Leave Me Wild

I cursed her for bringing me there.

The track was muddy and unforgiving, the shabby hut dilapidated and leaning to one side beneath the weight of years of weather. I pushed on towards it, knowing I had no choice. When I opened the door, a pungent smell hit me: cat piss mixed with mould. I cursed her even more. Dropping my bag onto the floorboards, I pulled out the list of instructions she had left behind.

It will stink, she had written. But you’ll adapt. There’s eucalyptus oil in the top cupboard that will help. Get a fire going first. This bush is cold. It is wild. You must stay warm.

Following Helen’s carefully written instructions on collecting wood and lighting the fire, I attempted to bring the damp kindling to life with mixed results.

Dust coated everything. I wiped the mirror above the rust-stained sink and looked at myself. My shaved head. I had kept it that way. I could no longer be bothered with hairstyles. The deep line between my eyebrows looked permanent now, as though grief had carved itself into my face. For a moment, I saw Helen behind me, smiling. I blinked and she disappeared. I cursed her again. Why did you have to bring me here? I longed for our apartment. Her final words haunted me.

Trust me. Fulfil my wish and you never know what the wild may have to offer you. Leave me wild.

Helen had been a plant expert. She had worked there, creating a nature reserve to save an endangered grevillea. I was an academic. That was how we had met. But I had never been the type to get my hands dirty.

The first night was the worst. The howling wind. The moonlight stretching across the bush. The hut creaking with every gust. Wild dogs howling in the night. The rickety walls of the hut felt paper-thin. I woke every hour. The fire was almost pointless; icy drafts slipped through the gaps in the walls of the tiny hut no matter how much wood I fed into it. The mattress sagged beneath me, riddled with holes.

When dawn finally came, I rose stiff and exhausted. Missing and cursing her simultaneously. Following Helen’s instructions, I lit the gas burner and made a cup of tea. Wrapped in a blanket, I sat on the front step and watched the mist roll through the trees. The sky slowly transformed from a thin strip of yellow into rich shades of mauve, dusty pink, orange and deep red. For the first time since arriving, I thought perhaps Helen had been right. Perhaps there was beauty there after all.

I spent the morning sweeping dust from corners and wiping down surfaces with strips of old cloth soaked in eucalyptus oil. The sharp scent slowly pushed back the mould and dampness. Every now and then I looked at the metal container sitting on the small wooden table.

Helen.

Part of me wanted to not empty it and leave immediately. Hike back out through the bush and return home with her ashes beside me like I had always imagined. But I couldn’t leave her there. Not yet. My promise echoed through me.

Please, Patty. Promise me.

I unfolded the next page of instructions.

The hut will be freezing at night. Fill the gaps in the walls with moss. There’s a creek nearby. Follow the track. It’ll be overgrown by now. Check the water tank too: it could be full of possum shit. Boil the water before you drink it.

I found two rusty buckets in the cobweb-covered woodshed and followed the narrow path into the bush. The track was almost swallowed by scrub, but I could still make it out beneath the ferns and fallen branches. The creek wound quietly through the trees, water slipping over dark rocks. I crouched beside it, pulling soft moss from the edges of the stones and stuffing it into the bucket. A kingfisher darted past me, landing silently on a branch above the water. For a moment it sat perfectly still. Then it flew away. Something inside me cracked open.

“You should be here,” I whispered.

The words turned into sobs before I could stop them.

“You should be here with me.”

I wrapped my arms around my legs and rocked back and forth beside the creek, cursing Helen, cursing the universe, cursing whatever cruel force had left me alone in a world still capable of beauty. Because beauty meant nothing without her.

Back at the hut, I shoved moss angrily into the gaps between the timber slabs while rain rolled in across the valley. Cold mist swallowed the bush. By late afternoon I retreated inside, lighting the lamp before sitting at the desk to read more of Helen’s notes.

Remember Greece? she had written. You once told me you wanted a house with a red door. Give us a red door, my love.

