It’s more like pottering around in slippers, consulting oracles, waiting for deliveries, and trusting that something is quietly knitting or in my case, crocheting itself back together.

So here I am: plans paused, skin shed, cards laid, kanji re-emerging, and the Fire Horse stamping patiently outside. It’s not the dramatic Fire Horse gallop I imagined — more a slow stretch, a deep breath, and a quiet rebuilding of strength. And perhaps that’s about building my resilience: not charging ahead at full speed, but knowing when to pause, tend the ground, and trust that growth is happening.

New Year, New Start

A Balanced Life, Art Therapy, , ,

New Year, New Start… Slightly Delayed

I had plans for the new year. Lovely ones. Fresh-start plans. Purposeful plans. The kind involving momentum, organisation, and possibly colour-coded bookshelves. Meeting new people and making new connections.

Instead, a week or so in, the year arrived sideways.

The second week was devoted to minding a German Short haired Pointer with a résumé that included previously poorly treated and emotionally complex. She arrived highly strung, deeply suspicious of sudden noises, and vibrating at a frequency only dogs and nervous systems can hear. We offered her what we could while her people holidayed overseas: quiet corners, gentle routines, and a generous supply of Reiki. Somewhere between day three and four, she exhaled. We followed suit.

Unpacking, meanwhile, has stalled completely. Not due to lack of intention—there is plenty of intention—but due to a lack of bookshelves.

Books now live in boxes half opened, judging me silently. I tell them it’s temporary. They don’t believe me.

Adding to the ambience, a particularly tenacious strain of Covid settled into the household and made itself at home. Social plans were swiftly cancelled, replaced by isolation in the outer suburbs of a country town where nobody knows us yet although I’m making friends with a vocal Wagtail and a flock of Starlings that come to bathe in the birdbath now the GSP has returned to her home.  A very quiet new beginning. Monastic, even—if monasteries relied on food delivery apps.

The shopping arrived via Uber drivers who seemed personally offended by our location, our order, and possibly our existence. I felt it prudent not to mention the illness and kept my distance. The deliveries were accepted with gratitude and the vague sense of having inconvenienced someone by needing to eat.

Still, creativity found a way. I completed a New Moon page for my Art Therapy diary—because if you can’t manifest forward motion, you can at least document the pause. I also began a crochet blanket in various shades of grey, chosen to perfectly reflect my current mental health palette. It’s surprisingly soothing. Either that or I’ve simply leaned in.

So here we are. The year has started, technically. The plans are waiting patiently (or tapping their feet). The visiting dog has gone home, our Labrador breathed a sigh of relief,  the books remain boxed, the blanket grows row by row, and the new beginning is happening—just much more quietly than expected.

Apparently, this is how it starts sometimes. Not with fireworks or resolutions, but with rest, recalibration, and a grumpy Uber driver dropping hints about tipping.

New year. Slightly postponed enthusiasm. And maybe that’s the lesson arriving in disguise. Resilience doesn’t always look like pushing forward or bouncing back with enthusiasm. Sometimes it looks like slowing right down, tending what’s frayed, and offering gentleness where force would only make things worse.

The Universe sends me that message with the frequent drawing of The Hermit Tarot card.

Healing, I’m learning (again), often begins in the quiet margins: in steady breath, in repetitive stitches, in making space for a nervous dog—or a nervous system—to feel safe enough to settle.

The plans will unfold when they’re ready. For now, this softer beginning to the new year is enough.

Farewell to the Feathered Friends (and a Lifetime of “Stuff”)

A Balanced Life, Abundance, ,

After twenty-three years in one house, I’ve discovered that stuff breeds quietly in cupboards when you’re not looking. Some of it’s mine, some inherited from my late parents, and some… well, I have no idea where it came from.

There are the “too good to use” things that have spent decades waiting for their grand debut — linens, crockery, candles — and are now destined for the op shop, still pristine and slightly offended. There are sentimental items that tug gently at the heart, and others that make me wonder why on earth I ever kept them. I like to think of this as a “pre-emptive death clean.” It’s a kindness for the kids — I’m clearing out the clutter without actually dying. A generous gesture, don’t you think?

Packing up has its moments of nostalgia, but it’s the thought of the farewells to my feathered friends that bring the real lump to the throat.

On the eastern side of the house live the big personalities — Mr and Mrs Magpie, who proudly introduced their babies every spring before leaving them on my deck like daycare drop-offs in the days before we adopted the dog.

Then there are the raucous Currawongs, cheeky Cockatoos, Magpie Larks, and the occasional Butcherbird or King Parrot and more recently a pair of nesting Crows. The Indian and Noisy Mynahs, of course, never miss a chance to check for leftovers — self-appointed quality control. This year we had another unexpected visitor – a Pacific Duck – who decided to have an extended sojourn on the deck one afternoon. The only bird that Lucy the Labrador has showed any interest in!

The western side is a gentler crowd. The feathered friends that gather around the birdbath are Wattlebirds, Eastern Spinebills, Doves, Mr and Mrs Blackbird (who constantly rearrange the mulch in the garden) and my ever-curious Spotted Pardalotes — who like to tap on my window as if to remind me they’re the real landlords here. I had thought that the neighbour’s cat had wiped out their little colony, so it’s a delight to see them back again.

