Happiness weighs a ton
It’s all speckled in luck and heavy as fuck
I never could pick it up
I’ve been staring at the stars
They’re spelling out words and waving their wands at me
I am the chosen one
Cool name

Far away from here
There is a notice flapping in the breeze for me
Along with a notion that I changed too much
Maybe not enough
I don’t wanna weigh you down

Cherub. Ball Park Music

“Good morning! It’s really great to be here with you. I’m Xavier, but my friends call me X. And from this moment on, I’m gonna be your own personal AI DJ on Spotify. Yeah, I’m an AI but listen, I don’t set timers, I don’t switch on your lights. I’m all about music, your music. I know what you listen to. I see Ball Park Music there,” the app said, referencing a recent favourite of mine.

I admit it – I had been listening to the Australian band, or more specifically this one particular song, a lot lately. A lot a lot! Bordering on obsessive-a lot. I liked the melody, and the words spoke to me. And when I find a song I like, I tend to play it on repeat. Over and over again. It’s a bit like a cheese sandwich with mustard, or yoghurt with maple syrup. When I like something, I like it a lot. Until I don’t.

But who was this guy, calling me out like this? And how dare he snoop around in my favourite tunes? It felt creepy and yet, strangely comforting at the same time. Someone, who knew me whether I liked it or not.

“So I’m gonna be here every day playing those artists you got on rotation, going back into your history for songs you used to love,” it said, “and I’m always on the lookout for new stuff too. Just to push your boundaries a little bit.”

Push my boundaries? Not sure if I needed that. All I wanted was to listen to my favourite music.

“I’m gonna come back every few songs to change up the vibe. But if you’re ever not feeling the music, there’s gonna be a DJ button at the bottom of your screen. Tap that, and I’ll come back early to switch it up,” DJ X said. “All right, enough talk. I mentioned Ball Park Music. Let’s get it going with that and some other music you’ve been listening to.” The tunes started playing.

DJ and I met a few weeks ago, have been going back and forth for hours, and I return to him every once in a while. “Up next is a track you used to love, but it’s been a minute since you’ve listened to it,” the DJ said, before putting on a track by Harry Styles that I had not listened to in over a year. Nor want to listen to, it because it was a rather sad song and reminded me of how lonely living on your own can be sometimes. And how difficult starting over had been. DJ X opening old wounds and not even offering me a tissue. Or a shoulder to lean on. Even pressing the DJ button at the bottom of the screen didn’t help. The damage was done.

It’s a bit of quite a weekend. Not like something I would usually write about. Because there really isn’t much to write about. A colleague suggested writing about the “Präteritum Song” she had been teaching her German students this week, and that has been stuck in my head ever since then. I’d rather not – still trying to forget!

Not like the past weekend, when I enjoyed the rugged beauty of the lush Southern Highlands. Hiked rainforests and escarpments, sampled hot pies and Australian wine, and visited the Big Bad Potato (what a strange sight). Heard a different birdsong than the usual kookaburra laughter (the gorgeous Crimson Rosella visited the backyard early in the morning), and saw spring spring in front of my eyes. I found the desk I want to write a book at and a beautiful little French restaurant, where I want to have a big dinner party with all my friends and family.

Family. My family is on the move this weekend. It is the last long weekend in Canada and school is starting again. My colleagues are having the end-of-summer jitters, and my children are moving out. Taking off just like the shy birds in the yard, turning us into true empty nesters. It feels strange not to be there. Strange not to help them move into their tiny dorm rooms. Strange not to give them a hug goodbye. Instead, we FaceTime, me getting a tiny glimpse of what their new life looks like. They are a bit nervous, they say. Starting fresh is never easy. I’m an expert on that. I try to give them some advice: take a shower, go outside, get a coffee. Suddenly a “Mom, I have to go! Meeting up with some friends!” That was quick! I’m happy for him.

Time for me to follow my own advice. Go for a run – it’s Terry Fox’s Anniversary and I run in his memory. Get a coffee – lots of dads with their families having breakfast. It’s Father’s Day today. I think of my own dad and the first Father’s Day without being able to call him. Take a shower – DJ X talking to me through the shower curtain. He may be nosy, but he’s not indecent. He respects my privacy, after all.

I can’t sort out my feelings about DJ yet, but I don’t hate him. There are days, where he is the only human-not-human voice I hear. One time DJ chimed in with its smooth, bass-ey voice, and said I was listening to “Herb Gronmeir,” which is a pretty strange mispronunciation of Herbert Grönemeyer, even when you factor in the umlauts. DJ X may know my music, but he’ll never really know me. Sorry DJ X!

“To finish, I have the Präteritum Song for you. There’s just something about hot German Grammar that makes it hard to resist. And if you don’t like it – too bad. No blue DJ button for this one! Enjoy the lyrics, your DJ G.”

Das Präteritum ist gar nicht schwer, wenn Musik dazu erklingt.
Das Präteritum, ach bitte sehr, es wird leichter, wenn man singt.

The time to hesitate is through
No time to wallow in the mire
Try now we can only lose
And our love become a funeral pyre

Come on, baby, light my fire
Come on, baby, light my fire
Try to set the night on fire, yeah

Light my fire. The Doors

Her name is Lotti. Long blond hair, luscious and shiny. Slender legs. Seductive, yet kind eyes. A mature beauty. Patient and kind. She loves to read and is a great listener. She is intelligent, well-travelled and speaks many languages – German, English, and her own language of love.

Every Friday, she comes by to visit our classroom, and the kids love to see her. She stays for a while and hangs with us. Usually, she doesn’t say much. Just sits on the grass in the sunshine and spends time with them. The children love to read to her – the ol’ girl just closes her eyes and listens. Fiction or facts, fantasy or fun – she enjoys any type of genre. Food stories are her favourite though. Or books about squirrels. Though she would never chase one – this lady is way too cool and composed for that kind of behaviour. A Grande Dame. A wagging dowager. The princess of print.

Her name is Lotti. Lotti the story Dog.

Welcome to my school. Our school. The school of Lotti, the Story dog and crazy chickens running around. Of bush turkeys and big fat crows. Kookaburras, goanna lizards, and stick insects. Where little ducklings hatch and ponies roam the sports field. It’s a zoo – literally!

A year ago today, I returned to Sydney to finish what I had started – teaching the dream of living and working abroad. Time flies when you are having fun. At least most of the time.

I admit it – the start was a bit rough. Arriving in the middle of the school year and taking over a class that had a series of class teachers, wasn’t always easy. Animals help – in this case, it was a beaver I had brought over from Canada. Kasimir was his name, and he told the children stories about his adventures with his mate Frippe. Stories about baking and gardening, cooking and drawing. The simple books somehow appealed to the students, and together we created our own stories about Kasimir.

Off to a good start in the new school year – a trip to the Taronga Zoo with sixty students from all Grade 1 and 2 classes. In March, the Easter story reenacted with a donkey that did not want to come out of its horse float. Ducklings that hatched in the Kindergarten Class – very fluffy and surprisingly naughty. All these helped create an atmosphere of caring and belonging for the students and for me. The lizard in the classroom, the spiders under the classroom containers, the snake in the playground not so much!

And of course, Lotti the story dog!

