The Ancient Greek philosopher, Heraclitus is known for his doctrine of change being central to the universe. We’ve heard the reference ‘change is the only constant in the universe’ used as an antidote whilst we grapple with the state of uncertainty that is always there, even as we do our darndest to sure up the dyke.

I’ve been contemplating change and how it sparks fear into motion and its charming cousin doubt. When they start popping up with something to say, I am moving forward towards the new. This has happened recently because we are on the move. We’ve decided to sell up (our house sold in a speedy 3 weeks) forcing our decision making cogs into action. That was what we hoped it would do because ever since returning from Cambodia 2 years ago (!), we’ve wanted to move on to a new chapter…we just didn’t know where or how.

So nothing like a deadline to force your hand. And it is deliciously exciting whilst being paradoxically terrifying. We’ve got to make choices. Life zooms by and I’ve had a little dream worm inside my brain for-like-ever. I’ve wanted to live on a few acres surrounded by green hills, ever since I left Armidale (a country town) as a youngster after my parent’s divorce. I went on to study agricultural economics at uni, cos I wanted to get a job in the country (this never happened). Life has taken me around the block spending the last decade here by the sunny beaches of Umina. I wouldn’t change a thing. But that little wormy hasn’t left me, it’s like an itch needing to be scratched.

So we are going to pack up move north across the border to Maleny, Queensland. With its green fields (tick) and progressive community (so we’ve heard) it has a positive vibe. No concrete jobs as yet, I’m putting it out ‘there’ and we’re a resourceful lot. We are leaving our families and that’s daunting, especially the ease and familiarity of grandparental support and understanding. But even so we want to broaden our opportunities and with land affordably within reach, off we go pioneering, picks in hand.

Morning mist with view of Glasshouse Mountains (source: maleny.qld.au)

As a recovering idealist, I’m sure my dreams will be sepia to their imagined rose colour. But that’s ok and I am prepared for them to develop in real time now, rather than daydream. That whatever happens, there are pros/cons to all decisions made, but ultimately it’s about a life well lived. And I am pinching myself with gratitude that we will be actually living here by next month.

Quinn, our eldest has shed some tears and boy, does that pull on our heartstrings. Tim and I hear him out, his frustrations at moving schools and starting new friendships again. I hope he finds some gorgeous friends like the crew at his last school. I promised him he could have a Survivor Sleepover as a send off. 6 mates: 4 boys and 2 girls housed by in tents by the creek, trying to open crappy baked bean cans for tea. Thankfully it’s a total fire ban so one less hazard.

Sometimes a door opens enough that we glimpse a desired opportunity, and then comes the hard step of walking through the threshold with your fear in hand, because the idea of not going would be sacrilege (an insult to the universe or in psycho-speak a self sabotage saga). I imagine myself doomed to live with a metallic ‘what if’ taste lingering in my mouth….into possible eternity.

So ‘f#$k it, Amy carpe diem’ I say courageously and take my jelly legs off to bed, exhausted from another day packing boxes and overthinking.

With that wishing you all the magic, trust and growth for a compelling and contented year ahead.

Here is a piece I wrote for a wedding blog  Less Stuff More Meaning.

From our first choked exchange of words to boldly asking him to be my husband, my heart has been at risk. Part of being vulnerable is accepting the unknown and relinquishing control. It’s a challenge at times but believe me it’s worth it.

Even writing this piece about vulnerability has required me to be just that…vulnerable. What will people think? Am I any good at this? What if no one likes it? As much as I intellectualise what vulnerability means…it is asking more from me. It requires getting out of my head and into my heart. And this process can feel scary and uncertain so unbelievably different to my rational, control-all-outcomes self or even that funny joker face who plays to avoid having to go ‘there’.

Why is being vulnerable hard? Because even though we are hardwired for connection, we are scared to death of rejection. We are afraid that if we expose who we really are in all our complex humanness, we will be left alone. But the vulnerability we desperately try to avoid is paradoxically the glue necessary for successful intimate relationships.

The Oxford dictionary definition of vulnerability is the quality or state of being ex-posed to the possibility of being attacked or harmed, either physically or emotionally.

