where the heart is

Something unexpected has crept upon me these past six months: I have found my heart has two, equal, homes. In hindsight, here's how I believe it happened.

February. Winter had devoured me and I truly thought it would never ever end; my memory of any warmth had vanished and I believed the seasons in this god-forsaken place would turn only from bitter to melancholy and back again. I was a forgotten ghost in an alien world, losing sight of the paradise I called home.

March. The light lasted longer each day. Birds whistled in the mornings. But I was still battered by the brash winds when I stepped outside and, with no certain date set for our return, only dreamed of my family and friends back home. Neil saw my tears and suggested: why not head home for a visit?

April. Homeward bound. On the flight to Australia I found the place where I could embrace everything fully, ready to let it all go after 14 days. I opened myself to every moment, every encounter, every ray of sun. And I noticed, staying at my parents' place, where I hadn't lived for six years, that my old home here - the flat in the Grange - wasn't home anymore. People had warned me I wouldn't want to return to England. But when the volcanic ash cloud turned my two weeks in Brisbane into three and a half, I missed home. I mostly missed Neil, but I also missed my new Norwich home.

May. Trips around England with Australian girls reminded me: I am an Australian in England. So simple, but somehow so tricky to balance. Too much of being an Australian and I lose out on being here now - the one thing I want most to do. Too much of being in England and I forget there are parts of me that think differently, know differently, speak differently - yes, I have an accent and everyone can tell! - though subtle, these differences are there and they are okay and they are me.

June. Heading home from an amazing trip to Barcelona, I realise I am heading home. We celebrate six years of marriage in a quiet Norfolk B&B. Here we are; we are here and we are happy.

July. Summer smacks me and laughs, "I am alive in these parts!" I roast on the balcony and plan my summer holidays, and the next school year. Here, at my school, where I am, now.

August. I thrill at the chance to host Aussie mates, showing them my new home, sharing discoveries of this amazing place. I will miss it here so dearly, I think. I already miss it, devouring every exploration and each enjoyment as though it will vanish any day. The stickers on the map in the spare room tell a tale of journeys made and journeys yet to come. There's more here for me, so much more. I research visa requirements, indefinite leave to remain. I dream about Christmas here again, about the Autumn illuminations, about frosty nights and snow days and my red winter coat.

I don't want to go home yet, because, I love this home.

breath

Tonight I tried yoga for the first time.

Afterwards, I floated out into the zero-degree night, amazed at how much there is to yoga; how clumsy and awkward I was a it, yet how enlarging and organic it could be. All the while without the typical tension tightening my neck and shoulders and back when the weather nears freezing.

At home I sat again and practised awareness and breathing. Inflated with fresh energy; expelling waste. Slowly I felt the seasonal connection and it made sense for the first time: spring is the inhalation; summer the height of expansion; autumn is the deflation and winter the absence of breath. Without the winter, death lingers. Winter creates the vacuum inviting spring to rush in.

Today, March 3rd, I feel the inhalation of spring like a crisp shower after a sleepless dream. Birds wake me in the golden morning like a cliched cartoon. Cleansed of yesterday, absence has reached its panging fullness; breath rushes in.

winter

Winter I

The musky marshmallow sky
Oozes honey
Drizzled over gingerbread houses
with marzipan trimmings
All this sprinkled with icing sugar
And I, in my red coat,
The cherry on top


Winter II

Stale stench clings to crumbling relics
Once rotting, now decomposed
Marrow sucked from skeletal trees
Left bereft
Maggots and scorpions have died out
Feasted on the chalky ash of remains
Their carcasses scatter the darkened alleys
Only blind ghosts
Wheezing their way past the hollow stones
Remember a shadow without fog
And wish they could weep for it

Autumn Lights

The dazzling view from our new flat, as pictured below, seems to have shifted my perspective on the season.

Frozen fireworks
Blurred blaze
Colours caught in their fiery spray

Blackened branches
Charcoal haze
Embers clutching the flickering flames

Spitting sparks
Dazzling rays
Moment showered in a golden daze

Autumnal Haze

Sun's breath driven back by icy winds

Coldness claws, warmth rescinds

Mid-October. The sharp edges of the changed season jut out from the thinning remnants of Summer. [Photo (c) MJ Photography, found strawberry-lane.blogspot.com]

Green blood drains, leaves leaves

Choking crimson, gasping shades

Dried veins wither, disintegrate

Crumbling carcass, falls, fades

There's a sorrowful beauty to this phase - the wispy aura of a pale, aged woman with diamond eyes. Yet there is a stronger sense of longing; an oxygen shortage, the smell of steel. The world is wide awake while sleeping; we drift through a transluscent dream.

Westward Home

I found this 'Westward House' door on a cute terrace at the North Norfolk Coast in early May, shortly after I 'stepped Westward'.

I use this image as an attempt to explain that, while this blog was a useful way to express my perspective leading up to my move, now that I've made this Westward place my home, I feel this blog has become redundant.

Neil and I have a shared travel blog at www.neilandcarla.wordpress.com which makes this one unnecessary.

So, with great affection I am signing off for the last time -- at least until I see a need for this place in future.

In the meantime, please visit my current blog www.neilandcarla.wordpress.com for photos and brief updates of my adventures.

Cheers,

Carla

La ville de la Paris

What a magical adventure Paris was! Extravagant in architecture and history, while subtle in language and cuisine. Gorgeous hot days lingered into balmy bright nights. The Parisiens humoured us with our flakey French conversation and charmingly offered snippets of tuition. We indulged in light, interesting meals that lulled our tastebuds into strange new dances. The Mona Lisa, the Moulin Rouge, the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame and so much more. So much to see - it was almost overwhelming - until the faint outline of the Eiffel Tower in the distance, or the calm sparkle of the Seine, lifted us again. Tres beau! And all just a train ride away.