From where I sit:
I can see the sun rays streaming in through the window while the rain simultaneously falls heavily outside.
I turn and look out beyond the back deck at the three veggie plots, and see that they're receiving their dual share of sunshine and rain, too.
Out of every window – and trust me, there's plenty of them here in our new place – is endless green.
The birds are in a rather talkative mood, which ironically brings a meditative state out in me.
I cannot hear the traffic.
The air is cool, a scarf is wrapped around my neck.
Dinner is gently cooking away - sitting atop our pot belly stove, where it will remain for the next couple of succulently slow-cooked hours.
Our two kookaburra friends are nowhere in sight right now – they're probably somewhere safe out of the rain – but before too long, they'll be perched in front on me, eagerly urging for a nibble of food.
Yesterday, as I drove to yoga, I witnessed kangaroos jumping in the bare fields which line the roads out of here.
The home-like feeling I didn't even know I was craving until I landed on it.
For the last two and a half years, I have felt well at home a stone's throw away from the beaches of Burleigh... but recently, the tightness of our apartment, the never-quite-ceasing buzz of the traffic, the unavoidable view of McDonalds which greeted us from our small verandah... I was growing tired of it.
I was becoming more sensitive to it all.
I started fantasising about living in and amongst a spoil of trees, of perching myself on my sheepskin on a vast deck and meditating to the subtle orchestra of nature, of revelling in the ritual of lighting a morning fire to ease the chill of dawn.
And here it is.
That, and more.
That, and this next phase of nesting; another craving that is becoming more realised and embodied with each and every day.
A place to sow some seeds, to hang some photos, to give a home to a puppy from the pound, to conceive of and birth a child, or two, or three. To write until my heart is blissfully contented.
After my first night here, sleeping around boxes, I found myself on Facebook reading a beautiful morning poem written by someone I love and admire dearly. With her poem, came an invitation for all those reading to write their own.
I enthusiastically keyboard-scribbled:
I awaken to the faint hum of the almost silent land,
after opting for a Tree Change after dwelling by surf, sea and sand.
The sounds of the whip-brid brings on nostalgia from my childhood,
as does the the potbelly stove, and it's accompanying pile of fire wood.
While hubby sleeps, I stack the kindling and patiently stoke the flame,
and boil the kettle while internally vibrating Sat Nam - 'Truth is my name.'
And following that, rose such profound... amusement.
My adolescence and early twenties were ear-marked by tireless rebellious attitudes towards my upbringing.
I was gonna leave the country! Fly high in the city! Get off the land and into the hype!
When I was travelling, I swore I'd never stop. Settling down is for people who have lost their will to live!
So much to prove. So much to prove wrong.
I smile at that girl, now; glad that she rebelled and walked all those different tightropes of experience and judgement and stereotyping, because now, I truly know:
You can take the girl out of the country, but as it so obviously seems in my case, you cannot take the sweet, wonderful, healing country out of the girl. And to that realisation, I bow.
From the glistening forest that is my new back yard,
Have a beautiful day.