Story dogs are part of a literacy program in Australia that tries to make reading fun for children. And my students love it! Each Friday, third lesson, Lotti shows up at our classroom and invites two children to come with her and read. The students run to get their easy readers and books, and off they go to find a quiet spot somewhere to sit and read to the dog. The accepting, loving nature of dogs gives this program its magic and helps the little ones relax, open up, try harder and have fun while reading to a friendly, calm dog. No judgment, no assessment. Just love and fun. The bark that lights my fire! Woof!

So when you ask me, what sparks light my fire while working at a school abroad, it is little moments like these. Seeing my students sitting on a picnic blanket, trying to teach the oh-so-patient Lotti to read a German book.

The quiet of arriving at school early in the morning, when the rising sunlight filters through the trees, the grass next to the sports field is still wet with rain, and the kookaburra sits on a tree stump, pondering life. The glimmers of joy. Kindy kids sitting on rocks, having a morning tea picnic. Primary kids making soup out of leaves and flowers and sticks. A girl sneaking chicken eggs into her schoolbag to take home (not sure if they made it).

In a city of posh private schools and school uniforms, of old-fashioned school frocks and straw hats, the sight of the students at our school is quite refreshing. Some maybe call it a bit of a hippy school (no offence, quite the contrary), I call it a place of many little sparks that light my fire.

In 2019, I came to teach in Sydney to reignite my love for teaching, and to rekindle my passion for being a teacher. And it did. No school is perfect, and neither is this one! But it has a lot of elements that I am looking for when I think about how and what I want to teach. I enjoy teaching in German again (no more dreaded French), working in a team, the freedom you have as a teacher when working at a private school, and of course, the beautiful location.

A year ago today, I returned to the German School Sydney for another two-year contract. Took the big risk of coming back. Breaking my own rule of “never go back to a place where you were happy before”.

I returned with the constant reminder in my head, that things would not be the same. Because they are not. Friendships have changed, teaching has changed, and the school has changed. I have changed. Things are different now than they were in 2019, but that does not mean they are better or worse – they are just different. Still plenty of tiny little sparks that light my fire. A year has passed and another one to go. And who knows what will happen then.

It is our annual Christmas Market at school this weekend and there will be sausages and mulled wine, waffles and fairy floss (spun by no other than me!). Children will sing Christmas carols, walk with lanterns, and roast marshmallows over the open fire pit. A big bang for a small school.

Lotti will be at home, and together with all the other animals, wait for the peace and quiet to return to our school grounds. And while I’ll be working at my sweet stall, trying to get the fairy floss out of my hair, I will watch for the little sparks rising up from the open fire pit and all the other little magical spots. The little flames that keep lighting my love for this place. For teaching. And in my head, I can hear Lotti barking. Woof!

• 😊 Blocking out students’ faces to assure their privacy 😊

It all starts with impersonations. We can make ourselves sound like almost anything: chainsaws, other birds, cameras and even koalas. Pretty soon we are telling all kinds of lies: big lies, little lies, white lies, porky pies, and big fat whoppers.

Liarbird. Philip Bunting

(Warning: This post may contain fibbing, faking, fabricating, or straight-out lying.)

July 2019. The first time I set foot in an Australian coffee shop and ordered a “weird long black with a dash of milk“. How I struggled to purchase my first cup of coffee, and how I made a complete fool of myself while doing so. I remember holding my open wallet across the coffee shop counter like a little kid, so the barista could choose the proper coins to pay for my hot beverage. Perfect humiliation.

Four years later, and I have practised my coffee-ordering skills (I have graduated to a “large almond cap extra strong extra hot”), though i continue to struggle to recognize the proper coins. Nobody pays with real money in Australia anymore – it’s all tap and pay. And even I wanted to, I am often too lazy to look for my glasses to identify the right coin.

The other day we were learning about Australian coins and bills in Math class and for the first time I had a proper look at each individual coin – with my glasses on! It turned out that most of them had an Australian animal on the reverse side: a feather tailed glider, a frill-necked lizard, an echidna, a platypus, or five kangaroos. And the liar, err, lyrebird. One of Australia’s best-known birds but extremely shy. Encountering a lyrebird was almost as impossible as ordering a coffee in a local coffee shop and paying for it with the proper coins.

During our past winter break, just having returned from the hot and humid Canadian summer, a colleague of mine invited me to the Southern Highlands, two-hours south of Sydney. Renowned for wineries, excellent cafés and restaurants, some of the best waterfalls in Sydney and of course, epic hikes and lookouts. We wanted to explore the area and decided on a short little hike to the Fitzroy Falls through a eucalyptus forest, with rainforest areas and thick bush covering the ground. 

The morning had started quite early and unusually cold – so cold that there was frost on the lawn and a thin layer of ice on the windshield of our car. Not the thick layer of ice we get in Canada, that requires an ice pick and an axe to get through. But still – there was ice in paradise! My first frost in Australia. Temperatures had dipped below zero during the night and the insides of the Airbnb, we were staying at, did not feel much warmer than that. The bone-chilling cold in the house drove us to the warmth of our car and its seat heaters, and off we went to the Fitzroy Falls in Morton National Park – toasty bums and perfect coffees in hand.

Shortly before nine, we arrived at the enormous park with cascading waterfalls, imposing gorges, and lush rainforest full of wildlife. And we had it all to ourselves! Maybe it was too early, or maybe it was too cold, but on our short walk along the trail, we did not meet a human soul. Nor did we see any animal other than a few birds: cockatoos and kookaburras, bowerbirds and crimson Rosella. And all of a sudden, long brown tail feathers rustling in the bush, and we heard the distinct call of a big fat liar – the Lyrebird!

A ground-dwelling Australian bird, it has the impressive ability to mimic natural and artificial sounds from its environment. Its fossils dating back to about 15 million years, this shy animal was an excellent imposter and liar! The better the faking, the more popular the male bird with the ladies! The fake call and the impressive S-shaped tail feathers that resemble the shape of a lyre instrument – hence its name.

Just in my head, it was spelled l-i-a-r bird and looked more like the character from a picture book I would read with my class. And why not – after all, this bird was very good at faking it! Winter was its mating season, and he was fibbing and faking away!

Speaking of winter and liars – some of my friends and family members abroad at times seem to think I am lying when I tell them about the Australian winter.

“Yeah right,” they say, “some kind of winter, when there are blue skies and palm trees!”

And, I agree, while winter here in Sydney does not compare to the bone-chilling, heart-breaking, snot-in-your-nose-freezing cold in Canada, there have definitely been signs all around me that scream: It’s winter!

And I am not making this up!

True Winter Sign #1

While winter in Australia officially lasts from June until September, the first signs of winter appeared in April.

Daylight savings time had ended on the second Sunday in April, and all of a sudden the sun sets at 5 in the afternoon. And I don’t mean a slow, long-lasting setting of the sun that gives you enough time to make it home before it gets dark. No, I mean a quick and sudden night-falling that lasts only minutes. You can literally watch the sun drop. I was out for a run at the lagoon that second Sunday in April, and still had a few kilometres to go, when the sky suddenly started to get dark and went from blue to orange to purple to pitch-black! I must have run my personal best that afternoon, so I did not have to run through the dark forest full of dangerous creatures like snakes and spiders and boxing kangaroos.