Does this sound enticing? No thanks. Vulnerability has been framed in the past as something to be avoided or seen as a weakness to be concreted over quickly before we come undone. Is it any wonder we find it hard to live?

I remember when I started to be more open in my relationship I had to overcome this lumpy prickly feeling in my throat whenever I wanted to express my true feelings. I’d have this negative doomsday voice…tut tut if you say that, he will laugh/be angry/repulsed/hate and run away. It seemed like this entity was always waiting in the wings to say I told you so. But as with many of my greatest fears, this didn’t come about. And the more authentic I became in expressing my emotions, the calmer I felt and the stronger I became.

So up yours doomsday, I no longer need you. Probably in your misguided way you wanted to keep me safe. But whilst I’m listening to your cautious, over-protective advice I am missing out on opportunities for connection and intimacy. Sure vulnerability can lead to hurt…sometimes it does. Some love affairs last a growing season, others possibly a lifetime. I remember an old boyfriend quoting Leunig to help with healing after our break up:

When the heart
Is cut or cracked or broken,
Do not clutch it;
Let the wound lie open.
Let the wind
From the good old sea blow in
To bathe the wound with salt,
And let it sting.
Let a stray dog lick it,
Let a bird lean in the hole and sing
A simple song like a tiny bell,
And let it ring.

I didn’t really get it at 23 when distractions seemed easier but I now see the wisdom of leaning into pain. This can feel counterintuitive at first but by stopping long enough to feel and let it hang out, we overcome emotions quicker through acceptance rather than denial. And that is a real gift and a skill to cultivate over our long, inevitably challenging lives.

There are opportunities for vulnerability every day, not just in our intimate relationships. Making a phone call to someone in grief or taking responsibility for something that went wrong at work. As I sit by my father’s bedside in hospital, uncertainty is palpable and life feels fragile. There is nothing I can do to change his trajectory just sit here holding his hand and rub lotion on his feet when he feels up to it. We haven’t always gotten along and we’ve done things we regret. But as he lies groggy from illness, things come into laser focus, what’s important and how precious time really is.

Through practicing vulnerability I’ve found the courage that lives in my heart. It’s no coincidence that when a warrior needs to find courage, he/she pummels their chest. It lives in our hearts, not in our minds. It’s an unlimited reservoir that leads to compassion and love for ourselves and others.

If we are willing to be vulnerable we are capable of true empathy. Empathy is very different to being in advice giving mode or veiled pity (sympathy). These responses are driven by our mind’s needs for outcomes or an unwillingness to connect on a deeper emotional level. I find that when I am in this headspace I want the exchange over as quickly as possible. It feels awkward and uncomfortable. But as I’ve become more open to simply listening without fixing or filling up the silence with my chatter, it’s become easier. I don’t have to have all the answers and can sit with uncertainty. All I need to do is show up in a heart-led place and hold this space without judgement.

We all start out trying to protect ourselves but love cannot bloom with walls. It’s liberating to live on growth’s edge, cutting our own path. As my partner reads my frown after my repeated requests fall on our son’s mute ears, we smile and his arms envelope me. We are in this together, sharing the load of a life lived connected. It’s an illusion that we will lose in being open, it is actually the opposite. Love without expectations is infinite. It’s not a weight to carry, it goes on and on filling us up.

Here is a piece that appeared on Elephant Journal recently. It is kinda old news. But I write to practice but also hope in sharing my story, it may fill some space for anyone who’s been there, or going through separation at the moment.

Why Separation was the most loving thing in my Marriage?

Image by Sandra Henri Photography

We don’t go into a marriage expecting to divorce but we all know someone who has, have been this person or a child of divorce.

I grew up in a household with divorced parents. It was quite a cultural shock moving from a rural town to Sydney, Australia. But with time my life adjusted to a new normality. My parents did remain amicable to their huge credit. My mum never said b*tchy comments about my father or vice versa, and they remain firm friends to this day.

