Home is where...I am?

I'm back in Australia. Home sweet second home. Or first? I can't tell anymore what's really home. I think it's here in Australia now. I'm not sure how to feel about that. But I am happy here, and that's what matters. I can have two homes. That's fine.

It's good to be back. It's cool and windy, but there's quite a lot of sun. There are lovely friends and my wonderful, sweet husband and of course the cutest, funniest dog I have ever known. Everyone is pleased to see me. I am pleased to see everyone.

Yet, I'm feeling a bit shit. I am tired, I can't get motivated and I feel like I'm being lazy and unproductive. Some might call that a jet lag. I don't know why I am expecting myself to be 'more' or 'better' than I would expect others to be if they were in my situation.

Expectations. Funny things. I don't know about you, but since my teenage years mine have shifted entirely. I used to have lots of expectations of others, and now, I'm expecting very little from others, but me - I have to be everything for everyone.

The reason why I no longer expect so much from others is because I used to get terribly disappointed when people didn't do what I was hoping for. So I adjusted my expectations. It's better this way, because I don't get so disappointed anymore.

But then I found a new frustration. I was constantly letting myself down. But that was because I was expecting too much from myself. Why?

I am very kind to my friends, I am very forgiving and understanding and caring. Why can't I be that for myself? Why do I expect things from myself that I wouldn't expect from others?

I know I am not alone in being stupidly critical of myself. I see it in my friends. Especially my girl friends and my gay boy friends. My girl friends are so hard on themselves, and my gay boy friends strive for a perfection that is almost unhealthy. They have amazing bodies and wonderful minds and yet they want to be bigger, better, more. I can see that they are just fine as they are. They are lovely. Why can't they?

And why can't I cut myself some slack? I have been home for a week and I am disappointed I didn't go to the gym yesterday. I have been to the gym three times in the the last seven days. That's fine. That's good. But I want myself to be lean again when summer comes, and for some reason that means I have to jump straight back into lots of gym and healthy eating every single day.

That's not a realistic thing to expect from a tired, jet lagged person. I have worked hard at my mum's place, doing seriously tiring physical jobs nearly every day. I have been quite sick. I have been travelling heaps in a short amount of time. And I have had many, many emotions. I would forgive my friends for being just a little bit exhausted. I would think it normal for them to need a few days to do little but recover and get back into daily life.

I have caught up with lots of people since I got back, I have been very active. It's ok to be not active right now. To just read and write and spend some time in my studio finally starting on my leather bag.

So, right now I am going to stop feeling bad about what I'm not doing. I am going to feel good about what I am doing. Like going to make myself a cup of tea.

On the loss of teenage wistfulness and melancholy

Ok, so I have to admit something. I might be the happiest I have ever been in my overall life now, but I am also the least inspired.

I have so many things in life that I would never, ever want to say goodbye to: a wonderful husband, beautiful and hilarious loyal friends, the cutest puppy in the history of the planet, a comfortable home, food, travel and a body that does what I want it to do. The life experience of a 33 year-old Dutchstralian.

My life is so full of goodness. I can only gush about what good things have come my way, least of all the power and strength to stand in this life and face challenges knowing I will be ok and come out stronger than I was before. My wonderful mother has taught me so much already that I am wiser than she was at my age.

I know there are people who find comfort in talking to me - it is one of the things I am most happy about, that I can be there for people and give them support. I have faced times when I craved friends like that and didn't have them.

I am incredibly level-headed now. I give sound advice. I see the world in a realistic way. I know good things come to an end and it's ok to let things go. It's better to have enjoyed something and say goodbye than to long for it forever. I know sometimes it seems life is ridiculously hard, but that if you just hang on, things do get better.

But to my romantic spirit is dead. Honestly. As a teenager and in my twenties I was possibly the most wistful and melancholy person ever. Every song was about me. Every romantic love story resonated with me. The world was cruel and beautiful and there were angels out there who would one day come and take me away to a world in which I belonged. I believed in the kind of love you read about in teenage fiction. I was easily in love and as easily devastated when it didn't work out. I believed there was a soulmate out there for me.

I knew how to pine for someone. God, I was good at that stuff. I wrote and wrote and wrote diaries full of poetry. I wanted to live in a castle in the woods with billowing curtains in the full moonlight, with a handsome angel-prince who would sweep me off my feet on a daily basis.

Now when I see castles, I wonder who would vacuum all those endless amounts of rooms.
I do not have a diary. Or write poetry.

I can spend months away from my husband and know that when I get back, we are still totally fine and our life together will be full and warm and wonderful. I love him endlessly, but I know I am ok and whole without him. I am not half a person without the man I love, and he is ok without me. I don't think he is my soulmate, because we are very different people who just happen to connect in a very strong and certain way. I don't think he understands my soul. But that's ok. I realise I don't need a soulmate. I have many beautiful friends who each support my soul in their own way.

It makes life easier, but maybe less...I don't know...beautiful?

I have had all that romantic lovesickness in my life. I have received painful love letters. I have sent them. Written in pencil, written and rewritten. My tears have smudged the words. I have been physically sick with heartbreak after being rejected by beautifully fucked-up boys. I have slammed doors and screamed passionately in rage.

