The Garden of My Becoming

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I was born into a world on the edge of change.
A time where girlhood still lived in the quiet corners,
in the long, tangled cord of a landline phone
stretched down a hallway
so we could whisper secrets out of earshot.

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Innocence had room to breathe back then.
Stillness wasn’t something we had to earn.

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Maybe that’s why the ancient world calls me so strongly now—
why I ache for simplicity, harmony,
sovereignty of the soul
in a world that feels more controlled by the day.

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Maybe it’s why I feel the pull of lineage,
the tug of something older than memory,
older than time.

And perhaps that is where she comes in—
my grandmother—
the place where my roots tangle into the old world,
into rituals, seasons, softness,
into the way life once was
before the modern world swallowed the quiet whole.

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What a shining light you were—
perhaps still are,
somewhere in the sky,
looking down
and quietly guiding my way.
 

Not a day passes without something—
subtle, soft, subconscious—
inspired by you.

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I remember the way you tended your garden
as if it were a living poem:
planting bulbs with bare hands,
kneeling in warm soil,
moving through the veggie patch with calm purpose.

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Summer days spent climbing through
towering raspberry canes,
tiny scratches on our legs,
searching for the sweetest fruit.

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Raspberries squished beneath our toes
as we ran barefoot across the lawn,
exploring your magical, endless kingdom.

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Celery leaves drying on the windowsill.
The sound of the kettle boiling.

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Then something ancient—almost magical—
as you stirred those dried leaves
into your uniquely-you brew.

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You would make one for me too.
I would stare into the cup,
watching the leaves sink to the bottom,
in awe of the ritual.

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The knife slicing into a large grapefruit,
your graceful sprinkle of sugar,
eating it straight from the bright orange flesh with a spoon.

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Sour or tart—
you never flinched,
because you knew it was good for you.

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You had a gift for gathering people—
your Christmases were legendary.

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A tree that felt enormous,
almost brushing the ceiling,
presents for everyone nestled beneath a sea of tinsel,
laughter curling through every room.

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All the women washing up together.
French cricket on the lawn
and non-alcoholic champagne.

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I never once saw you drink,
even though at the shack
you had cask wine lined up on the bench—
still, untouched, gathering dust.
I always wondered why.

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I would sit on your lap as you read stories,
yodelling music drifting through the house—
strange to my young ears,
yet soothing—because you loved it.

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You mowed acres of lawn with a push mower,
wearing little shoes with heels,
and when you came inside,
you’d slip into your heeled slippers—
always elegant, always you.

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You went to bingo with your friends,
played ladies’ golf on Tuesdays,
baked without needing a reason,
and poured yourself into every community gathering.

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Wherever you went,
you arrived with intention—
your brooch, your pearls,
your nice clothes,
your lipstick,
and a dusting of powder,
because feeling good mattered.

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Your house was a castle to us—
vast, warm, full of mystery.

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My sisters and I ran wild through its rooms,
playing hide and seek,
free, unburdened, alive.

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Yet there was always that one bedroom—
the untouched sanctuary
with the white satin cover
we were never allowed to disturb.

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We didn’t understand it,
but we respected its quiet magic.

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We played old records on your record player,
Christmas music spinning as we danced
in your living room.

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You took me on long drives to the city,
shopping days where the world felt big
and full of possibility.

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You left your family behind,
moving from Queensland to Tasmania.
Such a big, bold step for love—
raising your children on a farm,
leaving behind the abundance
of fresh mangoes and pineapples
for the cooler climate of a dairy farm,
the sea of green pastures.

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When your husband died young,
you kept going—
strong, steady, sure.

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You baked in a way that felt like a love language—
simple, steady, full of warmth.

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We’d roll dough in our small hands,
little fingerprints pressed into each shape,
flour dusting the bench, the floor, our cheeks.

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The smell of ANZAC biscuits drifted through the house,
buttery and golden,
wrapping around us like a memory
I didn’t yet understand.

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Sometimes I wondered—
even then—
whether making those biscuits
made you think of him,
the man I never met.

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Whether there was a quiet tear
behind your calm,
a soft ache folded into the recipe—
one you never spoke of
but baked into the sweetness all the same.

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You never had another man after him,
yet you wore your wedding rings
until the day you left this world—
buried with them.

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There was something noble in that,
something dignified.

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You stood tall.
You were independent,
a woman everyone looked up to.
You knew your worth.
You never shrank for anyone.
You never dimmed your light.
You surrounded yourself with people
who lifted you,
who celebrated your beauty,
your humour, your strength.

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And now,
as I plant my own seeds
and tend to the garden of my becoming,
as I step into my Empress energy,
I feel you beside me—
guiding, loving,
lighting the path ahead.

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I feel the connection deeper than ever,
knowing I was already an egg inside you
while you were pregnant with my mother—
that moment of recognition,
the ancestral connection.

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Perhaps it’s why I feel so deeply
the echoes of a past I never lived,
yet somehow inherited
through another’s body.

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And that—
that awareness of a life I lived
before my feet ever touched the earth—
is profoundly moving.

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My body knew before my mind had time to catch up.
My intuition is stronger than ever before,
and I thank you for that—
for guiding me when it felt so dark.

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I am love.
I am light.

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And as I step forward now,
I feel the world on the edge of change once more—
the same edge I was born into,
the same edge you once stood upon,
still guiding me home. Home to myself.

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