Fast forward many years later and I have two children of my own. My relationship limps along in the wake of raising younguns. There is growing resentment and frustration on both sides, harpy comments and pinched frowns. I discover I have anxiety and putting the name to my feelings is a huge relief. I thought I was slowly losing my mind. I’m having trouble sleeping. A close friend dies suddenly of cancer and my partner slides into a silent depression. Our sex life suffers and a mattress mound grows between us.

“It’s the reality of having young kids,” people say and there is truth in that. But there is also truth in drifting apart and people changing.

I get this dream of going to Cambodia to volunteer at a friend’s NGO. I love that country and I feel it might reignite our spirits and hopefully our relationship.

So we pack up our belongings and rent our house for a year and take off. Of course it was going to be hard relocating but as an idealist, I remain upbeat and naive to the challenges. It’s a mixture of adrenaline and thrilling freedom but equally draining, as all our cracks have nowhere to hide.

It is like turning the voltage up and watching something implode. We begin criticising and barking at each other in full view, stress high with a danger-seeking three-year-old and limited medical services in the rural provincial city we live in.

We separate six months into the trip as this is the right choice to make.

We look at each other and see two people being squashed and not having fun. But more than that, we are modelling fighting, disrespecting and even at times hating behaviour to our two sons.

Something had to give and give soon before it was broken for good. So I return to Australia with the boys and he stay on for a month.

Now I am “separated.”

Now I have to give voice to that. And I can’t believe how lonely that felt at times. I was in grief and it’s such a shock to not share a bed with someone—or to catch myself looking up to see if his car is coming down the drive. It was a time of detriggering and reprogramming my way of thinking.

And it took ages.

Friends asked me questions I couldn’t answer. Equally hurtful, some “happily married” friends didn’t call at all. The shame and guilt I was already feeling seemed to be mirrored in some people’s behaviour (or so I think) and societal expectations.

In five words, I felt like a failure. Even though I knew he and I were doing the best thing for us and our family. We were actually choosing love. Love that looks like living separately to heal our hurts and not perpetuate pain.

So why do we shun separation or even divorce?

Is it a hangover from our religious days when marriage kept society’s structure together? Marriage is a worthy construct, and some marriages do last a lifetime and worked on by both parties. But some marriages are meant for a few chapters. And the reasons they end are many and varied, but to judge someone on giving up or to pity them (they feel it!) is not helpful.

We need to get down off the fairytale horse and have our feet firmly planted on the ground.

Being separated I inherited some free time. A bonus to be sure but also a very lonely adjustment. I felt like I was butting in other’s family time or that I will sit there being triggered like a pin cushion lamenting what I’d lost or hadn’t been able to hold on to.

I can see the value in sisterhood, bonding with other separates but I didn’t feel like doing that much either, especially if there was to be any man-bashing as I had no desire to perpetuate more hate toward my ex or stay blaming him. I used this time to finally deal with my own stuff. It was hard at times but ultimately lead me back to the self that I had somehow lost in my desire to be a great mother and partner.

To hold doggedly to this ’”til death do us part” ideal is dangerous.

I feel living truthfully and honestly with love is our path. So if that looks like sitting amongst your mess as your marriage falls apart, but you find yourself and a peace for what you had together and who your partner truly is, that your story filled some blazing chapters, that’s huge growth.

Eighteen months later we reconciled as brighter, stronger and wiser individuals who realised the value in our friendship and a love that still burns. Our path was to get back together. But equally worthy, was our decision to separate and potentially find love in a new partner.

Whatever path we walk, following our hearts and making peace with ourselves means even our kids come to acceptance sooner. Society is slow to catch up and we can’t let outdated mindsets put us off our game.

Maybe in separating vows can mean “‘for growth do us part.”

This piece appeared in Elephant Journal on October 13 2016

Last week sunrise had risen pink and the bellbirds were making music as I skipped out the door.

I was in a rush as seems to be our morning ritual. Quinn raced up to the school bus and I was taking Beau to school. We have to open/close gate due to our new horny pup that tries to escape to his girlfriend whenever he can. Beau got out to open the gate. I had some Himalaya chants playing in the car. When I drove through the gate there was a loud crunching noise. I stopped clear of the gate and turned around not seeing Beau in my rear vision.