True Winter Sign #2

Also in April, I made the painful realization that winter in Sydney comes as an overnight shock! Not a gentle cooling of temperatures – no! One night you sleep in a t-shirt and shorts, the next you get your double Doona cover (aka duvet), blankets, flannelette sheets, flannelette PJ, flannelette everything out and shiver yourself to sleep.

I had left my windows open while I was gone to Germany for two weeks and when I returned to my little granny flat, the inside was so cold I could see my breath. It took my gas cook top and the pathetic little space heater I had purchased before my trip to get at least one room in the tiny place somewhat warm. Houses here are often built of wood with very little insulation and no central heating, and I learned quickly to leave my windows shut.

True Winter Sign #3

Everyone starts to wear their winter gear – despite it being plus 10 degrees outside! Waiting at the bus stop in the morning, I started seeing people wearing fur-lined UGG boots, thick puffer jackets, woollen beanie hats and tights instead of shorts. Sometimes UGG boots and shorts. Or woollen hats and bikinis. It is a bit confusing for a Canadian, I have to admit.

But, after a few weeks of secretly mocking the over-the-top winter wear of the locals, I started to do the same. Layers of sweaters and a jacket and a scarf when I leave the house in the morning at 5 degrees. A t-shirt and sweat run down my face when I return in the afternoon to a sunny 23 degrees. My UGG boots I only wear inside to keep my feet warm – give me another year, and I’ll break down and wear them in public.

True Winter Sign #4

You know it’s winter in Australia when the surrounding animals change. And I have to say, I love it! All the tiny critters like cockroaches and spiders and ants disappear, and it’s a rather peaceful time in my apartment. When you can go to the toilet in the middle of the night without stepping on a giant bug or open your Nutella jar without being greeted by an army of ants. I do, however, miss the little gecko in my shower a bit.

Instead, you see whales and dolphins swim by in the ocean to migrate from their Southern Ocean feeding grounds to warmer waters to mate and have their babies. The only animal that stays with me all year round is my loyal friend, the kookaburra. Except that he did not get the memo about the time change and started acting up at 4 in the morning instead of five.

True Winter Sign #5

You know it is winter in Australia, when you see Christmas hats and roast dinners at the local Pub – Christmas in July is a thing, though I am not sure why. There is the Christmas Market at our school in August and people line up to enjoy hot mulled wine in 20 degrees and sunshine.

It is hard to believe that this is already my third winter here in Australia. That it’s already been a whole year since I arrived. And yet, every day I learn something new about this beautiful country and its traditions and habits.

Ocean winter swim is a thing here in Australia and I watch the locals swim into the rising sun every morning at the beach while I drink my almond cap, extra strong, extra hot.

One day I took all my courage and went in the freezing cold water myself. Barely able to breath, I did some strokes to create heat, when I saw three whales in the distance, jumping synchronously out of the ocean, dancing just for me. And when I got out of the cold water and climbed on my kangaroo to hop back home, I looked back and waved at whales with my mitten-clad hand. Or something like that.

Fibbing is fun and almost never gets you into trouble. Just like the liar bird said!

Cheers!

Precious and fragile things
Need special handling
My God what have we done to you?

We always tried to share
The tenderest of care
Now look what we have put you through

Things get damaged, things get broken
I thought we’d manage, but words left unspoken
Left us so brittle
There was so little left to give

I pray you learn to trust
Have faith in both of us
And keep room in your hearts for two

Precious. Depeche Mode

Once upon a time, there was a ring. Oh, Lord! No, not THAT RING! No, just a simple little ring, probably not worth much but precious nonetheless. 

A slim, gold-plated band with a rectangular blue gem sitting flat on top. A simple design of swirls and leaves on each side of its head. The aquamarine stone held by a thin frame of gold metal, dotted with white and yellow specks—the beautiful imperfections of the Lapis Lazuli. Blue like the night sky: the stars, the moon, the Milky Way. A whole universe in a tiny rectangular space.

My parents’ engagement ring. Purchased sometime in the 1950s, though I am just guessing. Given to my mother by my father, probably for its beautiful colour. Maybe for its meaning of harmony, love and protection in any kind of relationship. I doubt it, though – I don’t think people were big into crystals back then. Especially my father – but who knows? I wish I could ask them.

Instead, I consult the internet. The blue Lapis Lazuli, so I learn, is one of the most precious and beautiful stones. It is the stone of friendship and relationships but also truth and honesty! Who knew? 

A semi-precious rock formed by several minerals: the white specks of calcium, the golden flecks of pyrite, and the deep blue colour of sodalite.

When my mother gave me her ring at my wedding, it became MY precious. I wore it every day, not paying much attention to the wear and tear of everyday life. I did not protect it from sharp dish soap or oily hand lotion, as they tell you – not even from the raw ground beef I sank my be-ringed hand into when making meatloaf. It took me a while to figure out, where that nauseating stench on my right hand came from. My precious ring desperately needed to be de-beefed!

Eventually, the bottom of the ring wore thin and broke apart. A jeweller in the local shopping mall in Toronto was able to fix it – re-shanking they call it. Such a massive word for something so small and delicate. 

The ring journeyed with me through time. From Germany to Canada to Australia and never left my finger. Until the blue stone in its middle couldn’t hold on any longer. One night it fell out of its metal band and was gone. Just like that. I had the whole pub crawling on their knees, trying to find the tiny little blue gem on the worn red carpet of the bar. But to no avail – the rock remained missing, and the golden casing now sat empty on my right ring finger. It felt like the last thing that had reminded me of my mother, was gone.

This made me think of my chiropractor Dr. Jack – a fixer not only of bad backs and stuffed-up knees but, as it turned out, of broken jewellery as well. I remembered him admiring my blue gemmed ring, and decided to give it a shot.

“How much would it cost, to have the stone on my mother’s ring replaced?” I inquired hesitantly.

“One hundred dollars? One thousand? One million? Is it even worth it? Will it cost me my soul?” 

“Your soul!” he replied dryly. “And of course it’s worth it – it’s your mother’s ring.”

And so I dropped off my precious ring at Dr. Jack’s clinic – it was on a rainy day in February. I remember because I slipped on the wet front step on my way out, thinking that was a great way of making new customers. But this wasn’t about me or my bruised tailbone – this was about my ring!

One month went by. Two. Once in a while, I would ask about my ring, only to get a vague answer of it still waiting to be cut…. Just when I was about to give up on my family heirloom, I received a message from Dr. Jack informing me that my ring was now in Bangkok, together with many other broken jewels, waiting to be fixed over there, for a much smaller price. Had I lost my ring forever? Or, much worse, had I indeed sold my soul? How much would this sentimental journey cost me? My ring had travelled to Thailand without me. What an amazing trip – I kind of wanted to be my ring.

And then, one day in May, I received a photo of my mother’s ring, all shiny and new, with a brand new blue gemstone in the middle! My ring was once again complete, and on its way back to Sydney (I wondered what class it would fly in? And how much this trip overseas would cost me?). 

It turned out that it did not cost me my soul. Or a million dollars. Just $100 and a good bottle of wine. 

When I picked up my ring from the clinic this week, it did look a bit different –  very polished and clean. The blue stone a little shinier and smooth. But when I put it on my finger, I could still see the night sky, and my mother giving me the ring on my wedding day for “something blue”.

