“You can wish your life away. But if you’re going to dream, you’re going to have to get out and… put some wings on them dreams, and some feet and fingers and some hands.” (Dolly Parton)

There is a crack in the ceiling shaped like a river leading to the ocean. Spiderwebs in the corner of the room above my head. Through the glass I see the bright blue sky of another crisp morning day. Birdsong outside my window, loud and full of energy – spring is in the air. And then there is my ankle, resting on a pillow, entombed in a black ominous boot. A low and steady throb, present enough to remind me it’s there, quiet enough to let my mind float and drift away. With nothing else to do, I let it wander.

It goes back to Auckland in June. A weekend trip to see friends and take my mind off things that were happening back at my other home. Oh how I wish I could have been there for my son’s graduation. Instead I get to see the black sand of the famous beach west of Auckland: Karekare – rocky gum forest turning to scrub, scrub turning to dune, dune giving way to sand the colour of tar and a river running straight to the sea. The glistening black sand in pale winter sun filtering through storm clouds. This is the beach where they filmed The Piano, where Ada is left stranded with an instrument she can’t carry and a story she can’t speak. There is something very magical about this place. The vastness of the endless shore, the dark cliffs on one side and wild churning water of the ocean on the other made me feel quite insignificant and yet I had not felt this alive in a while.

“At night I think of my piano in its ocean grave, and sometimes of myself floating above it. Down there everything is so still and silent that it lulls me to sleep. It is a weird lullaby and so it is — it is mine.”
— Ada, The Piano

I don’t know why my mind keeps going back to that afternoon in June when I was visiting Karekare beach with my friends. Was walking along the endless deserted black beach. Was collecting shells I wouldn’t be able to keep (Aussie rules). Was feeling my body and mind becoming still. The waves washing away the anxiety I had felt in the past months. The wind blowing through my mind. In the roar of the wind, a faint piano tune.

There’s a sign at Te Henga Beach, not far from where they filmed it, with a poem by New Zealand poet Paula Green carved into the metal. I photographed it without quite knowing why at the time.

the ocean-weathered sand 

the scuttering dotterels 

the pink light shifting 

through dark clouds 

the concerto of waves 

the cantata of sea birds 

the not-a-soul in sight

carry home and breathe in beauty 

when your legs fail and the world is out of tune — Paula Green

When your legs fail and the world is out of tune… A few friends have been asking when I’d write again. Turns out it takes a broken leg to make me sit still for long enough.

I wish I had a great tale to tell. Some adventurous story of climbing a mountain or riding a kangaroo or wrestling a ginormous snake to the ground that caused my limb to crack and tear. I don’t. A bus, an ordinary Friday, a foot in the wrong place at the wrong moment, a wrong move and the damage was done . They say age brings wisdom, but apparently it also brings brittle bones.

And so for the past four weeks I have, when not resting my foot on a pillow on my bed, exploring Sydney on one foot. Very limited exploration I may add but maybe even more meaningful than anything experienced before. Another saying – you don’t know what you got until it’s gone. So true. A friend taking me down to my bench at the beach to watch my first sunrise since the accident felt like going on a mini holiday. The morning air so clear. The sky so high. The coffee so strong. The bench… actually a bit small for my leg to rest on but thats ok. The clouds in the sky to whirly. The sun so shy as if it was gently easing me into the experience again. There you are, it seems to whisper. I missed you…. I missed you too.

Sydney on one foot. I got to listen to the wonderful Australian Chamber Orchestra with my leg resting high and my heart soaring even higher. I got to enjoy the Australian Opera “The Drover’s Wife” from the front row – so close I could see the orchestra in the pit playing and take in every detail that happened on stage just meters away. I go to dine by the ocean with my foot having its own seat at the table. But most of all I got to experience the friendliness and helpfulness of the people around me, doing everything they could to make my life a little bit easier. It’s these moments during my unwanted house arrest that my mind wanders to as well. Wings and foot.

“If you want the rainbow, you gotta put up with the rain.”
— Dolly Parton

Lying here now, ankle throbbing along with the birds screeching outside, I keep thinking about wings and feet. Dolly’s right — you can’t just lie around wishing. You have to get out and put hands and fingers on the thing you want. Mine, for now, are just typing. But they’re moving. And somewhere between Karekare’s black sand and this very ordinary ceiling crack, I think that counts as a kind of motion too.

Rest in peace Dolly. ❤

You know I think about you all the time
And my deep misunderstanding of your life
And how bad it must have been for you back then
And how hard it was to keep it all inside

I hope you settlе down, I hope you marry rich
I hope you're scarеd of only ordinary shit
Like murderers and ghosts and cancer on your skin
And not your soul and what He might do with it

Noah Kahan. The Great Divide

I promised myself I wouldn’t cry. Until my landlady handed me a simple bouquet of flowers.

“Happy Mother’s Day!” she said.

I started to cry.

Happy Mother’s Day. Or so they say. There isn’t much the western world agrees on these days. But this is one of them. It follows you wherever you go, this day. Like Christmas. Or Easter. Or New Year’s Eve. Whether you like it or not.

A few weeks ago I spent a weekend in Melbourne. My home away from home away from home. Same hotel, same room, same restaurant for dinner, same walk along the St Kilda foreshore. The water, the bay, the skyline, the palm trees lining the Esplanade. No tennis this time — that’s something for January. Instead the familiar bookshop, the Guggelhupf Cafe, and the National Gallery of Victoria.

One of the exhibitions I wanted to see was MOTHER — over 200 works spanning centuries and cultures, from cave paintings to Renaissance frescos to contemporary art, exploring every shade of the maternal experience. Joy and transformation, invisible labour and societal expectation, trauma and loss, mythology and the deep connection between motherhood and Country for First Nations communities. So the announcement on social media promised.

The exhibition was structured into three parts: Creating. Giving. Leaving. Each one resonated deeply with me.

Creating

When I was twelve, I wanted to be a shepherd. A shepherd in Scotland. Or New Zealand. Not the pastoring kind. Nor the Good kind. Just a shepherd looking after sheep — leaning on a gnarly walking stick somewhere in the Scottish Highlands, face turned towards the warm sun. I never pictured the sheep. I never pictured the work.

I also wanted five kids. At least that’s what my sisters say.

Fast forward. Five beautiful sons. Adults now. I did not picture giving birth to five kids. I did not picture the work. And yet I did. Became a mother of five. I created something. My biggest accomplishment. My greatest love.

Giving

And so I turned from Gisela, the aspiring sheperd, to Super Mom. Giving it my best effort and my best years. Mother’s Day was 10k runs and breakfast brunch. Hand drawn cards and sticky pancakes. School crafted gifts — I remember one of them; a traditional hand-print in clay but of another child. I loved them all.

Leaving

Following my dream of working abroad. From Super Mom to Bad Mom in a heartbeat.

Almost five years in Australia now. I won’t pretend the guilt has disappeared. There is something particular about being a mother who leaves her home and her family – not because she had to, but because she needed to. It doesn’t require explaining. And yet somehow it always feels like it does.