I pulled the hand brake on and had this heart through the floor thought, ‘Where is he?’ I opened my car door and yelled that deep, guttural mumma howl, ‘Beau!’..no answer…again more urgently ‘Bowie?!”. By this stage I am standing out of the car and the adrenaline has taken over my body, I could hardly walk as I have visions of his crushed bloody skull. It was the most raw, shattering realisation that my life could be irrevocable changed forever.

Then as I get to the rear of the car, his little face appears and he sees me and says ‘Mum what’s wrong?’ and I crumble into his sweet, perfect arms. Tears erupt down my cheeks as I stutter that I thought he was hurt and he gently strokes my hair. He thought he was in trouble so he had kept quiet. His car door wasn’t latched properly and had hit the side of the gate.

The neighbour calls out, ‘Are you alright?’ and all I can do is wave her away as I collapse into the back seat. Holding him in my arms and soothing myself I tell him that I love him so much and that I am alright, I just got a very big scare. It takes ten minutes until I can drive the car.

As I roll the scene over in my mind posthumously, I feel a huge heart swell for parents who have lost children. How inexplicably precious life is. This seems to be something people understand the older they live touched by stories of loss and chance. How lives can be changed in the ‘blink of an eye’. That maybe I should be more present, and this is a constant work in progress. That in slowing down and becoming more mindful, I would have noticed his car door was ajar. That my music was properly too loud.

But for all the ‘what if’s’ I am fortunate enough to have them fade in my memory because this story has a happy ending.

I didn’t share this to be morbid but to be awake to the thin veil that keeps our lives in place and infinite compassion and strength goes out to those when it doesn’t.

We’ve had a wintery time full of viruses and cough. Grandparental aid and soup shipments were gratefully received. It was a challenging vortex that lingered on.

But as white bells pop up in the garden, hope returns with wispy spring potential.

Thought I’d share my latest work that was featured on Elephant Journal. A post called  Love Is- Poem

May you all be warm and toasty with juicy ideas on the horizon

x x Amy

We’ve been home 3 months now and the dust has settled enough for some reflection on what turned out to be a life changing sabbatical.

Multi tasking Beau

Cambodia in its rawness and resilience seeped into my bones.

And called me to point.

I’ve banged on about the educational and cultural pluses of upping sticks to a foreign land, especially one that is starkly different from one’s own. The way it calls into question what you value and shows you a compassion that’s often dormant under the wear/tear of daily life. I was drawn to Cambodia ever since my first visit in 1999, where my senses were alive with flashing images of religious reverence (imagination gone wild with thoughts of monks walking the same footprints since 12th Century) at Angkor Wat. It took me quite by surprise, the depth of feeling. And years later, to have the fortune of returning there with a faint inner voice that whispered

throw light into the shadows

I am a believer in following your intuition. And boy does it lead you in some bizarre directions sometimes, but maybe it is alerting us to the need for change or adjustment or dare I say even risk taking.

And that’s what Tim, Quinn, Beau and I did.

The mandatory Chicken Run

It was hard on the kids at times. There is a definite intensity about the place. Both boys got off the plane in Sydney declaring they were never going back to Cambodia;  Quinn sang ‘Advance Australia Fair’ at full tilt with a fist in the air at the baggage carousel and said in his most blokey Okka accent ‘G’day mate’ to the racist Customs officer.

I’m pleased to report that the kids’ memories have softened to all the good bits though. The ‘x-box’ at local restaurant gets a mention as well as Ian the owner who loved to lose hours playing it with them. The irony is not lost- I thought we’d take them and have less screen time but with the heat, humidity and intensity of the place, screens were a VERY necessary part of our routine. Quinn remembers going next door to 11 year old Sim’s place, only the brickwork done with no doors and windows and a concrete floor, they would sit and eat apple cakes made on the open fire that Sim’s sarong clad mum would sell at the local market. With 5 common words between them, ‘Super Man, ‘Hello’, ‘Yes’, ‘No’ and ‘Bye’, they would ride bikes, joust and play lego. I’d catch them sometimes sitting in the quiet silence of companionship, something I felt was kinda sacred to witness.