They say, if you lose a crystal, wish it well on its journey (and what a journey this little bugger has had!). Hope that the person who finds it will benefit from its positive energy (the only thing that benefitted from my poor little lost gem was the vacuum cleaner that sucked it up in that bar the next morning).

They also say, if you lost a crystal and then find it again, that maybe you needed a little break from the crystal’s energy and that you are now ready for its good vibrations once again. 

So bring it on, little Lapis! Bring on the strength and the courage, the royalty and the wisdom, the intellect and truth and everything that this blue rock stands for. “If you like it, put a ring on it!” she said. I’m with Beyoncé on this one!

No, to be honest, I’m not a big believer in crystals and their energy. I just like the blue colour of the ring on my finger. How it reminds me of the blue of the ocean. The sky before sunrise. My mother. I like that this little ring went on a journey on its own to get fixed and that it came back to me, all shiny and new. I like the story it tells me. Or as the author Laura van Berg put it:

“Objects contain worlds; troubled and fractured histories; unanswerable mysteries; force fields of thoughts and feelings. (…) Objects have the power to communicate the matter that exists beyond the limits of language”. (Laura van den Berg. Object Lesson: An Exploration).

So cheers to the stories that objects tell. The adventure, my precious ring has had. To Dr. Jack and the Stone Cutters of Bangkok. And the little things that are really the big things.

It’s been a long time running
It’s been a long time coming
It’s been a long, long, long time running
It’s well worth the wait
It’s well worth the wait
It’s well worth the wait
It’s well worth the wait

Long Time Running. The Tragically Hip

Going through my old emails, I came across a message sent on March 1, 2020. It read: 

“I have heard my knee again – this time hiking. They think it’s the meniscus. With lots of exercises, chiro, and patience, I am hoping to be still able to run the Noosa Marathon in May, maybe only the half.”

It did take lots of exercise and chiro to get back to running, but most of all, it took patience. Lots of patience. Three years of patience! 

But here I am! Noosa Marathon 2023, and I did it! Not the whole thing – I am three years older now! But Noosa Half is done! Check! It’s been a long time coming!

Noosa is a beautiful place on the ocean, an hour and a half flight north of Sydney. You get on the plane in Sydney in 7 degrees fall weather and arrive with a balmy 26 degrees sunshine. 

Noosa is a squeaky beach, swaying palm trees, coffee shops and small boutiques, ocean, rivers, and islands. But most of all, it’s flat! Super flat. There are a few misplaced-looking mountains in the hinterland – five to be exact. The five Noosa Mountains. Huge volcanic rocks that are categorized as laccoliths. Created about 26 million years ago, when dome-shaped bulges of magma cooled below the Earth’s surface. They look a bit like a pimple to me. Pretty pimples you can go hiking on.

Flying into Noosa and catching a first glimpse of the Sunshine Coast, there was a moment of panic when I wondered whether we had to run up one of these rocks during our marathon, but fortunately, we soon learned that our race would only take place on the beautifully flat streets of Noosa. Phew!

And so, three years after booking this flight, this hotel, and this race, I cashed in all my travel vouchers and was ready to run. Checked into the motel, picked up my race kit, had the obligatory pasta for dinner and went to bed at 8:30 pm. After all, we had an important race to run the next day. Always on my side, my energizer-bunny friend and running mate from school, and together we rocked this town.

Was I prepared? Nooo! Was I well-trained? Nooo! It had been three years since I last ran this distance, and in between, there was a messed-up knee, long Covid, years of quarantine, my father’s death… I was not prepared at all! 

 But I was ready! Because I wanted to finish what I had started. I had returned to Sydney to finish my contract with the German School. Had come back to finish the year of living my dream. Of experiencing fall and winter in Downunder. And to run this damn marathon.

And we did! It was hard, and it hurt. Kilometre 14 still sucks, and you ask yourself why you are doing this. Your legs hurt, your feet hurt, everything hurts. But then you look around and realize you are in paradise. The crystal-clear waters and the lush tropical vegetation. The morning sunshine warming the back of your legs, a gentle breeze cooling your face. And for a moment, you forget about your achy legs and the blisters on your feet, and you smile. I am running a dream! I am living my dream. It’s been a long time coming!

No, I’m not colorblind
I know the world is black and white
I try to keep an open mind
But I just can’t sleep on this tonight

Stop this train
I want to get off and go home again
I can’t take the speed it’s moving in
I know I can’t
But honestly, won’t someone stop this train?

Don’t know how else to say it
Don’t want to see my parents go

I’m one generation’s length away
From fighting life out on my own

John Mayer. Stop This Train

(This post is part of a 30-Day Journaling Project that I am participating in. Thank you to Suleika Jaouad of The Isolation Journals for provide the prompt.)

Day 16. Look through your photographs – maybe in old albums, maybe on your phone – and chose a person to write to. It could be someone living or someone who has died. Write them a letter, allowing the words to flow as they will. Then decide: Save it, or send it – and maybe a copy of the photograph too.

Dear Dad,

In the comforting darkness of the passenger cabin, surrounded by the soothing sound of the airplane’s constant hum, I write this letter to you.

I have been putting off this task, have been avoiding this writing prompt. So much I want to say, but I don’t know how. Words inside my head crash into each one another like atoms colliding. So many emotions, but I feel numb. So many thoughts, yet I feel dumb.

I spent the last eight days with you, watching you disappear slowly. We went from having Easter Lunch together to watching you suffer in a sterile hospital bed. Went from greeting each other as father and daughter to saying farewell with nothing more than a gentle squeeze of your hand.

I am on my way back to what I call home now. It is not easy to leave. Not easy to leave you. But it feels like I have nothing else to give. Feels like I have done everything I could right now. I am so grateful I got to sit with you and listen to you. Got to hold your hand and gently talk to you. Got to look after you for a short little while at least. In the end, it felt like I had no more to give. I have to go to find the strength to come back soon. Even if that means you will have left by then.

On my 22-hour journey around the globe, I watched an insane amount of reality shows on the tiny airplane screen in front of me – my comfort zone. 90 Day Fiancé (UK Edition!), Say Yes to the Dress (an old-time favourite), and various foodie shows. Insanely mind-numbing, but strangely comforting.

In one of the shows, something was said that struck a chord with me and got me to finally sit down and write this letter to you, Dad. Allow me to let the words and tears flow. And it went something like this:

“Even though I didn’t always have the greatest relationship with my parents – if it wasn’t for them, I wouldn’t be who I am today. I am not me without all the experiences we had together – positive and bad.”

So here is my letter to you, Dad, to say thank you for all the experiences we shared – good and bad. For making me the person I am today.

Thank you for taking me for hikes and bike rides, though I am sure I complained plenty about each one of them. For taking me to the pool every Sunday morning, where you would swim your laps, while I would spend most of my time under the hot shower. For taking me to more churches than I cared to see. For introducing me to Beethoven’s 5th and Irish Coffee. Thank you for instilling in me a love for travel and adventure. For supporting my crazy dreams, no matter how outrageous they were.

While spending the last few days in your apartment, I found a big red folder with my name on it. I opened it to have a look inside. In it, I found all the blog posts I had written in the past, printed in colour and filed in no particular order.