That weekend in Melbourne, I arrived at the NGV only to find the exhibition hadn’t opened yet. I was too early. Slightly disappointed, I browsed the digital guide on their website instead. One text stopped me completely. It was written by Ellen Keillard:

“I added angry mother to my identity. Another trope to wear. Draped across my shoulders like my heavy winter coat. Hidden beneath it was the nurturing mother, the intuitive mother, the one being told to reclaim herself before she disappeared beneath her winter layers into a wasteland of love and care. Another mother facing relegation into the shadows of invisibility. Or perhaps I could brace myself for the storm. Wrap myself in a scarf — the tired mother. Pull on my gloves — the overwhelmed mother. Pick up my bag — the guilty mother. Now I was ready for work.”

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Today is a beautiful Sydney day. Blue skies, warm sunshine, a cool breeze. Winter is coming. Families are at the beach, celebrating mothers and grandmothers. Celebrating love.

I think of my friend who just lost her mother. The one feeling overwhelmed by being a mother. The one whose child just left home. I think of my own mother.

I think about why this day feels heavy to me. Why I can’t brush it off as just another Hallmark Holiday — created as a day of quiet personal appreciation, turned into a commercialised feast of flowers and pink-hearted cards. Why I’m scared my kids will forget. Why a simple bunch of flowers from my landlady makes me feel, just for a moment, like a good mother. And a bad one.

Why it makes me cry.

Last night I went to the German Film Festival here in Sydney and watched a film called 22 Bahnen — the story of a mother who couldn’t, and a daughter who stepped in to mother her younger sister. No connection to Mother’s Day intended. And yet it was the perfect lens for everything I’ve been sitting with. Motherhood looks different for all of us. It feels different for all of us. It lands differently on days like this.

The MOTHER exhibition in Melbourne has opened now. I haven’t seen it yet. But I will.

In the meantime, I’m working on adding one more identity to the list.

Happy mother.

Even if I’m crying.

P.S. A beautiful vase of flowers from my wonderful sons just arrived.

Stay with me. Let's just breathe.
(Pearl Jam)

Long before you see it, you can hear it. A distant roaring, rolling, crashing of huge waves against the shore.

Long before you see it, you can feel it. The gentle touch of spray and drizzle against your skin. A refreshing sea breeze.

Long before you see it, you see it. Rocky gum forest turning into scrubby bushland turning into sandy dunes. A teaser of what’s to come.

One last climb up a muddy hill from this week’s rain, fighting our way through thick ferns and gnarly tree branches – and there it was: South Cape Bay. Better known as the southernmost point of Australia. Its cliffs surprisingly black and hostile and barren. The panorama a breathtaking view of the Southern Ocean. Wild and dark and strong. Welcome to another Edge of the World. (Antartica was next)

I am back in Tasmania. My third time. A little over a year ago, sitting on a weathered log at the westernmost point of Tasmania — also called The Edge of the World — I had promised myself I would return to this beautiful island. And here I was. For two weeks I had explored the southeast of Tasmania, and the day hike to South Cape Bay was supposed to be the highlight of this trip. And it definitely was, highlighted even more by a thousand smaller ones along the way.

After an extremely challenging and exhausting first term at school, I had longed for nothing more than tranquility and solitude. For calm and quiet. For nothing much to do but read and eat and sleep. And repeat. Slow down. Breathe in. Dream deep. Tasmania’s own tourism tagline – and perfect for me.

A few other things I wanted to do on my trip through the Deep South: practise driving on the left side of the road, so wrong would finally feel right. Visit Maria Island – I loved the name – and maybe even spot some wombats, amongst other wildlife. Walk to South Cape Bay and be able to say I had visited all four extremities of Tasmania.

And read a book that had been waiting for me on my bookshelf in Sydney for months: In Tasmania by Nicholas Shakespeare.

“We have thought for a long time that you don’t learn about things until you are meant to. ” (Nicholas Shakespeare)

Well, the same could be said about a book. I still believe that a book finds you, and not the other way around. And this one pretty much jumped into my carry-on suitcase.

“This is Tasmania, where there is no time and nothing matters.” (Nicholas Shakespeare)

Getting off the plane, the first thing I noticed was the air. Cold and crisp, none of that humid sticky stuff I had left behind in sunny Sydney. Don’t get me wrong – I love the warm weather back home. But it felt good to take a deep breath.

“The Roaring Forties, after blowing unimpeded from Cape Horn, smack a full tilt into the west coast. The result: Tasmania has the purest air in the world as well as some of its cleanest rainwater.” (Nicholas Shakespeare)

Coming back to Hobart felt like coming home. Not my home – but a home.

I parked on the waterfront at dusk and noticed the pub next door to my hotel: the Drunken Admiral. I didn’t go in. I didn’t know then that I should have. It was only later, reading page 80 of In Tasmania in bed, that I realised Nicholas Shakespeare had done exactly what I had just done: arrived at dusk, parked on the waterfront, had fish and chips in that very pub, on the site where his ancestor Anthony Fenn Kemp’s warehouse once stood.

I had stumbled into his book without knowing it.

From Hobart I drove to Lymington in the beautiful Huon Valley, only an hour south. The view from my Airbnb left me speechless: crystal clear water, oyster shells and rocks and logs on the shore. Me sitting on one of those logs with a glass of red in my hand, contemplating life – and, I am not making this up – a seal swimming by. A seal. Right there. In front of my eyes. Rain and sun danced an endless dance those three days. The rainbow in the sky becoming a familiar sight.

“The light in the sky is brilliant and intense. There is no haze or humidity and it produces in me a feeling I frequently experience in Tasmania, an absurd illusion that I can see an enormous distance, back almost to when this landscape was looked upon for the first time with human eyes.” (Nicholas Shakespeare)

Bruny Island next. The gravel road to the lighthouse was slow and treacherous, pockmarked with potholes – the kind of road the car rental place had warned me about. A couple more rainbows appeared along the way. Rain and sunshine trading places every twenty minutes, quintessentially Tasmanian.

The lighthouse sat at the southern tip of Bruny Island, looking out over the Southern Ocean. When I finally reached the top, the wind was so strong we could barely push open the door to the outside platform. Standing there, hanging on, the tour guide told us about the convicts who built this tower with their bare hands in 1836. Twelve men, quarrying dolerite from the cliffs around them, stone by stone, in weather like this. Their reward – if they worked well enough – was freedom. Which they achieved.

From Bruny Island I made my way back through the Huon Valley and further south to Hastings Cave, located in Tasmania’s Wilderness World Heritage Area. Not big on caves, this one took my breath away. And let me breathe again. Two hundred and fifty steps down into the vast chambers of Newdegate Cave – with its stalactites and stalagmites, its Angel’s Wings and Cathedral Rocks, formations that began growing over 40 million years ago. Two hundred and fifty steps back up: from complete darkness, odourless coldness, to lush rainforest with smells of ferns and trees, sounds of water dripping and lyrebirds singing, sight of bushes in greens and browns and blues, the feeling of crisp clean air.

