Although it wanders far, my heart is made of Southern Hemisphere constellations, Australian Western Desert red dirt, and Pacific Ocean saltwater. My treasured friend, the utterly magical Libby Morgan has always reminded me of this, while cheering me on with raucous, unfettered joy for every kilometre, achievement, and failure on my way. She recently sent me this photo from home, often knowing what my heart needs before it does. She didn’t send any accompanying words. Sometimes the senses refuse to be translated.
I’ve realised this morning I’ve been travelling between hemispheres for six years in pursuit of my writing dreams. In all this time, the wild pulling that starts around September — to take my heart home where it was born, for barefoot summer days, my mother’s garden, the scent of baked earth and gum trees at sunset, the sound of kookaburras and cicadas, and the sheer, absolute pleasure of standing in a salty sea breeze with the people I love — has not lessened.
Between my two homes I’ve found gratitude is the third that keeps all three braided together.