But that's not me anymore. I'm pleased in a way. I have something that so many long for. Something people pine for in the way that I used to pine. I have a happy marriage. I have a man who stands by me, who lets me be me, who travels with me, who builds me a house with everything perfect for us, who wants me to be happy, who is there with open arms every time I come back from Europe in all my Dutchstralian duality.

But it takes effort to step back to see what I have. When you're content, it's easy to lose focus and concentrate on the little things that are nothing important, like bills and getting the car serviced and buying dog food.

But I miss writing. I miss not being able to live without writing. I miss having my diary full of poetry. I miss words coming into my head, forming sentences and not being able to carry on until I had written them down, considering words, finding exactly the right ones to say what I felt.

Now I often just need three words: I am content. Life is good. I am lucky. I am loved.

Or four: I never feel lonely. I like my own company. I am good at stuff.

But sometimes I find her. That girl I was. I find her in songs by London Grammar. I find her in teenage fiction. And I love her. I pine for her. I want to hang on to the moments that I am her again, because it feels so passionate. It feels so beautiful. But she's not real.

I am her right now, writing this. It feels good. I wish I could do this more often. But reality does not allow adults to wallow like teenagers. There's bills, cars needing servicing, dogs that need food bought.

But that's life. It's no fairytale.

Time Hole and a gorge

So I had all these plans of what I was going to do and achieve while I'm in Europe. I was going to have time for stuff I don't have time for back in Australia. I don't know how I still think that that is the case after coming here every year with too little time to see everyone and do everything. Maybe it's the optimism I've inherited from my mother?

It's just over a week before I go back to Australia. My time here just disappears down the black hole of wanting to do too much. I forget that hole is there every single year. A girl should learn!

Mum and I just got back from a whirlwind tour of channel hopping. I flew to London, spent just over 24 hours with my very dear friend Phizz and another friend Lauren and we had a short but sweet time catching up. Too short! Then it was Provence, then back to the UK, then back to France and then home. In 12 days. Boom.

So after London I flew to Marseille and met my mother at the airport, picked up a rental car (a Fiat Panda...it was...uhm...not sexy or fast) and we made our way to a little town that is in no way really beautiful or exciting but holds a hotel with many happy memories and a very wonderful man called Jerome who works there. My lovely husband and I met Jerome on our honeymoon at this hotel five years ago, and we became good friends. Since then I've been back nearly every year to see him. I have enjoyed every single one of those trips and spent a good amount of time laughing my arse off with Jerome.

We took a little tour together on his day off, in his new cool Polo (not in the Panda, as he wouldn't be seen dead in that!) with the roof open and very awesome music from across the eras playing. I'm not sure how my mother felt about the music as she always drives in silence (I know!) but I for one enjoyed the disco, the 90s pop and the moody tunes of Lana Del Ray.

The weather was glorious, the lavender in early bloom and we had an amazing day visiting small towns and making very inappropriate jokes in my mother's presence. I showed him the Youtube video of the Sound of Music mother superior swearing, and he was rapt. It's right up his alley, the more swearing, the better. Me, I only swear when it's funny or when I'm really angry. This was a lot of funny swearing. In front of my mother. Shame on us!

Our time in the Provence was very wonderful, and very short and also involved a severe test of my driving skills - which I botched but passed. As in, mountain passed. As in, my mother chose a route that involved me driving a very, very narrow road along Les Gorges de La Nesque (also called the mini grand canyon), and it was a drive of fear and anxiety. She made me drive it up hill. In a manual car (I only learned how to drive a manual a few years ago, and that was in Melbourne by just practising). In a rental manual car. On the right (wrong?) side of the road. By the end of the gorge, it goes for 20 ks, I was a sweaty mess of nerves. I don't know how long it took us, and I can't tell you whether it was beautiful (I hear it is). All I know is this: NEVER AGAIN. Maybe with somebody else driving.

There was another incident that same day, which had me feeling the same, only I was more tired after a day of driving, so luckily it didn't last as long. It involved me driving up the narrow road towards La Abbaye de Sénanque, with cars parked on both sides, pedestrians, and tons of cars going both ways just so we could turn around there. Or so I hoped. It's a gorgeous abbey, and looked just like the pictures only with more tourists. Many more tourists. We have visited it before, so we didn't intend to, but a million other people did.

So here's me driving slowly in a massive traffic jam of cars slowly towards the abbey, along the narrow road, cars parked both sides, as well as driving both directions, pedestrians on the road, when we go across a narrow one-way bridge, to find a massive bus coming the other way. I pulled over-ish, hoping he could pass. The driver made the car behind me reverse back up the narrow bridge, with pedestrians strolling along on asif that was a good idea. The car behind me did a terrible job, and I was terrified to have to do the same. Once they were gone, the bus driver looked at me exasperated, and waved his hand dismissively, as if to swat away an annoying fly from a pie, indicating I reverse back up as well.

I had no choice. I reversed back up, much more skilfully than the car behind me, I must say, but snapping at my mother who thought it was a good idea to document the ordeal with her camera. I did not think the stressful situation was something to document. Once I had pulled over on the slightly wider part of the road and the bus had passed, all I wanted to do was go back to the hotel and relax by the pool and get the hell out of that car. Luckily, that happened.

This is only a tiny snippet of our trip, and I will leave it at that for now. Just writing about it again was slightly uncomfortable.