Breathe.

“We were weightless, freightless creatures and with each step the twentieth century receded behind us.” (Nicholas Shakespeare)

Visiting the southeast of Tasmania, it is hard not to stumble across its British past. At times, driving through the countryside felt very much like being somewhere in England. Lovely green pastures, sheep grazing, tea being prepared – there is morning tea, followed by dinner which is actually lunch, followed by afternoon tea, followed by tea which is actually dinner. Unless it’s Sunday, because then it is Sunday tea. I think.

It is also difficult not to come across Tasmania’s convict past. Maria Island, for instance – a former convict probation station. Convicts were sent here as a secondary punishment, meaning they had already misbehaved elsewhere. It’s now a national park with no cars, no shops, just wildlife and the ghostly ruins of the convict settlement at Darlington. And lots of wind! Wombats wandering about. The painted cliffs glowing orange in the afternoon light. Beauty and darkness side by side.

And then there is the history that is harder to see. Driving to Orford at the east coast, I passed the site of the Black Line – a moment in 1830 when Governor Arthur organised over two thousand soldiers, settlers and convicts to form a human chain across the entire island, attempting to drive the Aboriginal Tasmanian people into a corner and contain them. Except that I didn’t know I was passing it. I missed it. I only found out later. Which is perhaps the most telling thing of all. The site of one of the darkest moments in Australian history, and you can drive right past it without knowing. No sign. No memorial. Just a road.

I had planned this trip, just like all my trips, thoroughly and well in advance. Yet, Tasmania keeps making unexpected connections happen when you least expect it.. The island has a way of pulling things together without you planning it.

One morning, when I had finished reading the book, I did something I still can’t quite explain. I wrote to him. To the author himself. Told him how much I had enjoyed his writing, how it had inspired me to write about Tasmania myself. Mentioned that I was in the vicinity of his home in Swansea on the east coast, and asked — rather boldly — whether he might like to have a coffee. Or probably tea. I didn’t really expect an answer.

The same day, Nicholas Shakespeare wrote back. He thanked me for my kind words. He was indeed in town — just two days. And then he told me that his home – the one he had stumbled upon decades ago when on holiday in Tasmania, the one he had spent all his savings on and where he had raised his children – had burned down in a bushfire in December. He was here with his Canadian wife, to visit the ruins.

Two people on the same island at the same time. Both outsiders. He, a famous author, visiting the ruins of the home he loved. Me, a blogger, still looking for something I couldn’t name.

I didn’t plan any of it. None of it. That’s the thing about Tasmania.

“Supposed to be special isn’t it? We won’t tell them what it is, what it’s like, because too many will want to come.” — Nicholas Shakespeare, In Tasmania

Too late. I just did.

Cheers.

Everybody got their reason
Everybody got their way
We’re just catching and releasing
What builds up throughout the day
It gets into your body
And it flows right through your blood
We can tell each other secrets
And remember how to love

Matt Simons. Catch & Release

“Un cappuccino per favore!”

A dark and unusually cold Monday morning in the small town of Vila-Seca in Catalonia, Spain. Finding a cafe that was open at this early hour had not been an easy task. Unlike Australia, where life starts early and cafes usually open by 6am, Spain definitely has a much later morning start. Tricky for notorious early risers like myself but here I was at the Forn Canvi Cafe, ready for my morning coffee. Previous experiences with ordering coffee in foreign countries had left me humbled (A weird long black with a splash of white) but I was confident this time. How difficult could it be to order a coffee in Spanish?

“Cappucchino?” the Spanish barista (is that what they call them in Spain?) .. the lady behind the counter repeated.

“Oui. Err. Si. Cappuccino”

So far so good. Vale!

“Cappuccino – con leche o nata?”

What? Milk or what?

“Si!”

“Un capuchino con nata?”

“Si!”

Perfecto!

“Dos cinquanta.”

I handed her a 50 Euro bill. It was either that or handing over my entire wallet with the coins I could not keep apart.

“Gracias!”

Too easy. My travel routine of having a coffee in a local coffee shop and doing my journaling seemed to go smoothly. My first day in Spain and I already felt like a local. Just another face among police officers and business men, students on their way to uni and the old lady reading the paper.

I was blending in great until…

“UN CAPPUCCINO CON NATA!!”

The waitress behind the coffee counter called out and heaved a gigantic cappuccino onto the bar – though calling it a cappuccino felt generous. It was a whipped cream creation, complete with a wafer cookie flagpole and a chocolate bean perched on top like a cherry on the world’s most caffeinated sundae. Somewhere beneath all that, I had to assume, was actual coffee.

It seemed like all conversation in the cafe stopped. A giant flood light was pointed at me and my extremely embarrassing coffee order. I felt as if all eyes were on me. This contraption was screaming: TOURIST! I should have ordered a shot like the guy standing next to me. After this amount of whipped cream I would have to anyway … no amount of Lacteeze would help me digest this dairy disaster.

“Thank you. Danke! Gracias!” I mumbled in dismay and lifted my coffee with the entire daily calorie allowance in one cup off the counter and over to my little table in the corner, avoiding the stares of the locals. At least I would not need lunch today. Nor dinner.

It is the beginning of another new year and once again I know for sure: THIS will be my year!

So far, so good – I am off to a perfect start, having spent another New Year’s with my children on an exciting adventure. After Australia and Canada, this year’s holidays were spent in cold and snowy Munich, Germany and yes! So far 2026 has been a great year! Schnitzels in Salzburg. Fireworks by the Isar River. Gänsehautmomente (goosebumps moments) im Bayern Muenchen Stadium. Christmas Markets and Bierhäuser. Winter wonderland walks in Schloss Nymphenburg and the Englische Garten. And enormous amounts of Pommes mit Mayo!

What made this New Year’s so special, though, wasn’t only the great sights and experiences we had together. It was also the little moments, the daily routines, the small rituals that I got to share with my children, my family, and my friends: getting fresh bread rolls in the morning to have for breakfast together; watching Love is Blind after long days of thousands of steps all over the city; my sons – grown men by now – still wrestling and snowball fighting their way through the park – and me pretending I don’t know them. Shoes everywhere, socks everywhere, card games on the train… Little rituals like me getting a coffee very early when everyone is still asleep, taking a moment to sit and reflect and write. And mostly getting my coffee order right.

New year’s resolutions usually mean force and willpower, and are all about the outcome (I will run the Sydney marathon! – which I did, though the term “run” was being used very loosely in this case). Rituals are gentler – watch the sunrise every morning, get a coffee and write a bit, spend New Year’s with my children. We were even lucky enough to be part of a traditional Spanish ritual with my friend in Catalonia: Three Kings Day. To see the street parade, the dressed up riders on horses in historic cobble-stoned streets, the hand-delivery of gifts for the children by the three kings – it was very special. Almost as special as the cappuccino with whipped cream.

