For 5.5 years of my life, I lived out of a backpack. Life was never more simple than having only what I needed, nothing more. Well, I suppose the odd chocolate may not count, but I’ll put that down to essential treats. And then there was the badminton racket strapped to the backpack, essential when an all day traffic jam required some entertainment.

I often moved frequently, occasionally I’d stop a little longer. Life was uncomplicated. Underwear was cheap.

Last year, I moved three times within the same city, and not all intentionally.

I wrapped. Packed. Loaded. Unloaded. Unpacked. And then….did it all over again. And again.

When I found myself surrounded by boxes for the third time, I realised that my unrequired possessions were my unrequired burdens. It was time for me to dig into the depths of fearlessness and get back to the simplicity of decluttered essentials, with a few treats and entertainment included in there for good measure… and sanity.

And so the piles began: donations that did not include used underwear or ½ empty bottles of shampoo, the junk pile, the recycle pile, the things I really needed, the things I might use once in a while and the things I needed to fix before I could use them.

I looked at every object and appreciated it for what purpose it may have served, who gave it to me, who I thought would make better use of it, and placed it in the pile it needed to be. The ‘just in case I get invited on a date’ wasn’t this time round good enough to keep the ball gown my Vietnamese friend made me as a farewell gift. But I may want to wear the Laos ethnic jacket I was given in exchange for some silk worms. It was a tussle, but with the help of fearlessness, the declutter found my home, head, and myself, just a little lighter.

I no longer live out of a backpack, and still probably have a little more than I need with two rooms filled with my worldly possessions. This includes a lot of towells (masseuse), lots of books (student), office essentials (business), mementos (traveller), lots of paperwork (taxman), a keyboard, digital radio and quite a few CDs (entertainment), kitchen utensils (essential if you love spending time in the kitchen) and quite a few products left over from my old fair trade site (anyone want a silk handbag).

The freedom of a life based on essentials of the material, heart and purposeful kind has an addiction that I will again one day crave for, but at this point, I don’t feel it necessary to completely reduce my life to a backpack’s essentials.

Everything I need in my life right now, is within reach.

you bloody ripper!

No one will see me.

you bloody ripper!

Step right out of the shower – it’s time to unleash your potential as a naked artist.

You need to get in quick – there’s no time to spare before the thoughts, messages and pictures of your quick wit and fast action make way for reality.

Don’t be in such a rush to clear the way for the morning preparations. Make some time to dig out that inner Dali and let loose on an audience of one.

And for those who may come after, love notes, to do lists, words of wisdom and big fat kisses are always welcome to be found on the frosted glass canvas of the bathroom gallery.

Finger painting just came back in vogue.

you bloody ripper!

Life sends us curve balls. We all know that. Sometimes it comes in a short downpour that drenches us and we just have to head home and take a few hours to dry and warm ourselves up to feel better.

Other times, it rains for days. Sometimes even weeks. On the odd occasion, you may even wonder when it might stop.

I’ve had enough downpours in my life to have built an arsenal of umbrellas. Sometimes they may pop a few corners, but they still work. Besides, it’s not a bad thing to get wet. Don’t we bathe to cleanse?

I have nothing positive to say.

I can’t believe these words crossed my lips. And yet two days ago they did. I curled myself into a foetal position and cried. Downpour. I sat in a strange house, in a suburb I’ve never been to, surrounded by boxes and bags when 24 hours prior I was nice and settled, focussed, writing proposals, planning and lining up interviews with some amazing people.

In my travels, I’ve seen a depth and breadth of life that usually shifts me out of ‘feel sorry for self’ mode pretty quickly. I have no reason to complain. I have a roof over my head. I have clothes (albeit they are packed somewhere). I have food. I have health. That was until the call from the doctor saying I needed to come back in. Biopsy needed. Hit me when I’m down.

I was standing on the batter’s mat with an entire team throwing balls at me. This time, I had no energy to fight back.

I slept. I cried. I reflected. I cried some more. And then I woke up.

Some people walk in the rain. Others just get wet. Roger Miller

I deserved to feel the way I was. That was my first acknowledgement. Secondly, we cannot be expected to act on information we didn’t have as much as we make decisions based on what we know. Nor should we always have to feel that we don’t have a right to complain. And so I allowed myself to feel every emotion. I gave myself the right to feel sorry for myself.

So I’m still surroundered by bags, mess and uncertainty. But I have a funding application to write, a masters paper to complete and a website to develop.

And so I step one foot at a time. And I won’t stop walking.

you bloody ripper!

Who cares when you live by yourself.

You can wear whatever you like. No matter what time of day it is.

No one will ever see you.

you bloody ripper!

I had prepared to head into the city for a day’s planning. But the perfect autumn day beckoned me to stop. Pull up a chair. Fluros were replaced with a flawless blue sky. Warming sun replaced howling winds. Windows to nowhere exchanged places with flourishing gardens.  

There was no commute. Taking time to prepare lunch allowed connection to passion. The waft and flavours of cauliflower and lentil dahl provided contentment. Silence brought clarity. Stillness stimulated motivation.

Space provided natural inspiration.

you bloody ripper!

So I don’t have a tv. With part-time work, studying for two diplomas and planning the website I visioned three years ago, there is no time for staring at a box.

Whilst living in Asia for almost 3 years, I was known to go into the kitchen of many local restaurants, market stalls and village homes. And not just because I couldn’t read the menu.

