Category: Autobiography

Words, words, words

sandybarker

I love chocolate. I love good coffee, red wine, and popcorn from the cinema. I love breakfast cereal, more than I could ever express. I so enjoy a good Pad Thai, and I am all about Vietnamese rice paper rolls. However, I can go at least a day without chocolate, cereal and coffee, up to a week without red wine, and even longer without the Pad Thai, rice paper rolls, and popcorn. I cannot, however, live a day without words.

I consume them voraciously, my appetite never sated. I gorge on them verbally, catching snippets of other people’s conversations, following clever talk back arguments on Triple J, laughing out loud at award-winning commercials, and listening to my students whisper about their weekends.

I devour them visually, as words are everywhere I look. I am drawn to them. As I drive I make up words from randomly assigned licence plates: ‘WKD’ becomes ‘wicked’, or even better ‘weekend’. And I am not a word snob. I will read anything, and I will mix ‘n’ match. I will read my cereal packet, a wikipedia page, comments on this blog, someone else’s blog, my horoscope, and the world headlines, all in one breakfast sitting.

If I can linger longer, then there are few greater pleasures than nestling in with a brilliant book. Chick lit, thriller, classic, philosophy, travel biography, Harry Potter, it does not matter what it is, just that it holds onto me until the last page. A mark of a brilliant book, in my book, is when I finish and I feel a loss, because I no longer get to live in the lives of those characters. I miss them even though they are only a collection of words. Such is the power of words; they enchant me.

And of course, there are those words I create myself. I cannot go a day without writing something, even if it is just a list of things I need to write. I write this blog, drafts of my novel, plays for my students, comments on their assignments, and memos, reports and letters at work. I email someone I love, and send a handful of text messages every day. There is even something strangely satisfying about filling in the dense and convoluted forms required to live and work overseas.

I am also a talker (usually – even I have quiet moments). Today I addressed a group of 15 year olds to persuade them to take my subject (Drama) for their senior studies. I had only five minutes, but I talked fast to cram in as many words as I could. I told them about my subject, what they could expect, and what I would expect from them. But my final message, the most important thing I said, was to do what they love, because then they will always be happy with what they are doing.

I do what I love. I consume words; I create words: daily, hourly, minutely. And I am happy with what I am doing.

Red Tape and Pure Hope

sandybarker

I cried at work today.

I hate crying at work. It is worse than crying in front of strangers, and is perhaps exacerbated by the fact that I am a teacher. Kids are sweet and curious creatures, and little distresses them more than a teacher in distress. So, when I showed up for afternoon sport with my tear-stained face and red eyes, concerned students lined up to ask if I was okay. Two even did the ‘Friday Feeling’ dance to cheer me up (this involves a very dorky hip wiggle and some equally dorky arm waving – it makes them laugh, at me, when I do it each Friday). It didn’t work. It just made me cry more.

You see, I heard from the U.S. government today.

They received my application for a green card (good). It is in the queue to receive a green card (pretty good). They are currently processing green card applications prior to March 2002. No, that is not a typo. And yes, that means there is a 6 and a 1/2 year wait list (not good at all).

Suddenly, all the plans that Ben and I are making, including where we will live, seemed to flush themselves down a giant toilet. All I could think was ‘my friends go home to their significant others every night, and I don’t’. The weight of that feeling crashed down on me as I imagined another year or two or three of this long distance arrangement.

I called Ben. He responded as someone does when they are side-swiped. That was 8 hours ago.

Since then I have spoken with my mother (the American – not that the Americans seem to care much about that VERY close family connection) thrice, and she has sent a couple of strongly-worded emails to the American government. I am pretty sure these will not make ANY difference, but I think they made her feel better.

I have also spoken to hopeful friends, and helpful friends (and in times like these, hopeful and helpful are equally welcome). And I got a lovely email from my bestest friend (yes, Ben) also telling me to stay hopeful.