My tears blurred the ink.

A week passed before I finally ventured into town for supplies. By then I imagined I looked half feral. I hadn’t spoken to another human since arriving. Hadn’t heard another voice except my own and the sounds of the bush. I bought flour, tea, paint and nails. And when I returned, I sanded the old timber door and painted it red. Standing back admiring it, the joy felt tainted. Bittersweet.

A month passed before I found the courage to continue deeper into Helen’s plan. By then the hut no longer felt entirely hostile. I had patched the walls with moss. Cleaned years of grime from the windows. Painted the dunny door bright blue and one of the window sills purple just because Helen would have laughed at it. Sometimes I caught myself talking to her aloud. Sometimes I answered myself in her voice. One cold morning I unfolded another page from the stack of instructions.

It’s time to visit the grevillea, Patty. I know you’ve been avoiding it.

I smiled despite myself. Helen always knew me too well. Often better than I knew myself. 

Take the tent in case you can’t make it back before dark. Don’t forget the compass. And take more water than you think you need.

The kookaburras woke me before sunrise the next morning. I pulled on my mud-crusted boots, packed the backpack and stepped out into the freezing dawn. The bush smelled of wet earth and eucalyptus. Mist clung low across the track. At first the hike was easy. Then the land turned steep. Loose rocks shifted beneath my boots as I climbed higher into the ranges. Thorny scrub clawed at my sleeves. Black cockatoos screeched overhead, their cries echoing through the gullies like warnings. Several times I nearly turned back. Fear settled over me the deeper I went. What if I got lost? What if I died out there? And beneath those thoughts came another quieter one. Would it even matter? Without Helen, the world often felt hollowed out beyond repair. 

Then suddenly the bush opened before me. A green valley stretched between the rocky ridges like something hidden from the rest of the world. Wattle bloomed in thick golden patches across the slopes. And there, beside a large boulder, stood the grevillea. The mother plant. Young plants scattered along the dry gully around it, stubborn and thriving. Helen’s life’s work. I dropped my backpack and lay beneath the branches, staring up at the shifting sky above the gum trees. Warm sunlight spilled across my face while cool wind danced through the valley. For one impossible moment, I felt Helen beside me. I reached for her hand. And I swear I felt her fingers squeeze mine. When I opened my eyes again, I was alone.

Leave me here, leave me wild, her voice whispered through my memory. Where I belong.

“No,” I said aloud, tears sliding into my hair. “You belong with me.”

I cried until my chest hurt. Then I packed my bag and began the long walk back towards the hut. The sun had almost disappeared by the time I reached the clearing. At first I heard it before I saw it. Hooves. Sharp and frantic against the earth. Then the brumby burst from the shadows. Golden coat. Silver mane. White blaze across its face. It circled the hut wildly, kicking and snorting as dusk swallowed the clearing. I froze. Fear locked the breath inside my chest. Then, just as suddenly, it disappeared back into the bush. I stood there shaking, unsure whether I had imagined the entire thing. Inside the hut I jammed the door shut, fed more wood into the fire and sat beneath the lamplight reading Helen’s journal with trembling hands.

You didn’t do it yet, did you?

I laughed weakly through my tears.

That’s alright, Patty. You’ll know when the time comes. Don’t be afraid of the spirits that live here. They may be wild, but they can’t hurt you. Only heal you.

The days bled into weeks. Then months. I planted seeds beside the hut. Learned how to bake bread in the old combustion stove. I thought maybe I could go on like this forever. Basking in the sun, watching the eagles soar above. Read Helen’s journals over and over until I almost knew them by heart. And every night the brumby returned. Sometimes I only glimpsed flashes of silver mane through the trees. Sometimes it circled the hut beneath the full moon, neighing into the darkness until sleep became impossible. At first I feared it. Then I waited for it. One night, after reading another journal entry about freedom and letting go, I stood by the door gripping a length of wood like a weapon. Right on time, the brumby emerged from the darkness. I stepped outside.

