A gentle breeze moves through the tall grass, causing their tips to sway in a slow, graceful rhythm. My precious dogs lift their heads, nostrils flaring as they catch the scents drifting on the wind. It is quiet. It is peaceful. It is new.
A few months ago I sold my home in suburbia and bought a renovated Queenslander that sits on 5 acres. And since moving here, my darling Mum has been ever-present in my thoughts. It feels as though I can hear her voice, expressing her love for this new space. I know she would have loved it here. She would have basked in the changing light, embraced the stillness, and smiled at the peaceful symphony of neighbouring cows lowing and watching magpies vying for the fattest worm on the dew-kissed lawn at dawn.
She, like me, would have spent hours simply watching, listening—allowing the quiet beauty of nature to unfold, moment by moment. On most mornings, I sit on the front, wooden steps, sipping freshly brewed coffee, the cup cradled in both hands, watching as the sun climbs slowly, brushing everything in gold. The warmth settles on the front verandah, where Stanley and Freida lay resting, content in their new space. Sometimes I speak aloud, imagining Mum beside me, her laughter or gentle hums of agreement answering back. Mum used to say that peace isn’t found in silence—it’s found in learning how to sit within it.
She would’ve embraced my new, daily rituals: tending to newly planted trees, watering the vegetable garden and creating paths with the ride-on mower so I can walk the property line with Stanley and Freida in the late afternoon. When we do so, Freida always darts ahead, bounding through the grass and pausing to investigate hidden scents. Stanley mooches just beside me as we follow her slowly, one foot and paw in front of the other. In some ways, it is reminiscent of my Camino walk in Spain, just taking one step at a time. As I walk, I watch the neighbouring cows graze gently on the grass, only to look up with an air of indifference when Freida loudly voices her disapproval at their presence. Unfazed, they simply return to their meal.
As we walk, I look toward the distant Conondale Range. Its low lying mountains cradle the setting sun and as its sets lower, the sky becomes awash with deep indigo and fiery orange hues. Some evenings, I’ve noticed lingering clouds catch that final, colourful light, and are brushed with colors so vivid they seem painted by hand. Again, Mum would’ve loved it. She would’ve wanted to fetch her watercolours and paint the wondrous landscape.
Then, as twilight deepens, and with no city lights to dim their glow, the stars begin to shimmer across the velvet-black sky, timeless and vast. I often wonder about that vastness and what lies within.
Back indoors, my new home is filled with memories of a life well lived. In the lounge room, a large table is adorned with family photos. One shows Max and Mum in Annecy, France – their laughter and joy captured in that photo always makes me smile. She loved that trip to Europe with me, Max, and Rob. She often reflected on it, speaking about how grateful and happy she was to have traveled with us to one of her favorite places.
I don’t know what I expected when I came here. This home is different, and as the days slip slowly by, I am adapting. Adapting to the absence of Max and Kassie pottering downstairs, adapting to Rob no longer dropping by just to chat about life. I am adjusting to the difference and embracing the change. And that is okay.
I am learning to enjoy simply sitting with the quiet, resting in contentment, and allowing life to glide over me—taking in all the simplicity and quiet beauty of this place I now call home.
stanley & bear 