With all this hope and support keeping me buoyant (not to mention two glasses of a very nice Barossa Valley Shiraz), I have searched through website after website trawling for ways to circumnavigate the machinations of a slowly turning government agency. I think I have found my answer.

The E-3 visa is a new kid on the block, and is open only to Australians who have a university degree, AND who have a job offer in the U.S. I have two out of three, so all I need now is someone stateside to take a chance on an Aussie girl who is bright, hard-working, resourceful, and creative. Oh, and the biggest plus: the E-3 takes about 2 days to secure an interview, and about 30 days to process.

So, now I (hopefully) line up interviews for my September/October visit to Seattle. Then, (hopefully) I will find an employer who sees the benefits of hiring a brilliant Aussie woman, who just happens to have some red tape stuck to the bottom of her shoe.

Diner’s Regret

sandybarker

This will be short and sweet.  I’ve coined a phrase. 

Yesterday as we left a delicious lunch, my father rubbed his full stomach, and bemoaned finishing both his entree and main.  “I enjoyed it, but I shouldn’t have had the lamb shank and kidney pie.  I should have had something lighter.” 

“Do you have ‘diner’s regret’ Dad?”

“Yes, Darling,” replied my bemused father.

Then we agreed that ‘diner’s regret’ is a perfect phrase to describe a myriad of post-dining states.

‘Diner’s regret’ can refer to those instances where your eyes are bigger than your stomach, but you ignore the groans from down below, and keep eating every tasty morsel.  The regret kicks in about an hour later, when you want to go somewhere private, undo your waistband and loll about until the feeling passes.

‘Diner’s regret’ can also follow ‘menu envy’.  This is where everyone’s food arrives to the table, and you look across with envy.  “Ooh, that looks good,” you say, eyeing off the plate of food opposite you.  From here ‘menu envy’ can dissolve as soon as you take your first bite, and reaffirm your selection despite a brief moment of doubt. 

OR, it can take you to the dark place of ‘diner’s regret’, and you will spend the rest of the evening regretting your stupidity.  You should have known better.  You should have ordered the chicken.

On rarer occasions, ‘diner’s regret’ can just mean that the place sucked, the food sucked, the service sucked, and you were a sucker for paying for that meal.

Yes, ‘diner’s regret’ is a commonality that connects us all.  Next time someone says to you, “I have diner’s regret,” you can nod, and reply, “I feel your pain”.

Green (card) = Red (tape)

sandybarker

I want a green card.

Not a thick piece of paper coloured green, but permission to live and work in the USA indefinitely.

More accurately, I want my third green card, because I have already had two. I got my first when I was ten, because my mother relocated my sister and me to the U.S. I got my second when I was 19, because I relocated myself to the U.S. Within 2 years of getting the second one, I realised that I could not support myself stateside AND attend university, so I returned to Oz and the card expired.

Now I want another one.

Ben has secured a terrific position in his chosen profession, and will be moving to Seattle within the next couple of months. I am completely proud of him, and wholly support his decision to accept the job. And because we are both over the commute (to see each other), I will be joining him in Seattle at the end of the year – green card pending.

Stage One
On arrival to Perth last week, my mum and I sat down and pored over the forms and requirements for the green card application. She will petition on my behalf as she is a U.S. citizen and fortuitously, my mother. We spent the better part of two days filling in forms, assembling documents, making phone calls, and double checking websites to ensure that our delivery of the application to the consulate would go smoothly.

On the third day, armed with a thick folder of every document relating to our family history, and all forms painstakingly completed, we drove into the city. After 35 minutes of searching we opted for a one hour parking space. The consulate only accepts these applications for three hours a day, four days a week, and we didn’t want to miss our window.

We walked briskly to the building and caught the elevator to the fourth floor. We then endured a 15 minute security check, where we were stripped of everything but our clothes and our documents. Into another elevator, we rose to the 13th floor, and went through security again.