“Leave me alone,” I shouted.

The horse halted. Steam curled from its nostrils in the freezing air.

“She’s mine,” I cried. “I’m not ready.”

The brumby lifted onto its back legs, towering above me. I shut my eyes, expecting impact. But nothing came. When I finally looked up, the horse stood still only metres away. And in its eyes I saw something achingly familiar. Something gentle. Something that loved me.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

The brumby lowered its head. Then slowly turned and disappeared towards the grevillea valley. I stayed awake until dawn reading the final pages of Helen’s journals. Her childhood memories. Her fears. Her regrets. How fiercely she had loved me. And finally, her goodbye.

The kookaburras woke me again the next morning. This time I didn’t hesitate. I packed the plain white plastic container of ashes carefully into my bag and followed the track back to the valley. The grevillea was in bloom when I arrived, golden flowers glowing beneath the morning sun.

“I’m sorry I waited so long,” I whispered.

As I hesitated, I heard her voice, strong and clear, leave me here, leave me wild my love. 

At the base of the mother plant, I dug a shallow hole and scattered Helen’s ashes into the dry earth. The moment felt strangely quiet. No revelation. No miracle. Only grief softening into something gentler. My tears had run dry, like the grevillea-lined gully, long since dry, she had planted.

By the time I returned to the hut, storm clouds had swallowed the sky. Rain lashed through the clearing while thunder cracked across the mountains. Lightning painted the sky in vibrant celebration. And there it was again. The golden brumby. It circled the hut one final time beneath the lightning, rearing wildly against the storm before racing towards the valley. I stood beneath the red doorway, rain soaking through my clothes, and for a brief moment I felt her hand on mine, once more. Not trapped. Not lost. Wild and free. 

After that night, I never saw the golden brumby again.

 

 

Muddy Mirrors

The screen door slammed behind them, the last rays of sun glinting off the windscreen as Mum and Dad clambered into the ute. Dust rose like smoke around the tyres as the engine rumbled to life.

            “Hurry up, Bill,” Mum snapped, tugging at her seatbelt. “It’s getting dark. I don’t want to be late again.”

            “I’m coming, I’m coming,” Dad muttered, thumping the side of the ute as he rounded to the driver’s side. He paused at the edge of the verandah and pointed a grease-stained finger at Jess. “Make sure the pump’s running. If it’s not, ring Scott and get him to prime it.”

            Jess stood barefoot on the splintery timber boards, arms folded, the last warmth of the day clinging to her skin. She rolled her eyes so hard it hurt. “Of course,” she muttered. “Call Scott. Saint bloody Scott. The golden boy.”

            Mum leaned out the passenger window, her earrings catching the light like small suns. “Don’t forget to lock up the chooks. We’ll be back Sunday arvo.”

            And then they were gone; tail lights glowing red against the long, dusty ribbon of road that led out past the dam and into the hills. Jess watched until the dust settled, her arms still folded, the creak of the windmill the only sound left behind.

The quiet settled around her like a heavy blanket.

            The pump switch clicked uselessly. Jess frowned, listening. No whir, no gurgle, nothing.  

            Of course.

            Grabbing a battered torch, she stomped down the hill, muddy boots kicking through a carpet of golden elm leaves. The air cooled quickly, turning the hill’s shadows into long, twisted fingers. Halfway down, she thought about pulling out her phone and calling Scott. He’d answer, come roaring up in his spotless Hilux, shirt sleeves rolled, cap backwards, fixing everything with a lopsided grin. Jess shoved the thought aside. She wasn’t calling him. Not this time.

            At the dilapidated pump shed, she remembered what Dad had shown her once; how to prime it. Fingers trembling slightly, she unscrewed the top fitting, filled an old milk jug with water from the trough, and poured it in. Water sloshed everywhere, soaking her shirt, trickling down her arms. She tightened the fitting again, heart thudding, and raced back uphill.

