Change

The rural view from my new writing spot in Tylden, Victoria. Magic at all times of day.

I have been thinking about change a lot in the last ten years.

Even before the first 7.1-mag Christchurch earthquake struck in September 2010, I was restless,  looking for something new. It's not that I wasn't enjoying my life as a freelance journalist, photographer and author, I just needed a fresh injection of inspiration.

I most often found that by taking overseas working trips - usually into Asia - and pitting myself against the odds; facing down strange languages and different ways of living, and coming home inspired, knowing more about what I was truly capable of, and ready to write again, in whatever medium seemed appropriate at the time.

Then came the Christchurch earthquakes and that devastating time of change that knocked everyone in the city for a six.

It was CHANGE in capital letters.

It was change we didn't ask for.

It was change that inspired.

It was change that for me

 Forced the real change that I had been muttering about for years.

For only the second time in my adult working life - in almost 43 years in fact - I found myself in full-time employment in *an office.*

It was another major change, a new challenge.

It seemed to fit my skill set.

But after four valuable and inspiring years working for Te Runanga o  Ngai Tahu, something odd started to happen - I started to hanker after my former life as an artist.

Something stirred inside me on one of my frequent visits to Victoria two years ago and it never went away.

It nagged at me.

And when I was at a leadership course in Auckland last year, we were all asked if 'this was where we wanted to be in 10 years, 20 years, 30 years?'

And for me, the answer was a resounding 'No.'

It was the penny that finally dropped - the cue I needed to take another risk, to make another change and to return to the work that stirs my soul.

Mist rising over the lake - the first thing I see each day in Tylden,  Victoria

So here I am, two days into my new life.
I am setting up a small art studio again.
I have changed since I worked full-time as an exhibiting artist
(roughly between 1971-1983).
I will not paint the way I used to, of that I can be almost certain.
I will change mediums to begin with but beyond that, I have no clue of what will evolve.
I'm happy with that.
I'm not in any hurry.
I have no expectations.

And I will go back to writing fiction again - short stories.
I will return to writing non-fiction books.
And I will return to more photography - not that I've ever really left that behind.
I'm excited, enlivened, inspired.

As I sit here in the silence of a Sunday afternoon - Mother's Day in fact - all I can hear are the raucous sulphur-crested cockatoos in the gum trees, the bossy crows  squabbling out in the field, and the intermittent rusty rumble of the iron windmill slowly turning in a grove of nearby acacia trees.
I have time to think.
I have a head full of words.
And I'm ready to face down a new change.

I guess I could have bought a Harley Davidson, or a sports car or something, and sailed off into old age with the wind blowing in my hair and smell of grease on my clothes.
It seemed messy.
I didn't fancy it.

Instead, I chose to leave Christchurch, to leave New Zealand in fact - walking out on the life I had worked so hard to create, with just two suitcases and a whole lot of gungho spirit.
I think it might be the best change I've made in a while.