This year I decided I wouldn’t make resolutions that would only make me feel stressed and frustrated. There are things I’d like to do – I want to run another marathon but actually train for it this time, want to drive a car on the wrong side of the road (Tassie watch out!) – but instead of worrying about the outcome, I want to focus on getting there and be okay with not making it. At least I’ll have tried. So instead of resolutions, I’m going with rituals.

And maybe also letting go of some rituals from the past that don’t work anymore, or have turned into something new.

Like writing about my life in Australia in this blog. I’ve been doing this for seven years now. Somewhere along the way, without really noticing, I stopped feeling ‘new’ in Australia. I just… am here. And I’m not sure when that happened, or what it means for this blog that was always about the journey and my experiences in Australia. Maybe it’s done its job? Maybe it’s time for something else? I don’t know yet.

The same with my kids. Things have changed – I am not the only one in charge anymore. We travel together now. Everyone gets a say in where we go, what we eat, which train to take. Everyone has a job. I may still watch them wrestle and throw snowballs at each other like idiots, and I pretend I don’t know them, but really… it’s just different now. Better, maybe. Something new altogether.

As for my Spanish coffee ritual – I did not give up on that one. For a whole week I kept showing up at Forn Canvi Cafe, trying to order a proper cappuccino without the whipped cream (as delicious as it was) until I finally did! … The fact that the waiter spoke a bit of English that day may have helped a little.

Servus! Salut!

Follow, follow the sun
And which way the wind blows
When this day is done

Breath, breath in the air
Set your intentions
Dream with care

Tomorrow is a new day for everyone

A brand new moon, brand new sun

Xavier Rudd. Follow the Sun

I decided that five is my lucky number. Five children. Five decades (and a bit). Birthday on the fifth. And five times here in Bondi to visit the Sculptures by the Sea.

What started in my first year here in Australia as a birthday weekend treat, has become an annual ritual for me: seeing the sculptures by the sea! Every year I treat myself to an overnight stay at the infamous Bondi Beach. Pretend I am a tourist (which I kind of am). Get a good night’s sleep, only to get up early in the morning to walk along the Bondi coastline from Bondi Beach to Tamarama Beach.

Along the way I take my time to take in the beautiful scenery in the morning light, admire the different pieces of art, take photos (lots of photos) and am simply happy to be alive.

And so this year isn’t any different. I endured the two-hour bus ride to get to Bondi. Fought off very aggressive seagulls at the beach who had invited themselves to my fish’n chips dinner. Watched the storm clouds roll in and lightening lite up the night sky over Bondi Beach. Only to wake up to a beautiful Saturday semi-sunrise at the beach. Ready for take off.

Walking along the Coastal Path early in the morning has a few advantages. First of all, it is my favourite time of the day. I love watching the sunrise no matter where I am. Second, there are no crowds – yet. This morning I met a woman from Slovakia and we had a short discussion about the cuts in funding for this amazing event. The occasional jogger ran by. But otherwise I had the path along the coast to myself. And finally, by the time the crowds start pouring in, I am done with my walk. Ready for a coffee and avo on toast. My perfect first date with myself.

So here are my top five of 2025. I hope you enjoy them as much as I did.

“Life is but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more” (Macbeth). This sculpture spoke to me for obvious reasons. An idiot.. hat, glasses and a brush. The absurdity belies the anguish of an artist, anf the anguish in us all.* It’s also how I feel like a lot these days…

Lily, named after a pioneering open-water swimmer, reflects determination and vitality that challenges expectations. Capturing grace and resilience, she symbolises the courage to embrace possibility, inspiring empowerment and the freedom to dive into life. Though still very far off from being an open-water swimmer myself, I loved this lady in a bathing suit, swim cap and all.

Unseen challenges societal norms in capturing the beauty and strength of overlooked women aged 50 and beyond. Story of my life. Five alive!

Not sure what the title of this one was but it reminded me of my middle son who used to make wire trees like these in high school. It also soke to me as a symbol for putting down invisible roots. And then it made me think of this bonsai tree that my dad once had. I wonder what happened to it.

My favourite sculpture this year – For Peace by Ayad Alqaragholli, WA/Iraq. For me, it was the armchair that attracted me. Pulled me in. And I literally wanted to si down and rest In Peace. Reading up on this piece in the brochure, it is interesting how the same piece of art can have such different meaning to each of us. It is the raven this sculpture focuses on, symbolising worthy of recognition and grace. The chair represents the place of human dwelling, a universal symbol of where life is lived.

Five is my lucky number. And with my fifth year here in Sydney, it makes me think quite a bit about where my life is lived. Has been lived. Will be lived.

The other day, someone told me that if I managed to carry the beauty of the sunrise by the sea inside of me, maybe it wouldn’t really matter anymore where life is lived. Perhaps they are right. For now, I’m happy to make this annual pilgrimage to soak in the art and ocean air. To celebrate another year around the sun in this beautiful place I now call home.

“Around and around the wide Earth turns… a sleepy dancer” (Sculpture Is… Richard Tipping)

See you next year, Sculptures by the Sea!

Maybe I’m bound to wander
From one place to the next
Heaven knows why

But in the wild blue yonder
Your star is fixed
In my sky

Just another bar, at a cross roads
So far from home
But that’s alright
Whenever I’m going down the dark road
I don’t feel alone in the night

There’s a place in my heart
Though we’re far apart
May you always know?
No matter how long since I saw you
I keep the flame there for you
Wherever I go

Wherever I go. Mark Knopfler

A simple question really, but I struggle to answer it. Where’s home? somebody asked me the other day. Where are you from?

Sydney? (Well obviously I am not, as I do not sound anything close to someone from Sydney or Australia for that matter).

Canada? (Oh people love when you say that. Everybody loves Canada. Though often that leads to follow-up questions like “Oh yeah? Whereabouts? Vancouver?” And “What are you doing here?” Not necessarily a conversation I want to have with a random stranger).

Germany? (Europeans are interesting. Especially artsy ones. There’s a lot of generalisations going on).

My answer usually varies, depending on how much I am willing to share. But the question itself had me wondering: What is home to me?

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It is Thanksgiving weekend in Canada and I know what everyone is doing. I can picture my children filling their plates with turkey and stuffing and cranberry sauce (can never have too much cranberry sauce), family gatherings, impromptu road hockey games or Scrabble games as my sons get older. I can hear them bickering and laughing and playfully arguing with each other. And I miss that. Being not there for family holidays is hard for me. Even if you are in a beautiful place like this one. And even if you made that choice to be somewhere else. Especially when you made that choice.

People tell me they live vicariously through me. The beautiful pictures I share. The stories I tell. Yet another fucking glorious sunrise I post. And look—I am aware of the beauty around me. And I know that being here is good for me. Being close to the ocean. Working a job that I enjoy (most of the time). Living according to my values. But is it home? To be honest I don’t even know what home is anymore. Maybe a little bit of everything?