We waited in the inner sanctum, and when it was our turn, the woman nodded and smiled as she accepted all our forms. A frown formed on her pleasant face as she read through them. The forms we had filled out in quadruplicate – there was a problem. Yes, each form was identical, except for the 3 letter code on the bottom left. We should not have filled in the first form and printed it four times. She gave us new copies. 4 each. We stood at high benches and used crappy pens – attached with chains to the bench – to fill them out. Again. Our pens, my mum’s glasses, and my sanity were all locked away downstairs.

Just as mum was about to faint and I was about to cry from the cramps in my hands, we finished and returned to the counter. The pleasant lady completed our transaction, and told us that ‘they’ would go through my forms and documents, and then send me the next batch.

The only thing left was to pay for the application. When I was about to sign the credit card slip, I spotted the amount in Australian dollars, and queried it. “Oh, I see,” I said, noticing the incorrect exchange rate, “you have the Aussie dollar at only 85 cents. It’s 96 cents at the moment.”

“Oh,” she said smiling pleasantly, “that is the amount set by our financial manager.”

“But he doesn’t set the exchange rate – the world market does,” I said, laughing incredulously.

She shrugged as pleasantly as she smiled. “That’s the rate he set.” I was dumbstruck, but was not going to labour the point, as ultimately I want ‘them’ to let me in to their country. Mum and I shook our heads as we walked out, amazed at the arrogance.

Wrung out we walked back to the car, knowing we had overstayed our one hour limit. A nice fat $50 ticket sat smugly on the window. I used my millionth expletive for the day as we got into the car.

Stage one was completed.

I have no idea what the next stages will hold, or how many there will be, but I am steeling myself, because I want a green card, and I will do whatever ‘they’ ask to get it.

And I must say that my mum is a champion, because she says she will do whatever ‘they’ ask too.

Thanks, mum.

Window seat

sandybarker

I am not a window seat kind of a girl.

I say this metaphorically, and literally.

In life, I do not like to sit by the window and watch. I like to get out there in it, and invariably I end up a bit mucky for my efforts. But this is my preference. I actually feel for the ‘watchers’, those people who say stuff like, “I wish I could do that” or “If only I had [insert attribute or asset here], I would be happy”. I much prefer being an active participant in life, and sometimes I get injured or have a set back, but I often feel great joy.

I am not a window seat kind of a girl on a plane either. I prefer the aisle – the aisle affords me freedom.

Two days ago, I flew from east to west to visit my family and friends. Still at the terminal, I sat in my aisle seat patiently waiting for those who would be seated next to me. They didn’t come. As the plane pulled back, I realised I had three airline seats to myself, a rare pleasure.

I stayed in the aisle seat for about as long as it took for the young family across the aisle to make more noise than young families should in a confined space. I moved to the window seat, and stretched my legs across the other two. I had appropriated 2 pillows from the overhead locker above my head, so I was as comfortable as a person can be in coach.

My ‘special meal’ came 30 minutes before the meal service started, and I watched a film I had wanted to see for some time. Does airline travel get any better than this? (Well, yes, if you’re Ben who gets upgraded every time he flies, just for showing up.)

I even had a nap. For forty-five minutes!

When we started to make our descent, I lifted the window shade I had lowered for my movie viewing. The sun streamed in, as although it would be raining on landing, we were above the cloud line. We descended through the clouds and I watched as the earth emerged through the wisps of white.

I rarely see this type of view, because I almost always sit on the aisle.

The topography changed several times in as many minutes. It was beautiful, and the best part of a really good flight.

I felt a twinge, because I knew how many times I had missed this exact feeling.

I took shot after shot. The earth was drenched, and the colours vibrant – every shade of green. Then there were scars, great gashes of red earth ripped through the bush. Farms presented a patchwork of neat borders and varying shades and textures. Vineyards appeared, with their perfect rows of vines pointing the way to grand houses and wineries. And then the outskirts of Perth itself, where trees pepper an urban landscape in dark green tufts.

patchwork

earthen scar

Vineyards

Outskirts

It is my home.

I love Sydney, which is why I have lived there nearly eight years. I love other places around the world, and I am sure I will love living in Seattle next year. Western Australia, however, is home. I will always come back here to see it, and my loved ones who live here.