Sim and Quinn with Christmas wreaths that Narnie made

I suspect our boys’ll be heading back eagerly one day with a backpack. We Skype Quinn’s mate Waitya and his family who are dearly missed. It would be a wonderful thought to one day welcome them here. Quinn asked if we could Skype Sim- and then he realised we couldn’t because they don’t have electricity. An overriding benefit of the trip for our tear-aways is a definite understanding of what it means to live simply, not some Western concept of simplifying the excess, but out of necessity. A friend told me that Quinn delivered a lecture at a recent sleepover. Beau may have been too young to fully comprehend but at 7, Quinn got it and hopefully a lifelong empathy with it. (too much to ask??). He still loves K-Mart but showed uncharacteristic restraint when reminded why he couldn’t have more than one toy (!) by his Aunty when he was last there.

Quinn and Waitya

Boys and their toys

Our lives look different now. Tim described it as living in a ‘parallel universe’. The reverse cultural shock has been coupled with the fact that Tim and I are living separately. We are looking honestly at the footings that hold up our family structure. Years whiz by, extensions made for children and the extra loading bearing that comes with that, a relationship is put under strain. We all know this. And sometimes when you stop and come up for air, your partner has become all fuzzy around the edges or maybe you can’t clearly see their face anymore.

And this is terrifying.

This is what I meant by having my heart cracked open. And all I can do is keep walking towards the light and my truth amidst the rubble, taking one step at a time.

A Life Defining Gift even if it worked in ways I didn’t expect or necessarily want.

Such a debonair character

Wedding Host, our dear friend Chhaya

Two peas in a pod

It’s time to honour all the people in our lives that made this possible:

Firstly, we wouldn’t have got out our front door without the support of Tim’s folks, Gwennie and Harrie who looked after our precious Patrick Swayze; our tenants and all the extra necessary admin that comes with jumping ship for awhile. You both have huge hearts.

And to all our wonderful family and friends who all were part of the cause: from purchasing Tim’s art, to organising and coming to our farewell fundraiser, to sending loving and empowering thoughts, and following this blog, these were all felt and helped us on our journey.

And to the NGO we worked with as self funded volunteers which initially I thought should involve some payback. It’s funny that word- but what I mean is – you think someone owes you something especially when none of your expenses are covered.  But once we arrived and rolled up our sleeves, surrounded by such a dedicated, ethical and giving bunch of people, you realise that giving without conditions is easy to do and has its own unlimited rewards.

T H A N K Y O U

Huge love to all who’ve followed our journey. The learning never stops, doesn’t it?

Boys and I at Phnom Sampeau

We’ve been living in Battambang (BTB) for close to 7 months. We’ve had our share of adventure, adjustments and eye openers. It’s been a real ride in many ways, a life changer.

Last weekend we visited hot spot Phnom Sampeau, a golden pagoda on a mountain (hill). It is very flat terrain around BTB and craving a view we piled on our family moto. Perched high on limestone cliffs, monks share the space with a huge bat colony that draws loads of tourists at dusk, where they proceed to pee all over their cameras as they fly overhead.

Beau Beau. Watch out monkey, this kid may attack!

It’s been a time for reflection. Battambang with kids isn’t straightforward. The larger cities, PP (Phnom Penh) and Tourist Mecca, Siem Reap have more schooling options and recreational activities. BTB only recently got its first playground. We weren’t expecting a metropolis and this is part of the appeal. But it does make for some additional challenges, primarily connecting with other families. We are the first family to work for our NGO.

Often pensive Quinn

Quinn has gone to 3 different schools. First, French school which was like trying to speak Martian after recently landing on the Moon. Then he began Phare Ponleu Selpak School where they draw “a solid brick with a cup on top” for two hours Quinn tells me; and learn to juggle, handstands and rolly pollies. Lessons all in Khmer, Quinn the only foreigner, he has grown in so many subtle ways. Confident in new situations yet also a lot of time in his head. Just like all the other kids, scabs money off his parents to buy fried dough ‘bones’ in break time and plays battle cards.