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The other day I was visiting a friend who invited me over and greeted me with the words: Make yourself at home. Do whatever you have to do to feel relaxed and comfortable.

So what is it that makes me feel relaxed and comfortable at home away from home? It’s the little things. The ocean definitely. My morning routine of watching the sunrise before catching the bus to work. Avocado on toast. The sunshine streaming into my apartment. Friends that check in on you. Colleagues that swear with me (or at me). Teaching the way I want to teach. Using my mother tongue to do so. Wearing nothing but shorts and a t-shirt for most of the year. The whirring of ceiling fans. The morning call of the kookaburra family (such a competitive bunch). A swim in the ocean. Not so much the rockpool (too busy). Extra shots in my coffee. The way the light is different down here, softer and gentler. Brighter and stronger at the same time. Gum trees. Steak night and schnitty night and pretty much any night with friends at the local pub.

It’s the little moments that sparkle, that make this place feel a bit like home. Sure, the flashy tourist attractions are nice—I am not going to lie. But it’s the everyday life I crave. The little gems. The sea glass you have to watch out for when walking on the beach.

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Home is where the heart is. As corny as that sounds, it’s probably true. As much as I love living in Australia, it’s the people that make it feel like home. And missing my people back home. Another question I get asked often these days is whether I am going to stay, and I find that even harder to answer. Would I like to? Absolutely yes! This is my happy place. Will I stay? I don’t know. Home is familiar things. Home is a feeling. But home is also your people. Your kids. Your family. Your friends you have known for years. And I miss them. Some days more than others. They are what makes me shine.

Maybe I’m a bit like sea glass—broken and discarded, then transformed by the tumbling, churning powers of the ocean. Weathered, smooth, edges worn off. Beautiful to the person who picks it up… ok now it’s getting really cheesy. But that’s what being here feels like a bit. Beautiful and good and right—it just needs a bit of sparkle again.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone! And Cheers!

So come on, come on, I’m ready now
Go get your things out, honey, let’s get ready to roll
Oh, I can feel a wave coming over me
I’ve been waiting for this day too long just to let it all go

Boy & Bear. Southern Sun.

Never had I seen blue contain this many colours.

Beneath me, blues, greens, browns, and oranges formed the foundation, with spots of bright colour here and there—the vibrant green of fleshy lettuce coral, the acid yellow of a fish swimming by, the orange and pinks spotted over brown boulders randomly. The deep purple of the giant clams opening up beneath me—plump lips speaking to me without making a sound. Electric blue fish with yellow and black stripes, silver waves of schools of fish swimming by. The colours of a painter’s palette generously splashed beneath me, on rocks and boulders and animals alike.

The shapes of the coral were amazing—branches and plates, mushrooms and pumpkin-like domes that reminded me of Kusama’s dot art floating in front of my eyes. A city of miniature castles and labyrinths, of claws and tentacles, soft coral hairs swaying in the water’s breeze. The scene beneath me was like a Where’s Waldo book page—my body slowing, my eyes scanning patiently for every intricate detail, watching for every small movement that I might miss. Like miniature flashlights, the rays of white sunlight filtered and danced through the turquoise-tinted water, revealing the deep dark blue spaces, shadows of small places hiding from me.

Slowly, I allowed myself to be absorbed not only by the landscape but by the sounds around me. I dared to swim further beneath the water’s surface, drowning out the above-water sounds—people laughing, calling out, the rubber dinghy circling about—to make space for the sound of my rhythmic breathing through my snorkel, the sound my body made moving along the surface of the shallow water. The faint splashing of swimming. Once in a while, a small giggle or “wow” would escape my mouth, not wanting to interrupt the peace around me.

Years ago, when my second son was in Grade 5, he wrote a speech about the Great Barrier Reef. Well, okay, maybe I helped him a bit. I remember writing about the beauty of the reef, the effects of pollution and coral bleaching, and how to protect it.

Never would I have thought, as we sat together writing that speech (ok, maybe it was actually me who wrote most of it – but he gave it, I swear!), that I would be swimming right here one day. Life has a funny way of surprising you like that.

Before this trip, I had never been on a sailboat. And after my experience with that crazy whale watching speed boat in Sydney back in 2019, I was more than a bit anxious about going out on the open ocean. The boat, the waves, the deep water, the things living in that water – it all made my stomach a bit queasy.

The first time I went to the Whitsundays was Hook Island, and it was everything I’d imagined and more. The water was calm, almost no waves and still. We anchored in a protected bay, and once I was in the water, mask and snorkel in place, I entered that magical underwater world I’d only helped my son write about all those years ago.

How did I enter the ocean from a boat? How did I overcome that fear? I didn’t just jump in. I went backwards. One foot finding the first rung, then my second foot searching for the next. I felt for the cushiony edge of the rubber dinghy and lowered myself down slowly. Spat in my goggles, adjusted the mask, and trusted that the simple rubber straw I placed in my mouth would provide me with enough air to breathe. And then I let go, gently gliding into the water. Into all the blue spaces around me.

This was exactly the kind of snorkeling I liked—the peaceful, meditative kind. The water was so clear, so calm, that floating face-down felt like slow-motion dreaming. And there it all was – everything I’d written about in that Grade 5 speech. Time stopped. There was only breathing, floating, watching, wondering.

And then there were the sea turtles. We saw them several times in the open sea—cruisey and cool, gliding through the water with an effortless grace that made everything else seem crazy by comparison. They didn’t give a damn about us overly excited tourists on the boat, frantically calling out “A turtle! A turtle!” They just carried on with their business, surfacing occasionally to breathe before diving back down to wherever sea turtles go when they’d had enough of us humans.

Three days later, we sailed out to Whitehaven Beach, and the weather had changed quite a bit. The winds were strong—really strong. White-capped waves in every direction, and our sailboat leaned dramatically to one side, then the other, cutting through the waves at great speed. And I loved it. The power of it, the wildness, the way the boat danced with the wind and water. Maybe I had taken one too many of those seasickness pills or maybe it was the glass of bubbly they offered us aboard (or maybe both) but I loved sailing along the islands.

Whitehaven Beach itself was gorgeous, as beautiful as everyone said it would be. It actually made me speechless for a moment when we first saw it from the lookout point. What the ….! Never had I seen something so beautiful. That famous silica sand, those impossible blues, the crystal clear water. Paradise-like!

But when it came time to snorkel, the conditions were completely different from Hook Island’s tranquil waters. The ocean was rough, churning, and challenging. You could hardly see anything through the stirred-up sand and surge. The current pulled and pushed, the waves tossed you about, and staying in one place long enough to observe anything required real effort and determination.

And I loved that too.

Because swimming in those rough waters, holding my own against the current, not panicking when a wave pushed me off course—that was its own kind of win. It was exciting, exhilarating, and wild. I was so proud of myself. I had come a long way from being scared of the ocean.

I’m not a sea turtle—not cool and careless like them. I know that. But maybe I am a sea lion. Curious and fun-loving, intelligent and playful. Minus the thick hair and big chest and belly though.