            She flicked the switch.

            Nothing.  

            Her throat tightened. A sour taste rose in her mouth. Back down the hill she went, slipping once, catching herself with a hand that plunged deep into wet earth.

At the shed again, she unscrewed the fitting and tried again, cursing under her breath. This time the pump gave a sputter and coughed; and then a surge of black mud blasted out, splattering her face, her chest, her jeans. She stumbled backward, gasping, tears stinging her muddy cheeks.

            Stupid, stupid.

            Tears mixed with the grime. Jess wiped her face with the back of her hand, only grinding the mud deeper into her skin.  

            Kneeling in the muck, she caught sight of herself in a shallow puddle beside the pump; her face smeared and distorted, staring back like a stranger through muddy glass.

            Why are you even trying?  You’re the smart one, not the practical one. You’re meant to marry the rich farmer, not be the farmer. You’ll never be Scott. The voice was cruel, familiar; a chorus she’d carried for years.

            Defeated, Jess slumped beside the pump, wrapping her arms around her knees. The elm leaves swirled around her, golden against the mud caking her.

But then... a thought. Dad had once muttered something about the foot valve getting blocked sometimes.

            Dragging herself down the steep rocks beside the creek — where water whispered over smooth stones and reeds bowed under the current; Jess knelt at the water’s edge. She glimpsed her reflection again, rippled and broken in the muddy current, her own face barely recognisable beneath the dirt and defeat. She found the thick rubber pipe that plunged into the creek. Hauling it up, water dripping everywhere, she prised the valve open with her fingernails. Inside, clogged tight, was a wad of leaves, grit, and slimy twigs. Gritting her teeth, Jess scrubbed it clean with handfuls of dry grass, her fingers numb, her whole body shivering now with a fierce energy. The light faded fast, the crickets beginning their sharp mocking chorus.

            Filthy, soaked, and shaking, she scrambled back up the hill one last time.

She flicked the switch. A deep gurgle, a powerful hum, and then the pump kicked to life, sending a jet of clear, clean water rushing through the pipe. Jess leaned over, hands on her knees, breathing hard. Relief flooded her, followed by something deeper, something wilder.

            “Thank God for that,” she whispered.

            In the bathroom, Jess stared at herself in the mirror. Mud streaked her forehead, plastered her hair, clung to every crease in her clothes. Her hands were brown up to the wrists.

            The mirror was fogged and spattered from her wet clothes and dirty hands, the image fractured and unclear — just like the girl she saw staring back. She barely recognised this version of herself;  not the polished Jess who sat at debating tables, who teachers patted on the head for getting good marks, who neighbours told should "find herself a nice man to run a place like this."

            This Jess was battered, blistered, wild-eyed. Small and wiry where Scott was broad and towering. But stubborn. Resourceful.

            Jess turned on the tap and stepped into the shower. Mud peeled away in layers, revealing raw, pink skin beneath. It hurt at first, but then it felt good.

            When she stepped out again, the mirror was still misted, clouded with smears and streaks. Jess picked up a towel and wiped it clean. The girl staring back at her this time was clearer, sharper; not flawless, but real. As the water cleared from her skin and the mirror cleared from the grime, something inside Jess felt like it had scrubbed itself clean too. A glint sparked in her reflection’s eye; something stronger, tougher, something that had been buried too long under layers of other people’s expectations.

            Jess smiled. Not wide. Not victorious. But steady. Sure. Tomorrow there’d be more jobs to do. Fences to check. Chooks to lock up. No Saint Scott. No waiting for a rescue. Just her. And that was enough.

            Out the window, the windmill creaked again, steady and stubborn against the gathering dark. Jess dried herself with a rough towel, dressed in a clean shirt, jeans, and muddy boots.  Her mud caked boots sat by the door, a silent badge of everything she had faced tonight; and everything she was ready to face tomorrow. Stepping outside, Jess walked with purpose across the yard to lock up the chooks.