It is so easy to take the familiar for granted, but on Saturday I got to see my homeland through fresh, somewhat misty eyes. I felt pride mostly, because it truly is incredibly beautiful and I cannot wait to show it off to Ben.

And I had this small, but significant joy all because I took a window seat.

Long Distance Relationships

sandybarker

I have said before that no matter where I am in the world, I miss someone I love.  Because I have lived in three countries and have spent my adult life being a traveller, I am fortunate to have forged lasting relationships world over.   Of course, many of those I love are travellers themselves, and are scattered to the winds.  It is somewhat corny, but highly appropriate that the ‘world wide web’ is my primary tool for keeping the threads of these relationships intact.  I may not be able to make last minute dinner plans with these loved ones, but these threads are as important to my life as the relationships with those close by.

First thing every morning, after the wake-up-make-the-bed-visit-the-bathroom thing, I greet my cat, Jessie, and switch on my computer.  Throughout my getting ready routine, I check my inboxes (yes, there are several) to see who on the other side of the world is doing what.  Jessie does her yoga at my feet while I fill her in on the lives of my loved ones.  Sometimes I laugh too loudly for her sensitive ears, and she glares at me and skulks off.

While world news bleat from the television, I flick between several web pages and catch up on the news that matters to me more.

Facebook brings the latest escapades of my American, Canadian and European comrades (plus Geraldine in Peru and Christine in South Africa), pics from my interstate friends, the latest ass-whipping from my Scrabulous opponents, and a poke from Darion.  (I once asked Darion to ‘Quit poking me!’ but soon took it back, because I suspect it is a sign of affection.)

Inboxes bearing emails from far-off loved ones, bring as much happiness as a fruitful mailbox did 20 years ago.  And when I see my mum or sis on IM, I know we can have a quick chat just to touch base.

I love getting an international sms – even those that come at 3 in the morning, as every text I ever get from Sharon, my Irish friend, does.

I indulge in interstate text messages daily.  I will zap a ‘must see’ message to Dad and Gail about a program we all like.  Dad sends me footie scores, or an update on where he and Gail are having a fabulous lunch.   I will tell Mum I hope her day goes well.  And she always replies with an ‘I love you’.

As well as the web and the mobile phone, there is a device that sits in my living room on its very own table, and is connected to the wall by a cord.  It rings from time to time, and the cat and I look at each other and wonder what that sound is.  We then realise it is the telephone, and I rush to answer it, knowing it will be my mum, my dad, my friend Mich (who now lives in OUTER Sydney, and has become one of my long distance loved ones), or Suzi in London.

Actually Suzi called the other night, and although I haven’t seen her since this time last year, and she now lives in London, she still feels close.  She is my doppelganger in life, with parallels and likenesses in numbers too great to name.  Even though she is literally on the other side of the world, when she calls our conversations are like those I have with friends I see all the time.

Threads.

And most importantly, there is the actual ‘long distance relationship’ I have forged with Ben since October ’06.  Because we met overseas and live in different countries, all of these forms of communication have become the lifeblood of our relationship.  We see each other as often and for as long as we can, but when we can’t physically be together, we still feature heavily in each other’s daily life.  Phone calls, emails, sms, IM sustain us as a couple while we’re apart.  We can can fill hours of air time talking about, well, anything and everything.  And nothing.  Sometimes, it is nonsense, which is hellishly fun.

None of this, of course, means that I do not want to defy the laws of the natural world, and move the homes of all these distant loved ones – everyone – into one land mass where we can all live close to each other.  Nothing, nothing (!) beats being able to hug someone you love, or looking into their eyes while they talk to you.  But, we have all these wonderful tools to keep us together when we’re apart.

P.S.  I head west next week for some brilliant face to face time.

P.S.P.S.  Ben and I are working on being on the same land mass.