Today, I went to the local markets, soaking up the early morning moments of island life. Among the stalls of handmade jewelry and locally roasted coffee, I found myself suddenly standing across from a tarot card reader. Half an hour for $75 bucks – why not. After all, I was on holidays.

The cards told me what I probably already knew but needed to hear: Relax more. Breathe more. Sit at the beach and stop overthinking.

Fair enough, universe. Message received.

So on my last morning, I plan to wake early (as if I ever not wake up early) and walk down to the water’s edge. The marina will be quiet, just the gentle clinking of rigging against masts, the soft splashing of water against hulls. The sun will be just beginning to paint the sky in shades of pink and orange, and the blue water will reflect it all back like a mirror.

I’ll think about all the blues I’ve seen over the past few days. The deep navy of open water, the turquoise of shallow reefs, the pale aqua of sand-filtered shallows, the silvery blue-grey of early morning. Each one different, each one beautiful, each one part of the same blue ocean.

I’ll think about the sea turtles, cool and graceful. About the wild winds and the calm waters. About my son’s Grade 5 speech and how far I’ve come from simply reading about the reef to actually swimming in it.

And I’ll think about the tarot reader’s advice. Relax more. Breathe more. Sit at the beach. Stop the overthinking.

And maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll spot another sea turtle. Gliding along, not giving a damn about anything or anyone. Or even a sea lion or two. You never know.

Cheers.

Item 43 on my never-ending Australia bucket list: Complete. ✓

The final stretch down Macquarie Road towards the finish line in front of the Sydney Opera House. On both sides of the street, the crowd is cheering. In my head, Chariots of Fire is playing. My feet are so fast, they barely touch the ground. I am flying down the street, throwing my body towards the finish line. In front of my eyes: the iconic Opera House, the harbour, and in the distance, the familiar arch of Sydney Harbour Bridge. I put everything I’ve got into those last 1.2 kilometres. I run, I breathe, I am going to make it. Past the masses, I enter the final stretch. The crowd is cheering, chanting my name: “GISELA! GISELA!” The announcer states my name and home country—Canada! I finished! I did it! I ran the Sydney Marathon!

Running the full Sydney Marathon had been on my bucket list even before I arrived in this beautiful country in 2019. The years prior had been my golden running years (two to be exact—two golden running years), and I was convinced I would and could run another marathon on this continent.

Except I couldn’t. And I didn’t.

If you know me at all, you’ll know that I love to sign up for races and then chicken out shortly before they happen. I would always have the best excuses—something wrong with my feet, my hips, my training, my life… you name it! Ask my team teacher and running partner. She has heard it all before.

But running one more marathon in my life was my goal, and running one in Australia was firmly planted on my list of things I wanted to do.

There I was, one early Sunday morning at the end of August, in a park somewhere in North Sydney, trying to make my way to the start line. Me and 34,999 other hopeful runners.

I had plenty of excuses why I shouldn’t and couldn’t run this race either. I hadn’t been well the first half of the year, I hadn’t trained properly, we’d had all this rain in May and July, my feet hurt (still), I was getting old.

Except you couldn’t cop out of this one. The Sydney Marathon didn’t allow for selling your bib or giving it to someone else. The security around picking up your race kit was tighter than my hamstrings. Plus, getting into this run was decided by entering a lottery—and I had won. It didn’t feel right not to take advantage of this surely-once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

Ready or not. Or as my friend said: “Give it a shot. What could possibly go wrong?”

Little did we know of all the things that could go wrong.

The Good (First 21km): Things went really well for the first half of the run. Sydney Harbour Bridge, along Darling Harbour, through the rich and beautiful Balmain—gentrified and posh. Back towards the harbour, a quick snapshot of the Harbour Bridge, the Opera House in sight. So close, yet so far. Another 30k to go.

I was having fun, I was loving it! A beautiful crisp winter day in the city—what was not to like? Through the city down George Street, Hyde Park, and along St Mary’s Cathedral. Running along Oxford Street, the fastest runners were already on their home stretch coming towards us. Oh, how I wanted to be them. But no, I still had over 25km to go.

I was in a good mood. My feet were fine. I had a smile on my face and was high-fiving everyone along the street, whether they wanted it or not. This was great.

Until it wasn’t.

The Bad (Enter: Anzac Parade): An endless wide avenue with nothing but asphalt, sun, and pain for over 10km! Five kilometres out and the same five back. My feet started hurting, and I decided it was time to switch to speed walking. Still smiling, just not as brightly anymore. Forget the high-fives. Why was I doing this again? What lottery? What bucket list?

The Ugly (Centennial Park): If Anzac Parade wasn’t bad enough, at kilometre 30 we entered Centennial Park and wouldn’t leave it again for another 4km. A lazy stroll on a Sunday afternoon—with blistered feet and sore calves. Ten more kilometres never felt so long.

I stopped at every water station and drank every energy drink and every water there was. I read every stupid motivating sign along the way. I hated them all. Some were actually quite funny: “Toenails are overrated anyway!” or “Keep chafing your dreams!” Except I was not in the mood anymore. I was done!

Finally, back at Hyde Park. St Mary’s Cathedral. The Art Gallery. Mrs Macquarie’s Chair. By now I had given up running and was walking only, saving that last little bit of energy I had for my glorious final stretch down Macquarie Street.

And glorious it was! I did it. I had finished my first and last (I swear!) marathon in beautiful Sydney! Crossed the finish line, collected my medal, took the obligatory selfie with the Opera House in the background, and hobbled through the Botanical Garden to make my way home.

Not impressed with my finishing time, but incredibly proud of finishing what I had been wanting to do ever since I had arrived in Australia.

A few days after the race, each marathon finisher received a finishing video. With the theme of Chariots of Fire still playing in my head, I opened the link and loved it initially. The Sydney Harbour Bridge, tens of thousands of runners crossing it in the rising sun…

Then came my finish line moment. There I was, number 33907, only metres away from the finish. But what had felt like a gazelle flying over the line looked, in fact, like someone hobbling in slow motion towards the goal. The music in my head stopped abruptly, and the bruised toenail on my right foot started pulsating immediately. This was painful to watch—literally!

I clicked delete and erased the video forever. Some memories are best kept in your heart. And your bruised toenails.

A few days after the race, a friend asked me what was next on my bucket list. I hadn’t even thought about it, still in a daze about what I had accomplished.

“Swim in the ocean,” I said! “Swim in the ocean with whale sharks. Item 43 on my never-ending Australia bucket list.”

Just don’t let me sign up for any more marathons, please!