            Ahead, the night stretched out. Wildly wide, waiting, hers.

Dancing with Big Magic

 

Let me explain my own personal writing process. Maybe this will inspire you to embrace your own writing process.

 

When the words come, I just get them out. Paper. Computer. Phone notes. Whatever is at my disposal. I grab the words while they are swirling around my head and let them flow out. I don’t have time for punctuation and spelling. Whatever I need to write, I release. 

 

Writing is magic. It is healing. Cathartic. When I write poetry it just comes. Usually at 3 o’clock in the morning. Usually after processing something for a long time. When the pieces of the puzzle finally come together. 

 

Later, I go back and perfect it. Inspiration doesn’t sit around waiting, it comes and goes, so it is important to write when it comes.

 

Other times it’s tedious writing. Editing, revising. Labouring over a word, one sentence. Deliberating a comma or a full stop. When inspiration comes to dance, I dance. 

 

I found writing a full manuscript and getting to 85,000 words was like filling a big water tank. It simply took one word at a time. Like dripping water, it slowly filled up. Like catching water and filling a tank, I had times of a sudden down pour. A rush of water. Sometimes it was dry. A half-filled tank; a barely finished story. It simply took one drop. One word at a time. I learnt that small acts. Small, simple tasks that add to a big, final project or piece are important. I have never had the luxury of being able to dedicate my full attention and time to writing, so stealing a moment, an hour in a day is all it takes. The secret is to make it most days. Steal it unapologetically. 

 

Writing for me is not just the physical act of typing or scrolling on paper. Observation is like constant research. I would watch the light. Be mindful of the seasons. What does it look like? Everything in life becomes interesting, as I’d study it and think about how I would convey it on the paper. The challenge of conveying on the paper what I observe. Challenge of taking what I see in my mind’s eye and painting that picture with my words. An exciting challenge.

 

I have read as much as possible and studied words. I’m constantly trying to extend my vocabulary. Whenever I find a word, I like or don’t know, I write it down and look up its meaning. In Year 8 my teacher said that words are a writer’s tools. The more words you have the better. I try to gather as many tools as possible. 

 

Writing. It is joy and torture all at the same time. The story line and the characters just won’t leave you alone. Driving to and from work. As you sit and ponder, the images and voices dance in your mind. You can’t leave it or escape it. Pestering you to write them into life and tell their story. 

 

Notes. So many random fucking notes that need to be weaved together and fleshed out and made into something coherent. I love them. I hate them. I don’t know if this is a technique, I would recommend but often inspiration comes at inconvenient times and I need to record the ideas and then find the time to come back to them. 

 

Sometimes it is pure magic. When words, thoughts and feeling all flow. Coalesce. Pouring onto the page effortlessly. My spirit dances within another creative realm. There is freedom, healing and alchemy.

 

Other times, it’s just fucking hard work. Labouring over a sentence structure. Getting the plot to work. Checking dates. I have a detailed excel spreadsheet where I record the ages and details of my characters to make sure I am consistent. Deliberating over a word. Editing. Drafting. Editing. Drafting. Each word, each sentence, each paragraph, each chapter. Reading, correcting, fixing, changing, perfecting. I drafted my novel 7 times. I did 2 complete proof reads and edits from printed copies. I would sit with a pen and highlighter and go through each chapter. By simply doing one chapter a day, I found I could easily achieve that. Stealing an hour.

 

There is this critique, this judgement. A constant fear and doubt. This is also a driving force. Fear and inspiration join me on this journey. As Elizabeth Gilbert recommends in Big Magic. I let inspiration be in the passenger seat as I drive down this road of creativity and fear sits in the back seat. Still there, but not in control. The truth is, if I let fear drive, or even sit up the front, I wouldn’t write. I wouldn’t creative. I wouldn’t dance. I wouldn’t let the magic surround me. I would simply not do it for fear of judgement and failure. Isn’t that what life is like in general. We avoid trying for fear of failure. This journey is not easy, but it is so worth it. When it’s work and when it is magic. I always show up because dancing with big magic is like no other dance. 