The birdbath itself is a scene of daily theatre: splashy enthusiasm, queue-jumping, feather-fluffing, and the final triumphant shake before take-off. Doesn’t matter if it’s the middle of winter — the show must go on.

As I sort, box, and donate, I’m realising that letting go of things isn’t the hard part. It’s saying goodbye to the small rituals and the creatures that became part of my everyday story. It’s realising that I will never see fruit on the pomegranate tree outside my window, grown from a seed and entering it’s eighth year, although it will eventually fill the space where the bird bath is. This year the mandarin and apple trees are putting forward their best blossom show in years, so the new owners should have a bountiful crop of fruit when its ready.

Still, new skies await towards the end of November — and I like to think that at the new house, the local birdlife will soon get word that there’s a soft-hearted human who keeps a well-filled birdbath and an open heart. There’s nectar filled trees to plant and rest on already planned!

Endings and Beginnings

A Balanced Life, dreaming, , , ,

When Endings Are Really New Beginnings

Life has a funny way of playing musical chairs with us. One moment, the music is going, we’re twirling about happily, and then—suddenly—it stops. All of a sudden a chair we thought was ours disappears, a chapter wraps up, and we find ourselves blinking in the silence, wondering, what now?  That pause, though sometimes uncomfortable, isn’t really the end of the game. It’s the invitation to notice: a new round is about to begin. A different chair, a fresh perspective, a surprising possibility is waiting.

Endings and beginnings….

We often hear the phrase, when one door closes, another opens. And it’s true — but what’s rarely mentioned is the hallway in between. That liminal space where the old door has clicked shut but the new one hasn’t swung wide yet. Indeed, it’s here that we’re asked to pause, breathe, and listen deeply. The hallway is where the soul whispers its secrets.

Endings and beginnings….

In the Tarot, The World card carries this energy beautifully. It marks completion, wholeness, and the graceful closing of a cycle. But rather than a final curtain call, The World is a portal. It says, “You’ve danced this dance, and now the stage is clear for the next.” It’s not the end of the story — it’s a graduation into the next chapter of an unfolding journey.

I’m in the process of moving house and still in the stage of sorting 23 years of accumulated “stuff”. Chapters of life that have finished, like University notes, adult children’s kindergarten pictures and books that will never get re-read. I’m grateful for all those chapters. It’s also about setting aside projects or workshops as there’s simply not the energy or the time to fit it all in.  By allowing yourself time off, remember: you’re not losing ground. It’s self care. You’re doing the clearing. Releasing the past as you’re preparing the soil for the next dream to take root.

Endings and beginnings….

And maybe, just maybe, the real magic lies in the pause itself. That quiet moment between the old and the new, where the music hasn’t started up again, think of the space between the notes, and realising the room is alive with possibility.

Meanwhile, it’s time to make a cup of tea, lean into the spaciousness, and ask yourself: If the world has just closed one door for me, what fresh threshold might I be about to cross?

Tides, Terminals, and the Turn of a Leaf

A Balanced Life, lessons learned, , , ,

I came into the world on a tide—once, twice, the family cast off from familiar shores and sailed halfway across the world, not so much fleeing as following a call no one could name. Dad was always chasing something elusive and the grass always seemed greener elsewhere.

Childhood was a series of ships and tea chests, sometimes packed in haste and unpacked with quiet hope, where the sun felt strange and each place had a characteristic scent.

Where the sky was different. A contrast of pale skies hemmed in with close horizons and wide, open and vibrant skies. The horizon shimmering in the summer sun. Terminals for ships and trains. Both with the smell of big diesel engines getting ready to transport us to the next adventure.

We left village life and suburbia like shedding an old skin. One last tuckshop order wrapped in greaseproof paper before the energy of the bush claimed us.

There, time moved with the rustle of the old peppercorn tree planted at the front gate, and school clothes gathered red dust.

No uniforms here. What a contrast to the genteel atmosphere of the old school house and English gardens surrounding it, that had been left behind.

The few trees became tutors. Their lessons were soft but lasting: patience, stillness, and the sacred art of finding your way in tangled things. The undersides of tree leaves turning skyward in anticipation of rain.

Living in the bush carved another layer into me—a love for wide skies, pockets filled with rocks and feathers, a bicycle basket of Sturt Desert Pea flowers and a tendency to personify trees like old friends. It’s probably why I talk to plants and feel oddly soothed by the smell of eucalyptus and campfire smoke.

Changing schools felt like hopping stones across a river. Some were slick and uncertain; others caught me mid-leap with surprising kindness. I learned early how to read a room—then a country, then a climate.

I carried no accent, but spoke the unspoken dialect of adapting: listen first, laugh second, lay your roots lightly.

It’s no wonder, then, that now I read maps like tea leaves and find kinship in people with weathered stories. I can sense when a place won’t hold me—or when it already has. My bookshelf groans with collections of history books, novels and the metaphysical. My house is half sanctuary, half holder of memories where my own children grew up.

