Home.

There's nothing like moving to make you think about home. There's nothing like moving to get you sorting through STUFF and finding all kinds of trash and treasures... As I've not been posting much here with all my movings and 'see you next-times' I'm feeling quite barren on the reflective front, and so I'm going to share with you some musings on 'home' from the past year or two...

Love to you all.x

Home Is… 16^th March 2009

Home is a stage, with a guitar and a microphone, and dear friends in the crowd.

Home is mum and dad waiting for me a Perth International Airport at 5.10am.

Home is walking across an oval, with a cricket pitch in the middle and the four footy posts at either side.

Home is Brighton Beach at sunset.

Home is white sand and the Indian Ocean, wherever those two meet.

Home is endless cups of tea and tears, heart and laughter.

Home is sisters and home is brother.

Home is khaki and blue sky.

Home is sunshine so bright, you have to squint your eyes.

Home is warmth and bare feet on bricks.

Home is summer dresses and nothing underneath.

Home is a day spent in pyjamas, and just me.

Home is my writing.

Home is my singing.

Home is my teaching.

Home is me inspiring.

Home is me reading.

Home is me writing.

Home is a best friend’s couch, or kitchen table.

Home is talking sustainability, spirituality, and life.

Home is the Moon Café.

Home is the Beaufort Street Merchant.

Home is a 5^th floor Chinese Tea House in Harajuku, Tokyo.

Home is an Organic Lebanese place where they feed me, always, in Camden Town, London.

Home is a Hotel in Sweden, where they buy me Soya Milk, and play my CD.

Home is a sparkly, angel filled shop called Mitt Hem in Karlskrona Sweden.

Home is candles and darkness and girl friends remembering their magic, majesty, power and beauty in a hotel kitchen.

Home is Christmas in unexpected places.

Home is phone calls with siblings from round the world.

Home is being listened to.

Home is the silver grey gum trees of King’s Park.

Home is Eucalyptus, whenever I smell it.

Home is Bali, the screaming noise and cool café’s of Kuta, the rice fields and lemongrass tea of Ubud.

Home is the Departure Board of any international airport or train station. I could look at them for hours.

Home is an airport.

Home is jasmine. And everlasting flowers.

Home is grass trees.

Home is Nanna.

Home is sunshine.

Home is my mini mac.