Untangle

Tangled

Venice

A labyrinth

Streets like intertwined rivers

Weaving their way 

In a tangled maze

Lost

Endless discoveries

It all looks different from a different angle

Tangle of languages

Accents 

Cultures

Sea of endless possibility 

My emotions

Expectations

Mood

Have been like these canals

Streets

Tangled 

Twisted 

Weaving their way out to sea

To find

Freedom

Space

Breathe again

Relax

Calm waters

Untangle

No more greed

Or need

Contentment 

Satisfaction

God

Love

All the world

Is my home

With God

I am never alone

Untangled

Farrah B. Mandala 2013

Hidden Treasure

Hidden Treasure

It has been a long journey to get here. A long journey to find this hidden treasure. 

I have had a love affair with writing, for as long as I can remember. The first poem I ever wrote was on an ordinary day, out the farm while Mum and Dad milked the cows, scribbled on a spew bag that I then hid under the seat of the car. It was after my great-grandmother, Nanna Brown died. Today is her birthday, she’d be 109. I think I was around 8 or 9 when I wrote this first poem. My Mum found it, this hidden treasure, she flattened it out and helped fix all the spelling mistakes and it was printed on the booklet at the funeral. My writing came from that place of sadness, from grappling with death and guilt.  Mad Woman Rocking was written from that same place. Throughout my life, I have always journaled and written poetry that I’d store in boxes. Hidden away. Hidden treasure. Hidden away, just for me, no one else needing to see it. 

When I was 13, I broke my leg. This was also the time when I found the first book, I ever loved, The Outsiders read to us in class by Mr Crees. He taught me two important lessons about writing. One was that Shakespeare couldn’t spell, so it’s not that important and the other was that words are a writer’s tools, to be a good writer, you need to know as many words as you can. This was the time that I began to read, to read a lot and I began to learn as many words as I could. I filled books with words I studied. Seeking hidden treasure in everything I read or heard. 

I had to endure a lot at a young age. It has been both a blessing and a curse. Throughout the times of trauma in my life I would always write. Boxes of paper, stored away, for maybe one day. There was tragedy I had to endure with the death of my best friend Stacey, then my boyfriend Kalon and my housemate Couttie. I was changed forever. On this journey, there was addiction, mental illness, hospitalisation, medication, therapy, university and teaching. There was travel, marriage, cars and a house. I found God and a school. A tough journey, seeking hidden treasure. 

The writing of this book felt at times like something out of my control. The universe conspired and I had no choice but to go to that place, that place deep inside, where the hidden treasure resides and simply write.  

In 2016, I gave birth to my son, Beau. Like death, birth changes you forever. I had never faced a greater challenge. I had never experienced a love or fear of such intensity before. I suffered post-natal depression. I remember an ordinary day, in the study of my house in Melbourne, I was in a dressing gown, sleep deprived, crying and at breaking point. Looking at my son, the most beautiful, precious thing, I’d ever seen; whilst simultaneously questioning my life. I took a box of writing from out of the cupboard and I searched. Reading poetry, letters and journals. I searched for the hidden treasure. I was thinking. How did I get here? I have everything I have ever wanted, a house, career, marriage and a perfect son. Why am I so unhappy? Where do I go from here? I continued on this journey. Seeking answers. Seeking hidden treasure. 

I battled crippling depression and anxiety for the first twelve months of Beau’s life. During this time, I was sober and I began reading. Reading a lot and I returned to studying words. Collecting, writing, seeking. One ordinary day, under the shade of the silver birch tree in our back yard in Melbourne, while Beau played in the sand pit, a clumsy, active toddler. I read my friend Gina’s copy of Big Magic. I felt my life changing. This burning desire. To create. To write. I started to think, maybe this will be where the treasure is hidden. 

