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I had
sold my piece of paradise about four years after my husband's death,
trusting that the universe would show me the next step in my grieving and
letting go journey. But the next step was sixteen months away, and I often
wondered if I would ever find my way back home again.
Every
day for these long months, I would wake up with fear by my side. A sense that I
was trapped with no way forward, sideways, or backwards. Doomed. The doom was
dunked in a dense, suffocating weight of shame.
After
waking, I would spend the rest of my day trying to get rid of the doom.
Religiously riding to the beach could not be skipped. Movement was my biggest
weapon while being in a freeze for such a long time, while feeling the terror
so close to my skin.
I still
managed to make new friends and go freediving, and I had days of laughter and
carefree fun while visiting Germany—but for over a year, the headline was one
of fear, freeze, and feeling “homeless”.
I have
so much compassion for people who are actually homeless. I had a roof over my
head and still found the simplest of things difficult. Taking a shower was
sometimes an effort, and cooking meals without having my own kitchen was the
biggest stressor. I would go to the farmer’s market and buy fresh produce only
for it to sit in my fridge. Feeding myself was packed with stress; it felt like
trudging up a steep hill carrying a boulder. Some days I would cook myself a
meal with ease; that’s when I knew I was having a good day, and the freeze was
lifted for a little while. But it never fully left; it stayed put for all these
months where hope seemed gone. Only glimpses on the far horizon.
Friends
said, that they envied me for my freedom. I could live anywhere on the planet!
But I was completely overwhelmed and felt I did not belong anywhere. I missed
the wild bush. “I hate…” was in my head as I dodged cars, noise, traffic
lights, and exhaust on my push bike. I had moved to Fremantle with the
romanticised idea of what it was twenty-five years ago, but the reality was a
felt density that hit me hard: Big blocks had vanished, replaced by three or
four houses without yards. Trees and beaches were gone. My nervous system was
in constant overload, and I didn’t get to do any of the fun things cities
offer. Not once did I jump on a train and go to an art gallery.
I did
look at houses on the market while the prices went up and up and up, finding a home
was more and more out of reach. I looked in Shoalwater, back in Denmark, Bali,
Broom, Exmouth, over east—I considered putting everything into storage and
living in a van or travelling the world. I had to follow my instincts, and not
knowing where to go was part of my journey. I trusted this inner knowing of my
body and knew this was not a decision my mind could make. This is what I teach
my clients. But when I started this journey, I never knew it would last for so
long.
I aimed
to escape every morning and just rode to the beach. Every day, sometimes twice.
I am such a homebody, but I never pottered at home; I stopped singing and did a
hell of a lot of scrolling on my phone to numb myself, and only occasionally
did I do qigong and yoga. The beach called me every morning. I loved the wide
horizons, but the sand and water underlined the lack of trees. I longed for
wild nature, for green. The disconnect made me feel so utterly, utterly lonely.
And
city people are busy; you can’t just pop in for a visit. Their nervous systems
are overloaded too, but they don’t notice it anymore.
How
desperately I tried to reach out to friends on Digby’s birthday. A day when no
human should be alone unless they choose it. One ‘friend ’ said they could ring
me in six hours, but when that call finally came, I was shamed and told I
should do more therapy. I just needed an actual human being on my side. In the
evening, I finally shared my leftover birthday cake with friends, and I knew I
was okay. Humans are herd animals. Grieving needs to be witnessed by others,
and some days it just needs company, laughter, lightness, and a cup of
tea.
I had
days where the constant mantra in my head was “I don’t want to live. I don’t
want to live any more”. It went round and round like a ferris wheel, turning
without care. It’s the biggest turn-off for any friendship, so some days I
would say nothing. I’d go for a walk with a friend, pushing their pram,
grateful to not be alone while the wheel in my head kept turning.
Gratefulness.
Another chapter I could write about for ages. When a person is in a deep
freeze, gratefulness is out of reach. It’s not accessible. Spiritual bypassers
would urge me to enjoy the small things, to lift my frequency. But on the
doom-laden days, this was just not possible. I felt broken, damaged, lost, and
covered in shame.
I still
worked and saw clients. I was able to hold people as I had learnt to hold my
own doom. I was capable and, surprisingly, really good at my job, connected to
a higher source when working. Maybe I was whole and okay, and just walking
through a really long and dark night of the soul? A spiritual journey of deep
inner suffering that maybe one day would end? Maybe.
In the
two weeks leading up to finding my new home, I was in the deepest of freezes.
The fear and terror were bigger than ever before after the New Year. I did not
know what to do anymore, so I just imagined being greeted out of my mother’s
womb by my beloved aunty. I visualised that she became my mother as soon as I was
born. In my mind’s eye, I saw her holding me tight and just gazing at me with
utter delight. She really saw me, and I could just relax and be. I did
that over and over again and rested a lot while visiting Margaret River. That
was where I finally found my new home. Visualisation is a potent, powerful
medicine when it hits the sweet spot and nourishes the nervous system in just
the right way.
And
this story is really a continuation of my spiritual journey with Aboriginal Elder
Hazel from Ningaloo. Some might remember that a huge manta ray at my local
beach near Denmark, WA, had sent me travelling to Exmouth a year after my
husband’s passing. My new spiritual totem animal led me in mysterious ways to
Hazel’s doorstep near Coral Bay, a farm directly on the manta ray dreaming beach.
Hazel gave me a manta ray brooch she had bought prior to my unplanned turning
up. “I had wondered why I bought this brooch. I am a turtle woman. But now I
know that I bought this for you two weeks ago”.
We
connected over the years, and I loved her stories of spirit; they always made
me feel at home. My husband saw spirits, and I missed having a person like that
in my life. After Hazel’s husband passed, I camped at her house as the only
white person attending an Aboriginal festival. Hazel had asked me to organise a
road trip to Margaret River and Denmark in the New Year. As campervans were all
booked out, I rang around until a practitioner friend offered me her home while
she was away. When it was time to head off, I rang Hazel, only to find out that
she never left Ningaloo and was still up north, not feeling too well herself.
It was a big blow, but in the end, I just jumped into my car and drove down
alone to this empty house in Margaret River. This turned out to be a blessing.
I was feeling unsociable, I slept and rested a lot, read a book, watered the
gardens. I felt at home for the first time in a very long time. This feeling of
being at home followed me to the beach, where I remembered that a dear friend
had sent me a house for sale a few months earlier. I didn’t have the energy to
check it out back then, but when I received her email, I said out loud, “If
this house is meant to be for me, it will wait.”
And
there I was in Margaret River. The house had, of course, sold in these crazy
market times, but the three-month settlement had fallen through at the last
minute. The house had waited for me. I no longer own any land, but I have a
home again.