I wanted to learn. Basic. Fresh. Traditional. Simple. Delicious.

Many a time I sat and helped. Peeling the stringy outer of pumpkin vines. Soaking dried mushrooms. Splitting almonds. Stuffing tofu. Slicing lotus root. Plucking chickens.

I love food. I love to get my hands into the food. I love watching people passionate about food. I appreciate a degustation menu and savour the flavours of a simple slow-cooked broth.

I was in need of some nourishment. Off to my favourite market in Melbourne for some Asian flavours. In the afternoon at Box Hill, it is easy to imagine oneself back in Beijing, and not simply because of its large Asian community.

Persimmons, lychees, lotus root, purple spinach, water spinach, watercress, bamboo shoot, kaffir lime leaves, curry leaves, a plethora of mushrooms, tofu and herbs beckon with their exotic aromas, to select and fill one’s basket to overflowing. It smells of Asia. And the last minute stallholder cry of ‘bags for $1′takes me home.

With an extra workload than I’d planned, a little weariness had descended into my life. So the perfect remedy was a herbal chicken soup. With a market bag filled with fresh vegetables, free range chicken, chinese dates, lycium, longans, astragalus, ginseng and goji berries, this soup was definitely packed with ancient remedies and goodness.

If you ever wondered why chicken soup is good for the soul, perhaps it is because it is filled with natural carnosine, a potent anti-oxidant that prevents cell damage and improves cell function. The Chinese also believe that it nourishes the qi, our natural energy flow.

Goodness knows mine was stagnating. And I needed it to floweth.

So whether chicken soup has the placebo effect of all good food, or its ancient curative powers are based on proven medical research, I don’t really mind.

Dice. Slice. Wash. Peel. Soak. Clean. Chop. Slow cook.

Home made. Hand made. Made with soul.

Ah… that feels better now.

you bloody ripper!

Firm-n-Fold massage tables don’t come up very often. And if I’m ever to be a good practitioner, I need one soon.

It’s not like a coffee table or a comfy couch. I’m not looking for colour or style but a rare commodity amongst the hundreds of imported copies.

The last one I found had a 11.30pm finish. I believe I was drooling by 10.15pm… outbid.

Finally, a decent hour, a decent colour, a decent location and hopefully a decent price.

30… 29… 28… 27…  you have been outbid… new bid… page download taking forever… anxious wipe of the brow… 17… 16… no, not again… fingers faster than Clark Kent in a telephone booth…

Congratualations. You have won!

It may not have been the lottery, but I am now the proud owner of just what I wanted, at the right price, picked up only five minutes from home, and joined the previous owner for dinner as I commented about the awesome smell on arrival. Let’s see how I go the rest of the week with the eBay winner’s mantra:

Never give up, no matter how many times you fail or need a rest stop. Belief, persistence, staying calm and keeping your eye on the goal, is guaranteed to bring success.

you bloody ripper!

Come on. We’ve all had it.

I’m talking car park fury.

You know the feeling.

Nothing. Nudda. Zilch. One more lap. Race to the next aisle only to be pipped at the post by a new contender. Sweat on the brow. Raised voices. Was that a swear word? Oops, finger slipped. Ok. Make that a nasty scowl.

Anxiety levels seem to be at an all time high enroute to the weekly shopping. You know there are limited parks and there is limited time.

Stay focussed. Stay positive. Loosen the grip. Believe in the power of the car park fairy.

Drive in. Reverse lights. The carpark lottery has finally pulled my lucky number.

you bloody ripper!

On 11 November, 1918, World War I officially ended. Since 1919, this day has become a day to remember servicemen and women who have been killed on duty since WWI – Remembrance Day.

As the daughter and grandaughter of serving soldiers, I appreciate the sentiments of this day, along with those of Anzac Day, held in Australia and New Zealand on 25 April each year to honour those who fought in Gallipoli.

This year, as I listened to The Last Post (once again commemorating those lost in war) in front of Flinders Street Station in Melbourne, Australia, the echo of the bugles playing throughout the city hit a chord that I had not experienced in previous years.

The consequences and impact of war have been compiled and recorded over the centuries. Our historical recording of destruction, death and suffering is heralded by Stalin:

A single death is a tragedy; a million deaths is a statistic.

This year, for the first time, I not only appreciated the real effects of war on an encompassing scale, but on an individual one.

As we bow our heads and remember those who have lost their lives, do we ever consider the little tragedies of which personal hells are made? Do we even understand them? Do we even know they exist?

My father’s absence.

His attempts at communicating over the years a distraction from his inner-struggle.

Years of pain.

Alone with his thoughts.

His drink.

His eternal anguish.

Missing links.

Love never realised.

Unneccessary suffering.

Forever pain.

Gifted calendars of war by partaking in a Veteran’s family study.

An unneccessary reminder.

This year, instead of remembering lives that were lost and appreciation for those who have fought, and continue to fight, for freedom, I recognise lives that have been lost through torment. I respect the strength to survive. I honour dysfunction. I salute the silent soldiers, who battle their demons each and every day. I pay tribute to the sacrifice of dreams, passion and opportunity. I respect the impact of a lifetime of buried shrapnel from silent guns: anguish, fears, trauma, broken families and loss of life, even by the living.

For some, the enormity of these consequences never go away.

Lest we not even know. Lest we not even understand. Lest we forget.