In 2017, when Beau was one year old, my grandmother, Ger died. This shattered our lives in many different ways. For two years we embarked on a quest to buy the farm. The farm that had been in our family for now, 7 generations. My dad, had inherited one eighth and he needed to buy the rest from his siblings. At this time, I was listening to podcasts and I heard about The Alchemist. While visiting Gina, I saw it on her book shelf, sitting there waiting for me. I borrowed it and read it. A story about a boy, on a journey seeking hidden treasure. More answers were revealing themselves. I bought a copy and sent it to my dad, which he read. We started to believe in the power of dreams and a destiny. 

One ordinary day, I was walking through an Op Shop in Cranbourne. Sitting on a shelf, as though placed there just for me, was a book. I read the title from a distance, it said Towong Hill. As I got closer, I realised it was the place I knew by our acclaimed local author, Elyne Mitchell. I bought it for two dollars and went on my way. I loved this book. It was about a place that I knew and loved. The same mountains I admired. The same valleys I grew up in. It was about a strong woman I admired, reflecting on her life and her journey. As I read it, I constantly thought about Ger and the farm. The grandmother I had lost. The farm I wasn’t sure we could keep. This all coalesced. The universe conspired. Birth, death, sadness, inspiration and fear. I wrote a short story. I shared it with Gina and she asked to know more. Then I wrote another chapter. Then another season. Then I wrote the manuscript. I found this love affair with words, with writing again. Sitting up late into the night, up early in the morning, while Beau and my husband were sleeping. A secret love affair. Something just for me. A hidden treasure. 

As I was writing, I was discovering a desire for a new life. A new path. A new journey. I dreamt of a home on the mountain. A cabin, solar power and a big water tank. In 2018, when Beau was two years old, I left my marriage, my house and my job and we moved home. While in my old bedroom, painted with words, poetry and art, looking at pictures from my youth, I edited and proof read and drafted this manuscript. I kept it hidden away. My own hidden treasure. 

Then I decided to share the story with a few friends and family. My two soul sisters, Gina and Em, read early drafts, giving me courage to continue. Helping me dare to dream that my story was worth developing and sharing. Then my sister, Emily read it, loved it and pointed out, like only a sister probably can, gaps that I needed to fill. I did another edit, another draft. I sent it off into the universe. As you’d expect, I received many rejections. I was seeking that hidden treasure, many times I thought I would never find it. 

Then one ordinary day, as I was on the mountain, on the farm that my dad now owns, admiring my solar powered cabin, sitting next to my big water tank, enjoying the sunshine, content, I opened up my emails. There it was, the hidden treasure, I had been searching for, on this long journey. An email from Natasha Gilmore, at the kind press. It was an offer to publish my book. 

Now I am embarking on a new journey. A journey to take this hidden treasure and share it with the world. My love affair, no longer secret.  

The further I trek on this publishing journey the more I realize the value of the treasure I already had. The feel of wet grass on my feet, the beauty of a sunset and the warm embrace from my sweet boy with sparkling eyes and golden curls. I am filled with an abundance of gratitude. 

Mad Woman Rocking now has wings. I feel both fear and inspiration. Fear that people won’t like it. But also, a secret hope. A desire for my words to make you feel. Make you imagine, laugh even cry. I dare to dream that my book, my story, can be loved like the books and stories that I have loved. That my words could give hope, and maybe even inspire you to dare to dream. To write your own story, buy a farm, climb a mountain, fulfil your heart’s desire. 

I wish for us all, to find our hidden treasure.  

 

Dream Big

 

Growing up in Corryong, I had big dreams. When I was in Grade 5, at Corryong Consolidated, in Mrs Hughes’ class, I dreamt of one day, being a teacher. Before this, I wanted to be a milk truck driver. I think growing up on a farm, I might have assumed there were only two options, that or a farmer. In recent times, I have discovered how much milk truck drivers make and have considered a career change. Luckily, I fulfilled this dream, after many years at university, and became a teacher, not a milk truck driver. I started teaching at St. Joseph’s College in Melbourne in 2010. 