Pure Glee

sandybarker

I was having dinner with my friend, Patrice, and she described her best travelling moment as sitting on the lawn of a resort in Papua New Guinea, and eating coconuts. It was her first time on grass in three years, because she had lived in a concrete jungle, and the resort lawn overlooked the ocean. The coconuts were fresh from the palm tree, and were sticky and delicious. There she sat, eating and slurping away as she gazed out at a spectacular view and scrunched her toes into the grass. It was pure glee.

Glee is not only a great word (try saying it out loud – you’re smiling now, aren’t you?), it is a wonderful state of being. Glee only comes when you are right in that moment. When you’re in the thick of glee, there is no thinking and there is no worrying; there is only divine joy. There is no real formula for glee either. It is hard to seek out, because it just happens, and before we know it, we are basking in it.

For traveller’s, these are moments that we remember with clarity, the emotional snapshots we file away in our memories to revisit when we need them most.

Since that dinner, Patrice’s story has inspired me to write of my own moments of emotional alchemy, when I have experienced glee while on my travels. I thought I’d start with my encounters with creatures.

Snorkeling off the coast off Maui with green sea turtles was what started my love affair with these serene beauties. They move so slowly and gracefully, as though there is all the time in the world. All fears I had about being in the ocean vanished as I dreamily paddled above them, and I was delighted when a grand old soul popped his head up above the surface about two meters from me. I am sure he gave me a wink.
Ben's Sea Turtle
Ben’s shot of a green sea turtle

Llamas are my favourite land animal. They have spunk, and are damned cute to boot. When traversing Peru on motorcycle with my guide, Geraldine, we stopped at a llama farm. I was still recovering from salmonella poisoning, but my weariness was forgotten as I walked amongst alpacas and llamas. They ate from my hand, and I laughed out loud like a delighted child. “Llama, llama, llama.”
There's something in my eye
There’s something in my eye
Ewok
Ewok
Shall we shag now, or shag later?
Shaggy

Up the New South Wales coast, at Copacabana, my friend Paulie has a beach house (It is his home and it is stunning, and I am jealous, but this isn’t the time or the place). The kookaburras love to come and visit Paulie’s beach house, because they know they will get a feed. This fellow hung around for about 20 minutes and ate raw meat from my hand, which intrigued a fellow party-goer aged two.
Kooka
Look at you
Look at you

For some reason, dogs love me. This has taken some getting used to. I have a long-held fear of big dogs since I survived a childhood attack by a German Shepherd. Regardless, dogs do not know this, and in my travels I often make as many canine friends as human ones. On Siros, in the Cyclades Islands of Greece, this dog met me and Ben in the main square, then took us on a tour of the town.
Our dog
Ben’s shot of Siros, our dog

She was such a lovely spirited dog, and a little naughty too (she chased and cornered a cat, and wouldn’t come until we threatened to leave without her). After a couple of hours, she led us back to the square and we thanked her for the tour with a bag of chips. Many of the dogs in Greece are homeless, but this one had a collar so she belonged to someone. For those two hours, however, she belonged to us.

I love kangaroos. They are almost as cute and cool as llamas. My dad (Ray) and step mum (Gail) live on the south coast of Western Australia in the tiny hamlet of Denmark (yes, that was intentional). Their home is in a semi rural area, where the roads and gardens are shared with the native kangas. When I wake, and before I drink my freshly squeezed orange juice, I go and say good morning to the mob. They look up from their eating, perfectly still, except for their mouths that continue to masticate. After a few moments, they decide that I am not as interesting as I obviously find them, and they go back to their breakfasts.
Breakfasting kangas
In the afternoon, they lounge, or fight if they are boys and are bored, and eat some more.
Lounging Kangas
Dad tells the story of a joey, fresh from the pouch, attempting to hop across the road. He was hopping with all his might, while his mother waited for him on the other side, but for all his efforts, he was only hopping on the spot. Yes, kangaroos are funny creatures.

Lambs like to frolic and there are few things more adorable than a frolicking lamb. I saw hundreds of the things all over New Zealand as we drove the winding roads. Leaping, jumping, running, frolicking. I would laugh aloud, as they are even clumsier than me.