My 42.2 Australia Bucket List

1. ✓ Cuddled a koala (and pretended I didn’t notice its smell)
2. ✓ Took the Ghan train across the continent (and loved every minute of it)
3. ✓ Swam in the ocean despite knowing about sharks (because YOLO, apparently)
4. ✓ Ordered a long black with a dash of milk (and felt like a proper local)
5. ✓ Joined the local trivia club (where my expertise is all things exotic)
6. ✓ Ate crocodile and kangaroo (tasted like chicken, obviously)
7. ✓ Watched sunrise over the ocean more times than you could count (and will never tire of it)
8. ✓ Encountered a snake in the wild (the school playground)
9. ✓ Found a huntsman spider in the house (and saved a friend’s life)
10. ✓ Saw a cassowary up close (or did it see me?)
11. ✓ Traveled to every Australian state (this country is ridiculously huge)
12. ✓ Rode a camel (surprisingly comfortable, surprisingly smelly)
13. ✓ Had a drink at the bowlo
14. ✓ Visited the most western point in Tasmania (and played an imaginary flute)
15. ✓ Had a proper barbie with the locals (Happy Chrissie!)
16. ✓ Bought a bottle at the bottle-o
17. ✓ Witnessed the 2019 bushfires and Covid (just when you thought it couldn’t get any worse)
18. ✓ Lived through major floods (and so did my classroom)
19. ✓ Endured weeks of endless rain (when the land of sunshine forgot its name)
20. ✓ Experienced scorching heat and freezing cold (you try living in a house without heating)
21. ✓ Ran from the city to Bondi twice (because once wasn’t enough punishment)
22. ✓ Walked 38k at night to see sunrise in the south of the city (questionable life choices, excellent views)
23. ✓ Found a local cafe that knows my name and order at 5:30am (true love exists)
24. ✓ Been called “mate” more times than I could remember (I try to feel loved)
25. ✓ Enjoy steak on Monday steak night (medium-rare with a large glass of expensive Shiraz)
26. ✓ Ordered a schnitty on Tuesday (see above, but with breadcrumbs)
27. ✓ Navigated Australian taxes and their confusing June year-end (July 1st was the real New Year)
28. ✓ Drove on the “wrong” side of the road (not by choice)
29. ✓ Did a trail run in Bouddi National Park (hardest thing I have ever done)
30. ✓ Went to the Australian Open (and watched some tennis too)
31. ✓ Hiked the Three Capes in Tasmania (where I ran out of food on day two)
32. ✓ Snorkeled the reef in Queensland (and embraced my fear of the ocean)
33. ✓ Tasted wine in the Hunter Valley (and snored on the bus on our way home)
34. ✓ Felt snow in the Blue Mountains (Australia’s adorable attempt at winter)
35. ✓ Went on a whale tour and almost died (seasickness is real)
36. ✓ Swam in a rock pool (me and a few other sea creatures)
37. ✓ Hiked to a waterfall (and tore my knee)
38. ✓ Walked on squeaky beaches (sand with sound effects)
39. ✓ Tasted Vegemite and didn’t like it (looks like Nutella but surely isn’t)
40. ✓ Learned what a bacon and egg roll was (bacon-and-egg-on-a-roll, with rocket)
41. ✓ Joined a book club and found a writing partner (because I need intellectual stimulation)
42. Finished the Sydney Marathon (the ultimate Australian flex)

Won’t you come see about me?
I’ll be alone, dancing, you know it, baby

Tell me your troubles and doubts
Giving everything inside and out and
Love’s strange, so real in the dark
Think of the tender things that we were working on

Slow change may pull us apart
When the light gets into your heart, baby

Don’t you, forget about me
Don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t
Don’t you, forget about me

(Simple Minds. Don’t You)

The Breakfast Club

6:20 AM. I’m late.

Not super late, mind you, but late enough that the two work-out guys have already claimed bench number two and are deep into their morning routine. I clutch my coffee (strong cap, extra hot) and scan the beach anxiously, ready for whatever today’s sunrise has to offer. I am relieved to see that my bench, the one under the large Norfolk Pine, is still vacant. I have to admit, I get a bit irritated when somebody is sitting on it so early in the morning. How dare they? I increase my speed and walk towards my bench, making sure it’ll be mine.

I retrieve several items from my tote bag (apparently all the hype according to my children): a towel (to sit on the bench slightly wet from the nighttime rain), my hat and gloves (winter mornings in Australia feels like 1 degree, though nobody back home believes me), my journal, my phone, my glasses. I am ready for my favourite morning ritual: watching the sunrise at the beach. Or more likely, watching the people around me that begin their day with their own little routine.

I call them The Breakfast Club. Though we never eat breakfast together, and most of us never have formally introduced ourselves. Yet we know each other, sometimes even by name. And by our shared love for early mornings spent at the beach.

The two work-out guys – one looks a bit like Ted Lasso – return from their warm-up jog and are now doing squats. One has poor form, and I am tempted to correct him, having my own issues in the past with proper squats, but I let it go. Over the years, these guys have accumulated quite the gear for their little pop-up gym at bench two: weights and yoga mats, jump ropes and sparring gloves. The newest addition: a bench press. I am impressed. And slightly annoyed by the noises they make now, punching each other’s gloves. Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump! I try to focus on the calming sounds of the ocean. Swoosh. Swoosh. Swoosh.

Just when a certain sense of calmness begins to wash over me, I hear a familiar calling in the distance: Ahooohoooooooo! Mona has arrived. How can such a small person make such a huge noise! You can hear Mona a mile away! She hollers and laughs and screams and waves at everyone from the moment she arrives: while she sweeps the shower area of the Life Saving Club, during her ocean swim (only intensified by screams of being hit by the cold water), until she leaves an hour later. I swear, I can hear Mona all the way back to her house at the beach. Everyone knows Mona. I wonder why.

A more quiet regular – the old man with the goatee and the funky pink-and-white crocs. Dressed in swim shorts and a warm hooded towel, he doesn’t talk much. He arrives, stares at the cold ocean for a bit, stalling, goes for a swim, gets dressed and leaves again. He used to come here with his wife. An equally old and tiny sweet lady. Always holding hands. Always going into the water together, their matching crocs waiting for them side-by-side on the beach. Now it’s just his shoes sitting on the sand.

In the corner of my eye, I spot Bob, the photographer. Likes to take photos of the sunrise with his phone just like me. I see Bob at the bus stop sometimes. Or in the streets. Sometimes he stops to show me his newest shot. Always telling me a great story until my bus arrives and I have to cut him off. I call over to Bob : Good morning! He doesn’t hear me. Getting old is a bitch. Especially when you have no real home.

And then there are the dog people. The tall man with the tall Great Dane. With slobber all over him – the dog, not the man!

The old people. Starting yet another long and lonely day.

The surfers and the swimmers. The kayakers and nippers.

The runners and walkers.

The tired parents whose child in the stroller has been up for hours.

The lonely people. The only people.

The creep that shows up when no one else is here, asking to sit next to me when there are a million empty benches next to me (well, ok, only two, but seriously? Can he sit somewhere else?)

The familiar people. Like my friend Pete, who lost his wife six months ago. We sit every Sunday morning and watch the sky turn from purple to red to orange to blue. We talk and laugh. Sometimes we cry.