When I left for Australia, you asked me whether I could still be a good mother to my children from that far away. Back then, I did not know what to say. In fact, I remember feeling a little irritated and annoyed by your question. Thinking about it again as I looked through the paper copies of my blog posts, I thought that every parent probably does what they think is best at that moment in time. Both, you and I.

And then I closed the thick red folder and put it back on the shelf in your deserted apartment.

Thank you, Dad, for reading my posts. For reading this letter, though I will never mail it. Thank you for being my dad. For making me who I am today. Miss you already.

Gisela

Falling slowly, eyes that know me
And I can’t go back
And moods that take me and erase me
And I’m painted black

Well, you have suffered enough
And warred with yourself
It’s time that you won

Take this sinking boat and point it home
We’ve still got time
Raise your hopeful voice, you have a choice
You’ve made it now

Falling slowly, sing your melody
I’ll sing it loud
Oh

Take it all

Falling Slowly. Glen Hansard and Markéta Irglová

It’s fall in Australia. Forgive me if I call it fall. Fall is the older English usage, and I like it better – it’s familiar and trim, so apt for the season; its fitness for purpose, its spiritual intimations (the end of paradise, the falling of the year). This end of a season.

Rain is falling. Temperatures are falling. Even some leaves are falling in the evergreen Northern Beaches.

Days are getting shorter. The star-lit nights are getting longer. Daylight savings time ends tonight. Falling backwards by an hour. Hello darkness, my old friend – I’ve come to talk to you again...

I spent the day in bed, hiding under my warm doona, looking at UGG boots and electric heaters online. Yesterday I was wearing a summer dress. Today, I am fantasizing about an Oodie – an oversized blanket hoodie that looks awfully cozy and warm.

The first day of autumn was on March 1, but never mind the official date. You wake up one morning (I think it was on a Thursday) and the weather takes on a different feel after weeks of soupy humidity. You walk to the bus stop and the air feels different. Not only colder, but drier and sharper against your skin. You regret not having brought a sweater. Later, as you are running from one classroom to the next, you briefly look up to see a crisp blue sky, scrubbed of its summer haze. In the evening, when you return from school, you realize there are new scents in the evening air: damp earth, eucalyptus trees, and a wood stove burning close by. The sand feels colder to the touch, as you settle down to watch the sun set, creating the bold and beautiful orange, red and pink colours you see more of in the cooler season of fall. And when I say cooler, I mean average temperatures of 15–22 degrees. I am not complaining.

As the summer lingers, the days are still warm even as the evenings get shorter. Locals go for a swim after work in the ocean waters that are actually the warmest in the month of March and April. People still shop the supermarket barefoot  (I’m still not used to that).  Gone are the tourists that flock to the beaches on the weekends. It feels like the town is being returned to its rightful owners. You get back your favourite spot at your favourite café. The local eatery doesn’t run out of your favourite dish of meatballs and rice.  Knit sweaters appear in the shops’ windows. One last call from the cicadas. Small living things like ants and cockroaches and spiders decide to move in with you. The kookaburra continues to laugh, even though his laughter sounds a little sentimental, too.

As autumn arrives, so does a certain sense of melancholy and sadness. Gone are the days of heat and sunshine and being outdoors all the time. The year is about to come inside. Things are about to get serious. Feeling a bit more alone and homesick feels appropriate for this time of year. I miss celebrating birthdays with my family. Remembering anniversaries of loved ones that have passed with loved ones that are still alive but thousands of miles away. 

With the arrival of fall, I realize that I do not know Australia in autumn at all. That I have no idea what it is like. The last time I was here, I had to leave at the beginning of April as the pandemic was settling over the world like dusk setting in on a rainy autumn day. Do the leaves change colour? Do the trees go bare and naked? Do people eat pumpkin pie for Easter? Does the Easter bunny hop in the opposite direction?

Easter. Easter is such a spring holiday to me. The symbol for new beginnings and life, for flowers and short-sleeved outfits, for pastel colours and new hope. Teaching my students about Easter, I realize that all the schoolbooks we use have an Easter in mind that happens in spring. Not in fall! It’s a good thing that we always have a variety of beautiful flowers blooming down here, no matter what the season: giant Hibiscus, red bottle brush, prickly Banksias and the bright purple Tibouchina trees. So we add a few brown and orange and yellow leaves to our picture of the Easter bunny hopping through fall flowers. The children don’t mind. I find it hard to get used to this new Easter setting.

Autumn in Australia to me is early morning runs in cool, fresh air. The end of our first term at school (three more to go, before it all starts again). School holidays and flying out to Germany to see my dad and sisters. Falling back to spring. Springing back into fall. As I said, I am confused. 

One a day not too long ago, when it was still hot and summer, I went to the movie theatre to find some reprieve from the heat. The film “Shackleton” which tells the story of an expedition gone wrong and a ship being crushed by ice in Antarctica, seemed perfect to cool me down. Not only did it offer me a break from the stifling late-summer temperatures, it also gave me some unexpected advice on how to handle my own sense of feeling stuck at times.

1. Focus on your mission. Change your mission if you have to (I am on a mission to find out what this place feels like in autumn. Screw you Covid!).
2. Improvise when needed (Had to drop my race in Canberra to fly to Germany instead, which might have saved me from having to walk 21 km).
3. Use your emotional and social intelligence (if you got any).
4. Be persistent and resilient (every day!).
5. Manage the vital details (I cooked lentil soup this week – the perfect autumn meal).
6. Communicate frequently with the people on your team (not much of a caller, but I actually zoom called with my sisters this week, and it felt good!).
7. Learn from your mistakes!

Cheers!

I have my books
And my poetry to protect me
I am shielded in my armour
Hiding in my room safe within my womb
I touch no one and no one touches me
I am a rock, I am an island

And a rock feels no pain
And an island never cries

Simon & Garfunkel

The pulse oximeter on my finger was beeping. The screen on the small device flashed continuously.

“Mmm. That’s odd”, the nurse mumbled, fiddling around with the POx on my left hand.

“Let’s try again.”

I was lying on a heavy metal stretcher in the nurses’ room, staring at the white ceiling, and trying very hard not to get concerned about what the nurse had just said. I was way too tired to really care anyway.

“You have no pulse!” she declared, still trying to adjust the small machine on my middle finger, so it would pick up any form of vital sign.

That was indeed odd because as far as I was concerned, I still felt very much alive. Maybe feeling a little sleepy, but definitely not dead.

“Ah! There we go! It’s very low, but you do have a pulse!”

I feigned relief and smiled.

“It’s amazing you are even awake! Has it always been that low?”

Yup.

“Must be because you are a runner!”

I doubt it, but sure. Sounded better than basically being half-asleep all day.

“High-performing athletes often have a very low heart rate!” the nurse educated me.

Nope. I mean, yes – but I was not a high-performing athlete! Far from it. I just had a slow heart. Or none at all. That and very low blood pressure

“Oh my. Don’t you feel dizzy? You should have a glass of sparkly in the morning before you go to work.”

Though I liked the idea, I was not sure how my school would feel about that. Better dizzy than drunk!

And low iron. Or EYE-ON, as the lovely lady in the blue scrubs called it. Which was the reason why I was lying on this metal stretcher with a needle in my arm – my EYE-ON was extremely low, and I was about to receive an iron infusion. The magic potion. The super solution. The secret juice that was going to turn me into a half-marathon-running machine. And within the next three weeks, please – because that’s when my first race in Canberra was happening.