I still find comfort in the smell of books and eucalyptus. I was prone to rearranging the furniture when a storm brews, but when the last dog aged and became blind that practice had to stop.

I keep feathers like promises. I collect things I probably shouldn’t—seeds, old things, oracle cards….

I gravitate toward eclectic conversations and people with unusual earrings. I can’t commit to one tea, Yes, I have a whole cupboard devoted to different teas. And I still have a habit of subconsciously checking for exit signs in cafés, a relic of all those unfamiliar places.

Some call it restlessness. I prefer to think of it as tidal memory—my life still syncing to that first great departure from the warmth of the tropics to a cool English climate and then onto the wide open spaces of Australia..

A life shaped by tides, terminals and the turn of a leaf. Charting constellations both above and within. Sure, the constant moving meant I never had one “hometown,” but I did inherit a deep sense that home isn’t a place—it’s a patchwork quilt of moments, people, and curious habits stitched together with every hello and goodbye.

The Golden Era of Friendship

A Balanced Life, ,

Ah, the golden era of friendship: when you and your friends were wild, and possibly a bit unhinged, some were wise —but your friends for a lifetime. Or so you thought.

Now? Over the years, some have died (how dare they): to motorcycle accidents, medical conditions and unfortunately, some to old age. Those left may have drifted off into conspiracy or political  theory territory,  and a few… well, let’s just say the restricted or block button on social media has become your new best friend… as you find the need to scroll on by for your own mental health. Ah, the golden era of friendship!

Meanwhile, I’m knee-deep in the archaeological dig that is clearing out the family home.  Nothing says “character-building” like unearthing forgotten cooking treasures, a plethora of lids, that don’t match any containers, a cupboard full of seasonal wrapping paper and bags , and every birthday card ever written between 1979 and last year.

There’s a certain grief in letting go of a place that’s been a sanctuary for such a long time and moving on. A place that’s seen high school and University graduations. Births, weddings and funerals – not necessarily in that order. It’s weird. It shows up as laughter in the middle of vacuuming the carpets, as rage at a bird as it craps on your perfectly cleaned windows, and as quiet disbelief that somehow you’re the adult now.

Still standing.

Slightly dusty.

But still standing.

Straight and Narrow

A Balanced Life, Coaching, ,

perspective, straight and narrow thinking

Life can be perceived through various lenses, each offering distinct pathways and outcomes. One approach is the straight and narrow perspective, which emphasizes adherence to familiar routes, structured routines, and well-established beliefs. This method of viewing life can provide individuals with a sense of security and predictability, as it offers clear guidelines and boundaries to navigate the complexities of existence.

For example, many people find comfort in following traditional career paths, such as pursuing a stable job with a consistent schedule, which can lead to financial stability and a predictable lifestyle.

In contrast, an expansive, open-minded approach to life encourages exploration and the embracing of new experiences and ideas. This perspective involves questioning established norms, embracing change, and considering multiple viewpoints. By doing so, individuals can foster personal growth, innovation, and a deeper understanding of the world and themselves.

For instance, those who opt for this path might choose to travel extensively, engage in diverse cultural experiences, or pursue careers that challenge the status quo, such as in creative industries or entrepreneurial ventures. This approach can lead to significant personal development and a more comprehensive view of the world. Statistics show that individuals who adopt an open-minded attitude often report higher levels of life satisfaction and well-being.

 Ultimately, the decision between maintaining a straight and narrow view or adopting an expansive perspective is influenced by personal preferences and life circumstances.

Each path offers unique benefits and challenges. For some, a structured approach may provide the stability they need, while others may thrive in environments that encourage exploration and innovation. Finding a balance between these two perspectives can lead to a fulfilling and enriched life, allowing individuals to experience the security of routine while remaining open to growth and new possibilities.

Time and Tide

A Balanced Life, , ,

The quote “Time and tide wait for no man” – attributed to Chaucer is written on a side plate that I have used since a small child. The time seems to have flown since the last posting here and that could also be attributed to age!!

Late last year we put the city house on the market and in hindsight (such a wonderful thing) the timing was awry. Too close to Christmas, interest rates, the annual Australian shutdown over summer….. so many reasons. There was a mad rush to declutter some 20+ years of stuff and furniture settings were hired for several rooms in time for the photos.

Energetically, the rooms that had the hired furniture for the photos made it feel like it was no longer “home”. Not for sitting on, just for show. New, unfamiliar energies entered the house, with the stress of making sure everything was spick and span for inspections, plus the energies of strangers and neighbours as they traversed each room, opened drawers and cupboards and viewed the garden. Some days felt like we needed more sage than usual.

Christmas and January passed in a blur. Time and tide wait for no man. Inspections on weekends. Grandchildren came frolicked in the sparkling swimming pool during the school holidays. Downside to that meant that there was frequent window washing looking out onto the pool area from the jumping in. Upside was that they developed confidence in their swimming.

February saw workshops starting up again and there was frustration at finding that I had packed so many of my books that help me with my research. And so February morphed into March and soon it will be April. Time and tide wait for no man.