The sunrise changes every day. Some mornings are stunning (pink and gold and worth taking way too many photos of). Others are quiet, the sun sneaking up through clouds. Both work for me. If I’m honest, I am here for the ritual. Gets me out of bed (though usually not that late), keeps me from feeling lonely, gives me a purpose. I have friends and colleagues that tell me they look forward to my sunrise photos. Others tell me to fuckoff – but they say it with a smile.

Sitting here with my tote bag unpacked and coffee getting cold, I think about how this is what I love about living in Australia. The ocean, my job, the people. The Breakfast Club, though they probably don’t know how much I appreciate them. After all, most of us have never really introduced ourselves.

Tomorrow I’ll be back, hopefully a bit earlier than today. I’ll pack my apparently trendy tote bag, get my coffee, extra hot/extra shot, and head down to see what the sunrise brings. And to sit on my bench and watch the people around me.

I believe that we all have a desire for some kind of connection, even if they are temporary and unintentional. A sense of be-longing. Of being remembered.

I get up and start putting my belongings into the white canvas bag. The work-out guys have long packed up and left. Dogs and babies have come and gone, probably warming up at the local cafe with a hot coffee or a choccie. Even Mona can’t be heard anymore. Today’s sky is overcast and grey, and no real sunrise to be seen. In the end, it was never really about the sunrise. Or the ocean. Or even about my bench at the beach. Maybe it was about being part of something bigger, a shared connection. The Breakfast Club.

All that talk about breakfast made me hungry. I shoulder my tote, turn my back to the ocean, and walk towards the cafe. I don’t think they’ll have a Cap’n Crunch and Pixie Stix sandwich, but a good-old avo on toast will do.

Cheers!

When the wheels come off, I’ll be your spare
When the party’s over, I’ll be stacking the chairs
When the world turns on you, I will be there
I will be there

The Middle Kids. Stacking Chairs

A new school year. A new class. The year 1 students are learning all about the letter A: der Apfel, die Ameise, die Ampel. Together with the Year 2s we are reading the picture book “Why I love Australia”. Another word with A. We are drawing big fat boab trees in Art and I ask the children to draw their families in their tree, linking in a little part of our “All About Me” activities for the month with the discussion on how we are all different.

At the same time, two events take place outside our classroom walls – totally unrelated yet not without some strange kind of connection to what is going on inside our classrooms. Number one, my own little boab tree offshoot in shape of my oldest son is visiting Australia. Is visiting me and I could not be happier. Together we have planned a weekend away as part of his two-week stay with his partner. Which brings me to number two: said planned weekend away suddenly got derailed by another word with A: Alfred the tropical cyclone.

Months ago, when my son announced their plans to visit me in Downunder, my adventure-planning mode kicked in immediately – any excuse to plan a trip, no matter how big or small. He wanted to show his girlfriend the Great Barrier Reef, which we had visited together in 2022, and I was all game. Except that the Great Barrier Reef wasn’t. At least not at this time of year. November to April, so I learnt in my extensive research, was cyclone season. Not extensive enough to find out what a cyclone really was but it sounded serious and I knew that this was not the right time to return to beautiful Far North Queensland with its largest city Cairns (not so beautiful) and white endless beaches, lush green rainforests, gushing waterfalls and, of course, the crystal blue ocean with its coral reefs.

So I played it safe and opted in my bookings for not-so-bad-either Noosa, on the Southern Queensland Sunshine Coast. Cyclone safe and very pretty as well with lots of beaches, lakes, and lush hinterland. Splurged a little and even booked a day of 4WD driving along Rainbow Beach. Weather forecast: Five days of endless sunshine.

Until it started to rain. In Noosa. And not only that – the weather app suddenly showed five extreme weather alerts: flooding, strong winds, heavy rain, large surf, and the dreaded word CYCLONE! This was not supposed to happen. We were supposed to fly out in two days and, according to the satellite picture, straight into the eye of this tropical storm. Memories of the movie The Day After Tomorrow came to mind. But I was no Denis Quaid and my son not Jake Gyllenhaal. Still in denial, I kept checking the weather app every five minutes, hoping that this was simply a glitch, a mistake, an app gone wrong. Until our Air Bnb host in Noosa called to cancel. Flights were cancelled. Supermarkets emptied. Beaches closed. They were preparing for the worst. And I had prepared for nothing. At least not for an erratic cyclone hitting land exactly when and where we were supposed to be.

Cyclone Alfred, or Alfie as the Australians with their love for nicknames call him, had been travelling up and down the east coast of Australia for the past two weeks. While I was greeting my son at the Sydney airport, excited about our upcoming trip to Noosa together, Alfred was gathering speed. While we were learning about A’s and the Australian boab tree, it was turning into a Category 4 Cyclone offshore, creating intense winds and whipping the beaches of South Queensland with erosion-causing waves. While we were slurping oysters in Manly, dancing to the iconic Sydney Band “Middle Kids” in Taronga Zoo, hiking in the Blue Mountains, Alfred moved the wrong way and was getting ready to make landfall much further south than normal. The last cyclone that far south had been 50 years ago. Why now? Why the? Why exactly where we were supposed to be in two days’ time? Oh Alfie!

But I wasn’t going to let a tropical storm – and especially not one with a ridiculous name like Alfie – ruin our plans. If Noosa was the new cyclone Mecca, then Cairns all of a sudden wasn’t and we would simply go there. Fly over the whole mess and go where we had wanted to go all along. With some luck and determination I was able to rebook us all to spend a few days in Palm Cove where we had been 2 and a half years ago. And we even got a special deal – after all, it was “cyclone season” at the Great Barrier Reef!

As for Cyclone Alfred and the Sunshine coast – eventually it did hit land as far south as Brisbane. Though it had weakened to below tropical cyclone strength, it caused great damage through destructive winds and heavy rains, causing flooding, power outages and washed away beaches. Peregian Beach south of Noosa lost up to 30 metres of width. Erosion cliffs (called scarps) of up to 3m high appeared. Just in a week, millions of sand on the beaches seemingly disappeared. The beaches of the Sunshine Coast were scarred by dramatic sand cliffs.

Beaches in Australia constantly change and are very resilient. I noticed that at my local beach in Newport. One day you were able to walk down a few steps to get to your morning swim in the ocean, the next you had to jump down a two meter scarp to get to the beach.

They adapt by changing their shape. When there is a lot of energy in the waves and currents, the beach will become flatter and narrower (which is exactly what happened here in Newport). The sand has been pulled off the beaches and washed off offshore to form sandbanks, which in return naturally protect the remaining beach, as they break the waves before hiting the shore.

Eventually, much of the sand will naturally be transported back ashore, making it steeper and wider again. This can take months, or years, depending on the waves. Some sand never returns. In this case, I am pretty sure they will speed up the process by simply dumping extra sand on their beaches. After all, the show for the tourists must go on.

As cyclones, go, Alfie was a whimp. But it gave us a chance to return to a magical part of Australia that I would return to any time. Just not with Alfie!