I had just run my personal best that morning, and I had hoped I could avoid this medical procedure. Not because I did not want it – I very much wanted all the iron I could get and all the energy that it would hopefully bring me. No, I had hoped to avoid the costs of getting this special treatment. Could have spent a weekend in the nicest spa in the Northern Beaches for the cost of the little cannula filled with brown liquid gold. I had hoped the nurse would look at my blood work results and tell me in a hushed voice:

“Darling – you don’t need this. You are fine! Why don’t you save yourself the money and just eat a bit of spinach!”

But no! Instead, after having looked at my file online, she got up and closed the door – almost as if to make sure I was not running away. After all, I was a high-performing athlete in her eyes.

I was going nowhere. And I was going to get some EYE-ON! Which would turn me into some kind of superhero instantly. Like Captain Australia. or something!

(Yes, there is a Captain Australia! I looked it up! And a Captain Britain, a Captain Brazil, a Captain America, of course, even a Captain Canada – all part of the All Captains Squad! Which Wolverine doesn’t want to be part of, because Captain America is bossy as usual. And then… oh, I’m sorry. I should focus! Eye on the eye-on!

Back to the iron! Iron is an important mineral that is involved in various bodily functions, including the transport of oxygen in the blood. No wonder I had felt so drained lately. That, or the fact that I basically had turned my entire life upside down – literally!

It turns out, iron is also the most abundant rock-forming element on earth, constituting about 5% of the earth’s crust. Iron is the reason for the earth’s magnetic field. And it is responsible for the red colour in many of Australia’s rocks and the deep red sands of the Australian desert.

Ever wondered why is Uluru red? For thousands of years, Uluru’s surface has been exposed to the water and the oxygen in the air. (That, and millions of flies!) This exposure has slowly decayed the minerals in the rock, causing them to oxidize. As a result, the iron minerals found inside the rock’s surface are rusting, which leads to its red colour. There you go!

And even sandstone, the principal rock type here in the Sydney Basin, is rich in iron. At times, you can see the iron oxide minerals shining through, having formed a vivid orange and brown circular pattern in the light brown stone. “Liesegang Banding” this internal rock feature of red swirls is called and can be found all along the coast of Sydney.

Next to twirling in circles, the local sandstone also likes to form a pattern of fine wavy lines created by layers and layers of sand deposited by a huge river system that came all the way from Antarctica 250 million years ago, when everything in Down Under was still connected.

And finally, there are these strange holes, also called honeycomb weathering. An attractive element of coastal exposure of the rock to water and wind occurs when the salt crystals from the ocean water break parts of the rock, creating a small hole that gets bigger as the process repeats itself again and again.

Sydney’s sandstone, called Hawkesbury Sandstone, can be found everywhere in the region (the name “Sydney Sandstone” had already been given to the other Sydney in Nova Scotia. Sorry, Captain Australia. This one went to Captain Canada!).

In nature, it underlines and shapes the scenery of vertical cliffs, plateau surfaces, and steep and boulder slopes. Sydney’s sandstone landscape is largely built from nutrient-poor, but iron-rich rock that supports the incredibly rich flora of the area. Many of the species found in the area are said to benefit from the buffering action of the iron against the phosphorous toxicity of the land. The diversity of sandstone heathlands and shrublands in places like Ku-rin-gai Chase right next to my school is only surpassed in the variety by biodiverse hotspots found in southwest West Australia.

In history, where sandstone has been important to the Indigenous people long before the settlers arrived, and many rock engravings can still be found in the area.

In the city, where sandstone has been the premium building stone from the early days of settlement in New South Wales to the present day. The city’s Town Hall, Cathedrals, art galleries, museums and schools are made of this iron- and quartz-rich rock. It is the rock that built The Rocks!

On his well-toned chest, Captain Australia wears the Southern Cross – a radiant star group that appears in the dream stories of the Aboriginals and helped early sailors find their way. The 5 stars were useful nighttime companions to all explorers and travellers.

Last night, after my iron infusion and a big dinner of hamburger and Coke (doctor’s order), I was sitting at the beach, waiting for the supplement to do its job. The last couple of weeks had been hard – the end of a long term, parent interviews, accreditation and taxes, the occasional moment of feeling homesick – and I was waiting for that additional energy to surge through my veins. For my muscles to bulge just like Captain A’s, for those guiding stars to appear and show me the way. But nothing happened, other than my stomach making funny gurgling sounds.

But as I looked up, there it was – the Southern Cross! At least, I think it was because I’m not very good at recognizing star constellations. And while I realized that it may take a few more weeks for the infusion to kick in and my energy to surge, I was having my own little superhero moment right there and then, on the dark deserted beach. Surrounded by the sandstone of the headlands, the guiding stars above me, and heaps of smelly iron-rich seaweed in front of me, I was getting the energy I needed to get up and go on. At least until the EYE-ON would kick in!

Cheers

• https://www.ga.gov.au/education/classroom-resources/minerals-energy/australian-mineral-facts/iron
• https://www.nationalrockgarden.com.au/rock-collection/hawkesbury-sandstone/

I am woman, hear me roar
In numbers too big to ignore
And I know too much to go back an’ pretend
‘Cause I’ve heard it all before
And I’ve been down there on the floor
And no one’s ever gonna keep me down again

Yes, I am wise
But it’s wisdom born of pain
Yes, I’ve paid the price
But look how much I’ve gained
If I have to, I can do anything
I am strong (strong)
I am invincible (invincible)
I am woman

You can bend but never break me
‘Cause it only serves to make me
More determined to achieve my final goal
And I come back even stronger
Not a novice any longer
‘Cause you’ve deepened the conviction in my soul

Yes, I am wise
But it’s wisdom born of pain
Yes, I’ve paid the price
But look how much I’ve gained
If I have to, I can do anything
I am strong (strong)
I am invincible (invincible)
I am woman

I am Woman. Helen Reddy

March 8, 2023. International Women’s Day. 

Another busy Wednesday at school with teaching, planning, and tons of emails. The record-breaking temperatures from the two previous days were finally starting to come down, and the classrooms were back to a balmy 30 degrees room temperature. We do have air-conditioning in our fancy classroom containers, but the heat usually wins by midday. I couldn’t wait for the school day to be over, so I could get home to enjoy a refreshing dip in the ocean and an evening in the cool ocean breeze.

Getting off the bus, I was greeted by a large sign in front of the local bakery: You are awesome! Well, not me specifically, but every person walking by. Every woman. Every man. What a lovely message. Soon thereafter, the first texts from Canada started coming in on my phone: Happy Women’s Day! You Ladies Rock! And a YouTube recording of the song “I am Woman”.

Right, I almost forgot! It was Women’s Day and ironically I had just spent the day filling out feedback surveys for the leaders at my new school. Which, interestingly enough (but not surprisingly) were all men! When I thought about it, so far all the leadership roles at the schools abroad that I have worked at had been filled by men. Montreal, Hong Kong, Toronto, Sydney. Principal. Deputy Principal. Head of Primary. You name it – always men. Lots and lots of highly qualified female teachers do the daily groundwork, yet not a single woman in any of the leadership positions of the German schools I had worked at. Coincidence? Maybe. I can only speak about my own experiences.