On our quad bike tour I got to pet a lamb, which was probably not as much fun for the lamb as it was for me. He, she, it was bleating like I was choosing it for its shanks, but I just pet its curly little head instead.

Some days later, Ben and I were driving to Christchurch, and found ourselves being unseasonably snowed upon. We stopped at a tiny town – one church, and one abandoned shack – and took in the silence that comes as snow falls in the middle of nowhere. Well, almost silence. I could hear bleating. I went off around the back of the church, and there hiding in the woodpile was this little lamb.
Little Lamb Lost
He came to me like a dog would, and stayed close by my side.
My Little Mate in the Snow
The poor little mite had wandered too far from mum, and like in a lost kid in the supermarket, was scared. I pointed it in the right direction, and it ran off to reunite with mum (who seemed indifferent to her terrified child). I had lamb shanks for dinner that night. Yes, true!

I am not Dr Doolittle, but I do talk to animals. It is a reflex response now. I can’t help it. My voice travels up a few notches, and before I know it, I am having a one-sided conversation with one of mother nature’s creatures.

I remember once in a hotel in New Zealand I asked Ben a question. He didn’t answer even though he must have heard me, so I asked again. “Are you talking to me?” he replied. I looked around the room, empty of people except the two of us. “Um, yes.” He smiled at me, “I thought there must have been a bird outside and you were talking to it.” How could I argue with that?

I guess I talk to them, because I am in a moment that I don’t get to have everyday. These animals intrigue and engage me, and before I know it, I am not worrying or thinking about anything else. I just feel the glee.

More later on gleeful moments in natural beauty, glee in response to human beauty, and glee from loving where I am, who I am with and what I am doing.

Staying Put

sandybarker

Ben and I chatted today, and the first part of the conversation was about his eventful flight from the west coast to the midwest (of the U.S.). He had me laughing with the tale of the mother and teenage son, who held up the security line because they had clearly never flown before (the toiletries must come out of the bag, shoes off, and metal things WILL make the metal detector go ‘ding ding ding’ like the “Price Is Right” set.)

Once on the plane there was the mother and daughter who insisted he was in the wrong seat, because surely the ‘ABC’ of the seating begins on the aisle. He was happy to give up the window seat that they clearly wanted, if only they would understand that, in fact, he WAS in the correct seat and the lettering begins at the window. He stayed next to the window, and eventually the women settled in.

He survived all of these frustrating encounters with first timers only to be on the flight from turbulence hell. “I don’t think I have ever heard the pilot come over the PA that many times to make sure people were in their seats.” Subsequently, there was no opportunity to visit the bathroom or for any food service. Then when the plane neared Minneapolis/St. Paul, they were put in a holding pattern due to inclement weather. All of this explains why his text message to me after landing mentioned ‘home’, ‘starving’ and ‘peeing’.

I laughed through his tales – and credit to him, so did he, and then I asked if he would like to ‘guest author’ this blog entry. Not only is he a good storyteller, but I have little to write about for the time being as I am ‘staying put’.

A week ago I finally heard a decision that I had been waiting a few months to hear, only the answer was ‘no’ and I had been waiting for a ‘yes’. In March I applied to go on an adventure that would take me to Africa for two weeks, all expenses paid, and would let me stand on African terra firma for the first time. A tour company I have travelled with twice needed 8 people to complete one of its trips so they could film the trip’s promotional video. The call went out. Over 400 people responded, with videos and photos and stories proving just how ‘intrepid’ we all were. 30 people were shortlisted, including me, and then we waited.

Three months later, after many interim emails asking me to please be patient and telling me I was still on the short list, I received the email telling me, unfortunately, I had not been selected for this trip. It had nothing to do with me – because they believe I am terrific, and great on camera – they just needed to get the permutation of people right.

I did not take their decision personally, but I was still gutted.