With no maths, home readers or science in the curriculum, I’ve taken on the role of supplementary educator. Filling in reading gaps amidst emotional outbursts (his…and sometimes mine) and getting him to count the change from shopping, does this account for half a year of school?

The nightly (who am I kidding…weekly) pantomime looks something like this: literacy books are red flags, Quinn the resistant Bull and I, the flailing matador spinning in circles. An enormous sombrero off to homeschooling parents out there.

How the heck do you do it?

We’ve all had moments of homesickness, a flickering moth near a flame that doesn’t last long. Sometimes you miss things being easy, the cuppa at a friend’s place where you can let it all hang out while kids play raucously without fear of oncoming motos or disturbing tourists’ peace. To go a week without explosive poos and parasitic torch checks (yup, you know the itchy bum syndrome). But we know life remains barely changed and friends there with welcoming arms.

However Quinn has consistently expressed longings for home. He’ll often speak of kids in his old class (including the boy who’s got booby pictures of chicks on motorbikes). Out of nowhere he will turn quietly to me and whisper ‘I want to go home mum’. And I listen, rub his chest and say ‘I know my darling’.

You can never predict how change is going to affect your kids. Unfortunately after bonding with two English lads (Trapped in an Elevator) they left suddenly 2 months later. The family went on reconnaissance mission to Malaysia and never came back. Their sons refused to get on the plane, according to them Battambang was too hard. No one has filled their place as most families go elsewhere for education as kids get older.

No stone left unturned: I took the boys to the local Church as I’d heard whispers of some homeschooling Christian families. In a hall decked with plastic chairs we were ushered in by a lovely American lady who had warned me outside ‘you know it’s Christian organisation’.  Not seated for long, we were all up clapping and hip swaying to a band with a male Khmer singer.

I’d already scanned the crowd and noticed a woman with 3 boys: one tall gangly one with a crop of red hair looked around 8. Cotton balls were handed out. Quinn laughed loudly when the teacher asked if anyone knew what a sheep was? He couldn’t believe anyone wouldn’t.

We’re from Australia, I say

The teacher explained if anyone memorised the psalm for next week, a prize was on offer. Quinn, a known haggler went in for the kill,

‘What’s the prize?    Is it a toy?    Do I get to choose?

Not that impressed by coloured pencils and erasers, he didn’t do his homework. By the end of class, the tall redhead, a self confessed ‘weirdo’ (that put me at ease cos we are a bit left of centre) was hanging off Quinn chasing him around, pestering his mother for a play date. He was another socially deprived kid like ours. We swapped numbers but no play date was firmed up. With the best intentions to return, we haven’t been back.

Beau has had a smoother ride as there are many more English speaking kids at preschool. His best buddy, Max is French and they only share a few common words between them. It doesn’t seem to matter. They’re both cheeky.

Max and Beau

So now as another school year looms Oz side, we’ve had to make some tough decisions. As Quinn wishes he could read and wonders why he can’t and with too much thinking time, he needs structure and stability. Tim and I came here to share new experiences with our boys. To ultimately show them how privileged we are with our white goods, typhoid- free water and flushing loo that doesn’t dump its contents in the irrigation ditch outside your house.

Pipes and dirt piles in our street

The crew

The neighbourhood kids along with Quinn and Beau run along big concrete pipes that were dropped outside months ago but not yet connected. It’s a myriad of buffalo, cow and human waste in stagnant water as it haven’t rained for months. Quinn asked is that where our poo goes the other day. He now wants to be an engineer when he grows up to stop people from getting sick. His Uncle works at a sewerage plant in Oz, I’m sure they’ll have stuff to talk about.

So D-ecision Day is upon us. I will return to Australia with the boys. Luckily, I can manage my project remotely. Thank You Internet. Tim is going to stay on the ground to set up a recording studio and be techie for The School in the Cloud. I will return to consult on the project near the end of our contract swapping with Daddy. To be honest, we will get a lot more NGO work done this way.

This is not the end Cambodia. Our love is firmly established and life is long. I’ve cried some tears but my heart grows quiet when I see Quinn relax upon hearing the news. Knowing the hard but best choice has been made for now.

Om (Aunty) and I. No common words but we held hands and just sat together