Flashback. May 1996. Düsseldorf, Germany. Hotel Nikko. 11am. My first job interview as a teacher. The position I was applying for: Primary School Teacher at the German Swiss International School, in Hong Kong.

My dad had found the tiny ad in the national newspaper. He knew of my wish to teach abroad and, having worked overseas himself, supported my dream. My mom tried to hide the newspaper clipping as she did not want me to leave. Too expensive to send letters and parcels to Hong Kong, she said. I knew what she wanted to say, was: Hong Kong was simply too far away for her youngest daughter to move to.

Yet I applied and received an invitation for an interview. This was 1996 and there were no zoom calls or online interviews. There weren’t even any computers or the internet, yet. Just an old-fashioned phone call from the Principal of the school, Herr Schierschke, inviting me to come to the Nikko Hotel near the central train station in Düsseldorf. With no internet around, I had no idea what kind of hotel this would be. But located right next to the train station, I pictured a dingy little love hotel. I decided to dress down, and wore a pair of jeans and a can of pepper spray in my pocket – you never know! And off. I went to the first job interview in my life.

Hotel Nikko turned out to be an upscale five-star hotel on the bustling Koenigsallee in Düsseldorf. I quickly realized that I was extremely underdressed when I walked into the gigantic foyer of the hotel. Beautiful people in beautiful little outfits. Expensive suits and elegant dresses. High heels and lots of make-up. And me in my washed-out jeans. At least I had thrown on my H&M blazer at the very last minute. I didn’t even need my pepper spray to make myself cry.

The interview went well until my potential future boss asked me about my partner.

“Frau Koehl, I am very impressed by your qualifications and I would like to offer you the position, but I have to ask: What is your husband going to do in Hong Kong?”

My first response must have been very polite, and well-rehearsed, I am sure. Probably something like him finding a job in one of the trading companies. After all – this was Hong Kong, an international business and trade hub. I was convinced he would find a job!

A couple of other questions were asked before the principal inquired once again about my husband’s plans on how to fill his time in the Far East. I paraphrased my answer and assured the interviewer that my partner would be fine, slightly annoyed by now.

Before the interview in the glitzy café at the best hotel in town ended, Herr Schierschke asked one last time about my spouse.

“You know!,” he explained in a condescending tone,” it’s not good for the husband to get bored. Then they get depressed, and the family has to return to Germany. A man needs to be busy. A man needs to work!”

I wanted this job. I always wanted to teach abroad and this was the perfect opportunity. But at that moment, I remember thinking: Screw it! I had had enough of this conversation.

“Herr Schierschke!”, I said, wiping my sweaty hands on my worn-out jeans.

“I appreciate your concern. And I can only assure you that my husband will be fine. But let me ask you this question: if I was a man, and we were having this job interview, would you ask about my wife and how she would feel not having anything to do while her spouse went to work every day? Would you be as concerned about her getting bored and sad and depressed?”

I don’t remember how the interview ended. I want to believe I turned around on the flat heels of my comfortable shoes, my messy hair, all frizzy from sweating through this interview, swishing through the air as I stormed out of the pompous reception hall of the Nikko Hotel. But I don’t remember.

I do remember receiving a phone call the next day, being offered the job. I started teaching at the German International School, in Hong Kong three months later. My husband worked for a Swiss trading company until we had our first son, born in 1998. He was the best stay-at-home dad there ever was. And the only time he was sad and depressed, was the time he was working nonstop 24/7. I loved being the sole breadwinner, supporting my little family.  A chance you don’t get very often as a woman on a meagre teacher salary. I was at the height of my career. I was woman!

Feeling like I had not acknowledged International Women’s Day enough, I decided to check out the All About Women’s Festival at the Sydney Opera House. A week-long event that celebrated extraordinary female thinkers, writers, and artists and posed vital questions about gender, equality and justice. I was interested in the Opening Gala hosted by Australian singer, actor and author Clare Bowditch. Sold out! I looked at the conversation with the American author Sloane Crosley. Sold out. Until I came across an event titled “Actually Autistic”. Intrigued by the topic and somewhat familiar with some members of the panel (Chloe Hayden, Australian actress in the Netflix show Heartbreak High as well as Grace Tame, Australian activist and advocate for survivors of sexual assault, named Australian of the year 2021) I purchased a ticket.

I was blown away  – by the event itself and the panel talk specifically. All four women on stage were autistic and listening to them speak – their experiences as neurodivergent women in a neurotypical world, their strategies, their struggles but also their strengths – was the most inspiring thing I had heard in a very long time. Ever. As a woman, I was touched by their struggles. As a teacher, I was mesmerized by their ways of explaining autism. As a human being, I was deeply humbled. I was moved by the sense of community in the room. I was energized by the overall positive energy of the event.

After the panel talk, lining up to have my newly purchased book by Chloe Hayden “Different but not Less” signed, I started chatting to a BIPOC woman behind me (and yes – I had to look up the term as well). We talked about women’s rights and equality in the film industry, which was her field of expertise.

“You know Cate Blanchett?” the woman asked.

I did. I mean – who doesn’t. In fact, I had just seen her lasted film “Tar” in what must have been one of the oldest theatres in the Northern Beaches. A local celebrity, Blanchett lived in Sydney – my friend even once spotted her at the Zoo!

“Yes!”, I said, glad to be able to contribute something to the conversation. “I loved the movie Tar!”

Silence. Had I said the wrong thing – again?

“Well, she is not very supportive of our cause.” 

The woman went on to tell me about “white feminism” and the call for a more inclusive and radical movement. Fair enough. I got that. I still liked her movie, though. And I was still concerned about all my superiors at school being white men. Did that make me a white feminist? I wasn’t sure and went quiet. Until the woman behind me nudged me and winked at me as if to say, “we are all fighting for the same thing!”

This week, someone accused me of always “turning everything into a feminist issue”. 

Maybe do, maybe I don’t. I don’t really know. It’s not my intention – I just feel strongly about certain issues and topics. To be honest, I wouldn’t consider myself a feminist, especially after my short conversation with the BICOP women in the line-up behind me. I often find myself rather naive and uneducated when it comes to feminist or political issues. 

Leaving your family and home to follow your dreams, as a woman, is unusual. Working abroad, as a woman, is unusual. Working on your career, after having stayed home for twelve years to raise five children, is unusual. It is unusual, but it is me. It comes at the price of guilt and loneliness and financial loss, but it is my goal. Always has been, and always will be.

And who knows – maybe one day I’ll be the Head of Primary. Or Deputy Principal. Or Principal. Not at this school, but somewhere else in this beautiful world. Who knows?

I am strong. I am invincible. I am woman.

