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I found my way back home this week. Breaking through the hesistance of turning down that street. Slowly moving up the tree lined driveway shaking my head in disbelief. The house still sits there waiting. It’s wound so deep and open, exposed so vulnerably. Cautious of spending too much time there I head down the back. Lifting the latch on the cool heavy metal farm gate it opens with such ease. Walking through the long wet grass, hiding the windy track. I step over saw dust graves of 8 trees that used to be. That windy day forever changed the landscape. The reminder sits to one side carved and stacked up.

With my hands in my pockets I make my way down the gentle slope to my favourite spot between the tall trees.

I stop in my tracks, close my eyes and listen to the bush. The sounds of home sweep through, twirling around on a gentle breeze. A dogs bark echoes in the distance. The chirps of birds nearby chatting between the trees. Thumping vibrates the ground as a wallaby bounds by. The rustling of the leaves brings rythym back to my heart. The sun breaks through the trees, brightness dancing on my eye lids and surrounding me. I miss this place more than I let myself know.

This week has shifted from waiting to what I can do. I spend time at home. I   collect the words that keep pouring. Catching them and filling up pages with life that keeps moving. My voice coming through and making sense right in front of me. Each word lets more of my story free.