At the start of 2018, a new desire, a new dream began to grow. Walking through an op shop in Cranbourne, I came across a book sitting on the shelf called Towong Hill. To my amazement and delight it was the same Towong Hill I knew and written by local acclaimed author, Elyne Mitchell. After reading Towong Hill, a story about a place I grew up, a place I loved and called home. I felt inspired to write. I started by writing a 2,500-word short story and entered it in the annual Elyne Mitchell Writing Competition. This didn’t win any awards but it began a journey. This short story I then developed into an 85,000-word manuscript. 

In September of 2018, I returned home to Corryong after 15 years in Melbourne. I dreamt of a life on the farm in my own home. I dreamt of the childhood adventures I enjoyed, for my son, Beau. I was lucky enough to be offered a position at Corryong College in 2019 as an Art and Library teacher at my old primary school. The primary school where my love of learning first grew. The place where I felt inspired to dream big. 

I have recently taught Literacy and English across Years 5 – 10 at my old high school, now one amazing big campus with new buildings and gardens. During this time, I have drafted and developed my manuscript. I dared to dream. A new big dream. A dream to be a published author. 

While reading The Outsiders and To Kill A Mockingbird to my students, in the same classrooms I was in whilst hearing those stories read, I was reminded of the profound impact my education had on me as a student at Corryong College. I was reminded of how the teachers could overlook the errors in my work and see the potential in my writing. Their praise. Their guidance. Their encouragement, led me to develop a love for writing. A love for literature. A love for words. A love that has served me throughout my life. 

Now my big dream is becoming a reality. My story, Mad Woman Rocking is being published on the 2.12.2021 by the kind press and will be available for purchase in all good bookstores, all major online retailers and at Booktopia. 

This has reminded me of the power of dreams. As I look at the students walking the corridors of Corryong College, the same corridors I walked, I hope for them they discover the power of dreams. I hope they are never afraid to dream big. 

BOOK PRE-ORDER AND PURCHASE LINKS

BOOKTOPIA link here

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AMAZON AUSTRALIA: link here

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Snow Covered Mountains

 

‘To all of it I have given my effort and my love. In imagination I can feel the feather

touch of snowflakes on my face, feel the freezing water of the lagoon enfolding me,

on a hot summer day, and I would celebrate it all.’

- Elyne Mitchell

 

            Today is a perfect spring day. Blue skies and not a breath of wind. Calm. The sun shining brightly with warmth in the air. There is still so much snow on the mountains and it is the middle of October. I have walked up the hill to marvel at it. 

            This year the cold has lasted longer with so much rain. The valley is lush. The dams are full. The grass is thick. Growing up, I always wished the winter cold away. Pining for the heat of summer. Swimming in the creek. Backyard cricket. Summer holidays.

Since the devastation of the bush fires, the harsh reality of hot, dry weather, has made me appreciate the other seasons. To value and understand their purpose. We need the winter. The cold, the snow, the wind and rain. Frost filled valleys are necessary. Fog has its place in nature’s cycle. This is what most concerns me about the climate crisis we face. I am concerned the Australian government is not doing enough to protect our future and our precious seasons. 

Sometimes the enormity of the problem seems overwhelming. Then I’m reminded there are answers. I see my roof covered in solar power. The compost. My water tanks. My imperfect attempt to minimise my personal impact. In my frustration, I remind myself that I can only control my choices. We also have power in our choices, our voice and our vote. Hopefully there’s more people like me, with the same concern. Hopefully there is a call for change on a global scale and that call is answered in time. We have a window of opportunity. I hope we take it.

I hope we take it, so one day when my son is old and grey, he can stand on this same mountain. He can stand here too and look out in the middle of October and marvel at the beauty of snow-covered mountains.