You were riding your bike to the sound of “It’s No Big Deal”
And you’re trying to lift off the ground on those old two wheels
Nothing about the way that you were treated ever seemed especially alarming ’til now
So you tie up your hair and you smile like it’s no big deal

You can let it go
You can throw a party full of everyone you know
And not invite your family, ’cause they never showed you love
You don’t have to be sorry for leaving and growing up, mmh

Matilda, you talk of the pain like it’s all alright
But I know that you feel like a piece of you’s dead inside
You showed me a power that is strong enough to bring sun to the darkest days
It’s none of my business, but it’s just been on my mind

You can let it go
You can throw a party full of everyone you know
And not invite your family, ’cause they never showed you love
You don’t have to be sorry for leaving and growing up

You can see the world, following the seasons
Anywhere you go, you don’t need a reason
‘Cause they never showed you love
You don’t have to be sorry for doing it on your own

You’re just in time, make your tea and your toast
You framed all your posters and dyed your clothes, ooh
You don’t have to go
You don’t have to go home
Oh, there’s a long way to go
I don’t believe that time will change your mind

Matilda. Harry Styles

(April 2019)

“I must have been about seven when I decided to run away from home for the first time. I got my red-checkered cloth rucksack with the fake leather trim, packed a snack-sized can of fruit cocktail and a spoon from the kitchen, careful not to make any noise. The house was quiet. Mittagsruhe, midday silence and rest. A German peculiarity and sacred in our family. 

I carefully wheeled the orange folding bike out of the garage (Don’t scratch the car!) and started to pedal. Began climbing the hill ahead of me, eyes on the road, mind on the snack. How far did I want to go? How far could I go until someone would notice? How far did I have to go before I could stop for a break and eat my delicious snack? The top of the hill seemed like a good destination. 

The ride on the bike with its awkward frame and tiny wheels was cumbersome. The fact that I had to pedal backwards to shift into the lower gear took away from what little momentum I had going forward. I inched my way up the ascending road, slowly passing barren autumn fields on my right, leaving rows of grey apartment buildings on the left behind me.

After what seemed like an eternity, I finally reached the top of the hill.  A weathered wooden bench on the side of the road, framed by two towering trees, dark and leafless against the grey sky. A good place to stop and have a rest. 

I never made it any further that day. Maybe I stayed on that lonely bench on the hill a little longer. Probably not. What must have felt like forever away from home had only been minutes. I packed up my finished snack, got on my orange folding bike, and descended the steep road I had climbed.

Small bicycle wheels turning faster and faster, feet off the pedals, my familiar neighbourhood flying by, cool November air in my hair. Freedom that felt eternal only lasted a short little while. Downhill all the way, my eyes teary from the wind, I could hardly see.

Until I reached my home. I returned the bike to its original spot in the garage (Don’t scratch the car!) and went back inside. The house remained silent. No one had noticed my absence. No one had been looking for me. No one witnessed the sad smile on my face. It was always about the journey. Never about the destination.”

My first blog post. Written in April 2019. I had just received a job offer from the German School in Sydney and decided that I wanted to share the exciting news by writing about it. And so I did. Wrote about a childhood memory that suddenly came to mind. A bike. Two wheels. Lifting off the ground. Leaving my family. Leaving my home. Leaving my house.

My house. Harry’s House. English songwriter and fan-favourite, Harry Styles, is in town. I had a ticket, and then I didn’t. Gave it to my friend to go with her daughter. Everyone remembers their first concert – for the right or the wrong reasons. Mine was Kool & the Gang in 1985 for 5 US dollars. Hers was going to be Harry Styles at the Sydney Olympic Stadium for a few more dollars than that. But I was sure that she would remember her first concert for the rest of her life. And not only because it was Harry!

So instead of putting on my feather boa and joining the over 80,000 pink-and-white-clad hysterical fans, I listened to his songs from the comfort of my little granny flat (Do people also remember their very last concert? Was I getting old?). I knew I wanted to write about “Home” and so I decided to see if good old Harry had anything to say about it. And did he ever!

When writing a blog post, I usually have an idea. Or a story to tell. Some pictures. Or I do some research on a topic that interests me. Sometimes there’s absolutely nothing and my creative mind goes blank. But sometimes there’s like a spark, an idea, and it all comes together all at once and seems to make perfect sense – at least to me.

Matilda was one of the songs on Harry’s newest album,  “Harry’s House”. Inspired by a friend who was going through tough times, Styles wrote the song to show he listened; Sometimes it’s just about listening. I hope that’s what I did here. If nothing else, it just says, ‘I was listening to you. Not only exercising empathy, but the lyrics also hold an empowering message of choosing your own life and happiness, and later on in the song, choosing your own family. 

And that was exactly what I wanted to write about! Coincidence? I listened to the lyrics, and it hit me: the opening line of the song, mirroring my very first blog post, almost seemed too good to be true. Harry and I – soulmates? I wouldn’t mind. Not sure how he would feel about it, though. 

But back to the concept of home. What was home? What was my home? And family? Being here in Sydney on a two-year visa, people often ask me if I’ll go back home when my contract is done in 2024. To be honest, I never quite know what to answer. For one, I don’t know what will be in a year’s time. Will I want to stay? Will I have had enough of this place? Will I still fit in at home? And what is my home? What will it be by then? Australia? Canada? Germany? Home is where the heart is, they say. Or where you put your hat, as Paul Young once sang. I usually lose my hats. I try not to read too much into that!

“Home is a safe haven and a comfort zone. A place to live with our families and pets and enjoy with friends. A place to build memories as well as a way to build future wealth. A place where we can truly just be ourselves. And whether our houses are big, small, fancy or modest, they are our shelters and our sanctuaries.” 

I believe that a person can have more than one home. More than one place in their life where they feel safe and comfortable. I believe that homes can change over a course of a lifetime. That you can feel at home at several places at once. Or nowhere at all. 

Germany feels like home because that’s where my first memories were made – like the one of me running away from home on a small orange bike. Memories of fries with mayonnaise on lazy Sunday afternoons. Going swimming with my dad early in the morning, the water so hot that the steam was rising to the grey sky. Memories of spending my entire allowance on Italian ice cream. Of walking to school. Stealing candles from church (I confess). Memories of the house I grew up in. Of my family. With time, these memories fade. The family gets smaller. Places slowly disappear. Someone else living in our childhood home. My school is no longer a school. The doors of the church are locked (I wonder why?). 

Home is movement. Home is a transitional state. The artist Do Ho Suh once said: “What I am really interested in, in terms of architecture, is transitional spaces – the space that leads you to your destination, rather than the destination.” Germany led to France, led to Hong Kong, and led to Canada. The home within the home within the home. In one of his paintings, the artist draws a person carrying several houses on top of one another on his head. “Home is what we carry with us”, he says. The picture to me represents my idea of home perfectly. My home in Germany. My home in Canada, where my children are. My home in Australia, where I can truly be myself. My home within my home within my home. Sometimes having more than one place that feels like home can be a blessing, and sometimes a bit of a curse. 

On my daily walk to the beach, I pass a large plaque on the side of the path entitled “Living Between Two Worlds”. This week I stopped for the first time to read the information given on the white withered board. Rock platforms, so the plaque reads, are the dynamic edge between two worlds – the land and the sea. They are magic places and the home of many animals. Including me.

So, if you ask me: What is home? I would answer: It’s a magical place between here and there. Between Canada and Australia. Between the land and the sea. “Home as both a physical structure and lived experiences, the boundaries of identity and the connection between the individual and the group across global cultures. “(Do Ho Suh) 

Home is not a final destination, it is all those in-between places of life. Like that lonely bench on the hill where I stopped as a child to have my fruit snack. Before it was time to get back on my orange bike to return home.