I moved to Italy for love...

day 47.

Its cold.

Un-fashionably cold. Forget lace leggings, suede pumps, full skirts with cropped jackets, colourful scarves and matching berates, delicate gloves under cocktail rings, red lips and sleek eyeliner...

Its snow gear cold. Forget the female figure, and dont mention make-up. Its so wet and muggy that the Italian fashionistas have been forced into hiding, onto jet-planes somewhere warmer, or into triple quilted snuggy looking outfits that render them unrecognisable.

Maybe this trip to Germany on Sunday is just what I need. Its a regular freeze there, so I trust the locals are better equipped to fashionable handle the cold.

that, and to relocate my spiritual center.

Back in August my mum convinced me to meet her in Spain to do a training course in Breathwork/Rebirthing. It is something I have grown up with, but have always been afraid to explore. Plus what teenager is going to want to follow a spiritual path that involves lavender smelling Hippies coming up to you and asking in a slow monotone voice "How do you FEEEEEL?"

It seems that in general it takes a blow that knocks you completely down, before you start to ask questions about your existence and place in the world, and begin that inevitable search for God.

I guess the same can be said for myself. I was at the bottom for a long time, but chose to leave it to destiny - or my 25th birthday.

When me and my twin sister were born, our father had an Chinese astrology reading done for our life path. The astrologer predicted that we would come into our own upon our 25th year. Don't ask me why, but this is a truth I have chosen without any good reason to believe in.

When I was in Florence this June, I called my Mum, who had been living in America for the previous months. When she told me she was working again (She is past the age where society tells you to retire, and she has conquered illness and survived 9 children), and not just any work, but teaching breathwork and running seminars, which is something she has participated in for most of her adult life, whilst working as a full time nurse.

Im not quite sure what it did to me, but I sat in that tiny internet cafe phone booth and cried my little eyes out.

People have always pointed out what a special person my Mum is, and for the first time I saw it. She is no longer my Mumma, but my friend and someone whom I look up to.

Anne Marie

When the opportunity to go to Spain arised, it was as though the whole European trip was meant to happen so we could meet there.

Now 5 months later I have an opportunity to go to Germany to continue my training...

The Man I Was Taught to Fear

There are people we grieve twice in a lifetime. Once for who they were. And once for who we were never allowed to know. My father is one of them. When I was a child, my mother told me he was a paedophile. She didn’t whisper it. She didn’t hesitate. She said it plainly, as fact. As warning. As control. When we misbehaved, she would drop us at the greyhound station and force us to spend sleepless weekends with him. I remember the noise of the station. The way my stomach would knot. The terror that would sit in my chest at night when the lights went out. I was absolutely terrified to sleep. He was a workaholic. Twelve-hour days. Long hours. Absence disguised as provision. He would leave cash on the bench, stockpiles of food in the fridge, and the television on - a wild luxury I couldn’t enjoy because fear had already moved in. At home with my mother, we weren’t allowed a TV at all. Looking back now, my father was unemotional, but never unkind. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t offer hims...

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I’ve already written about The Wiiyaan as a journalist. That piece lives in the Tweed Weekly . It’s careful, respectful, measured. It honours Bundjalung origin story, place, and the quiet authority of listening. It was written for a broad audience, many of whom - like me - come from settler families, carrying our own histories alongside the land we now call home. But after filing that story, I knew I wasn’t done. Some stories ask something back from you. This one did. So this is the version that doesn’t fit in a newspaper column. This is the version that explains why that exhibition cracked something open in me - why listening to Kyle Slabb speak about holding one version of Country, with care and restraint, felt like a mirror I wasn’t expecting. Kyle spoke about perspective. About how this telling is not the story, but a story - shaped by lineage, responsibility and law. He was clear, careful, and deeply respectful of other versions held...

The Story Behind the Front Page

When I walked into the Tweed Weekly office to meet Jonathan, the editor, I was mostly just hoping I’d find the right door. I’d been asked by my friend (and journalist) Madeline Murray to fill in for her while she recovers from surgery - my first little step into local journalism. Jonathan looked up, smiled, and said: “I recognise you, you’ll be in the paper tomorrow.” The week before, Madeline and I had worked on a story about a local collaboration - I had no idea it would end up splashed across the front page. Full circle moments have a funny way of sneaking up on you. I first met Dean three years ago at TAFE - I was studying photography, and he was in graphic design. We used to talk about how incredible it would be if students from different creative disciplines actually worked together , like we would in the real world. Fast forward to now: I’m wrapping up my Diploma of Fashion Design, and Dean has just completed the same Certificate IV Photography course I once did. Afte...

Rada Priya

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