In my mind I felt, rather, I really knew, I would be asked to go on that trip. I had started thinking of what to take – that my hiking boots would be perfect, as would my rain slicker and my canvas pants with the zip-off legs. There was no doubt that I would get to go to Africa in a couple of months.

I shed a few tears – mostly of frustration. I expressed to Ben that I know some people perceive me as ‘lucky’, but in reality, although I have lived a wonderfully full life thus far, I am no luckier than anyone else. I just see opportunities, and when I decide I want something, I work bloody hard for it. My ‘luckiness’ comes from the fact that I was raised by parents who taught me to keep my eyes open, to work hard and to enjoy the fruits of my labours.

In this case, I had seen the opportunity and prepared a terrific letter and selected photographs that showed me at my adventurous best. When I was contacted and asked to send a video, I enlisted help from friends, filmed, edited and sent a video. When I was asked to send MORE video, I did – with photos and another letter. I did all I could to get on that trip, which is why although I was disappointed, I did not take too long to get over it. There was simply nothing more I could have done.

As I hate the idea of wasting valuable holiday time, the ‘rejection’ forced me to look ahead to the next few months and really think about what I want out of them. I decided to fly to Western Australia next month, so I can see my parents, and family, and old friends. I am really looking forward to this upcoming trip, basking in the familiarity and love that I will find there. Beyond that, Ben and I will see where his work takes him – and us – but for the short term I am staying put.

And that, is just fine with me.

Long distances

sandybarker

Yesterday I turned 39. I spent the weekend with new friends up in the Hunter Valley – a wine region two hours north of Sydney – and I have some great pics and stories to share soon. And I mean not to take away from the fun, friendship and festivities of the past two days (or from those planned celebrations to come) by saying that, on my birthdays I feel long distances more acutely than any other day.

My parents live in across the country. My sister lives in London. My boyfriend lives in Minnesota. I have family and close friends literally all over the world. This means two things. Firstly, it means that I am inundated with cards, presents, calls, emails and good wishes from all over the planet. I enjoy this, because the girl inside me is part princess and loves being spoiled with love and good wishes.

It also means that, on my birthday I miss my nearest and dearest even more acutely than I usually do. I mean not to bemoan my life as it is. I mean only to say to those of you I miss, a lot, all of the time, and especially yesterday, that I love you. And I look forward to the next time I get to hug you, laugh with you, shake a hair shimmy with you, and sit next to you, with your hand in mine, while you fill me in on all I have missed. You see, the best thing about a ‘long distance’ is the reunion.

Mantra

sandybarker

I teach Drama, and today I went to a Drama class for Drama teachers. In an acting exercise I had to take off a piece of jewelery and state why it is significant to me. I took off the silver ring I wear everyday and said, “This is the ring I bought in Peru, and I wear it everyday. It reminds me always that I am a traveller.”

“I am a traveller.” This is something I know to be true about myself, even when I doubt other things. It has become a constant. This contradiction tickles me, because I have this constant in my life that is about fulfilling my need to move, and my needs for freedom, for newness and contrasts. That assuredness actually guides me, because I have a great fear of playing it safe and becoming stagnant.

To travel is to take risks. It is a leap of faith. We build up expectations and then we go to see how the real thing measures up. It could all go pear shaped. Every time we get in the car for a road trip, or board a plane, we are putting ourselves out there in the world, and exposing ourselves to all kinds of strife, sometimes even bedlam. But, for me, the risks are worth it. They have paid off ten fold: where I have been, what I have done, who I have met, what I have seen. These are now parts of the tapestry of my life.

AND most importantly, in between my travels, I can still be a ‘traveller’: I can be brave, I can embrace opportunities to meet new people, I can try new things, and I can seek out new places in my home city. ‘I am a traveller’ means movement, freedom and contrasts, whether that is here in Sydney or on the other side of the world.

Of course I have those days where I don’t leave the house and stay in my pyjamas – the power of the ‘Doona Day’ is strong – and I have real fears that sometimes cripple me, but ultimately my mantra has the power to steer me back on course. ‘I am a traveller.’ I must go, and see and do.