June: Lessons in joy and devotion
Icy cold plunges, crisp outback mornings, and the quiet practice of leaning in
Full disclosure: I’ve been working on this for days. I’d be surprised if I hit publish while it’s still June—at least here in Australia. Life is very full, and I’ve been writing between the chaos of travel shenanigans and negotiating with our two tiny overlords (I say that with so much love). They’re asleep now.
Yes, we have winter in Australia.
As I sit here—tucked up on the cosy little couch I made earlier this year—on this crisp outback evening, our beloved diesel heater has begun making a sound I can only describe as pained whirring. In the wee hours of this morning, we ran out of diesel as the temperature plummeted to -4°C. So I know what it’s like to sleep without the heater on in our non-insulated bus-home. It’s akin to tenting in the frost. Let’s hope it survives the night.
If you’ve been following along, you’ll know that May was rough on our beloved bus-home, and a bout of mild anxious spiralling had me questioning whether this was the end of an era—and our home. I’ve also been nervous about spending winter in the bus, as we head south (the opposite direction to most nomads chasing the sun).
There’s been a distinct energetic shift this past month as I focus on what is instead of what’s to come. It’s meant making peace with our bus issues and the cold weather, and allowing joy to seep in through the cracks, until we can’t help but beam with life.
And perhaps I’m just feeling more chipper because my husband finally caved and bought us a portable hot water heater for our outdoor shower. Luxury.
This would be up there as one of the most challenging periods of parenting and travel we’ve had in our six-year career as family nomads. It’s also been one of the most magical...
In June, we traded fresh ocean sunrises, whales and dolphins for mist-shrouded outback mornings, where we don’t see the sun until mid-morning. My morning yoga practice has become more flexible. Sometimes I layer up and roll my mat out on the frost-coated grass. Sometimes I light a fire. Other times, I snuggle in bed with the kids a little longer, enjoy a slow breakfast, and eventually emerge with the sun.
On one particularly cold day, seeking a reset, we find ourselves barefoot on the frosty sand. Our little offspring look on, their faces clearly telling us we’ve lost our minds.
We breathe deeply, begging for the sun to peep out just for this moment. One… Two… Three…
and plunge into the deepest part of a shallow, sandy creek.
It’s surprisingly harder to get into shallow cold water than deep—it’s painfully slow, as we navigate submerging our bodies before our brains realise the ridiculous situation they’ve gotten us into.
I immediately lose my feet. I return to my breath and focus on the sensation of the cold on my bare skin—without judgement or trying to escape the discomfort.
I can’t be in there for more than 30 seconds, yet it’s long enough to hit ctrl-alt-delete on my nervous system and deliver an addictive rush of endorphins. Pure joy.
Lonely country roads led us here, to a place unlike anywhere we’ve been. We’ve set up camp in the widest canyon on Earth—wider even than Grand Canyon. Though not as deep or dramatic as its American counterpart, here on the western edge of Australia’s Great Dividing Range, just a few hours north of Sydney, the veil between earth and spirit feels thin.
Humans from all walks come here to unplug and reconnect to the wild, hopefully leaving with a deeper connection to self. It’s a peaceful haven filled with rock wallabies, kangaroos, wombats, possums, kookaburras, dramatic cliffs, and moss-lined streams winding their way through the shadows of the gorge.
At some point over the past few months, we both mentioned selling the bus, cutting our losses and renting in the suburbs instead of continuing toward our dream of owning land. Our negativity toward our home seemed to perpetuate the issues. The more negative energy we directed at the situation, the more negative experiences followed. It became a downward spiral.
The remedy was returning to presence.
A few weeks ago, we made a quiet, subconscious decision to tend to our home with love. It felt as though she needed to feel our gratitude—to feel loved and nurtured, just as she has loved and nurtured us for the past six years.
We chose an idyllic spot on the edge of the outback: a large dam teeming with birdlife, a level grassy campsite, and distant mountain vistas.
The kids made friends with the neighbouring campers, and we balanced our time between socialising, paddle boarding, and giving the bus some much-needed attention.
Last month, repairs were reactive and panicked. Now, I tenderly wiped away rust stains and carefully treated emerging spots like a mother seeing to her child’s wounds. Inside, I cleaned the last pockets of mould—remnants of our incredibly wet autumn.
We hadn’t been this intimate in a while, my home and I. In fact, resentment had become commonplace—too broken, too rusty, too crowded, too mouldy, too damp, too dry.
As I worked, I noticed her energy—the loving space that has carried us thousands of kilometres and held both of my babies for most of their little lives. I tended to her with present, loving kindness, and thanked her for carrying us safely, for being our sanctuary, for growing with us over the years.
In my devotion, I felt her love.
Although we are indeed being drawn toward a new way of life, I’d begun to wish away the journey. I wanted to skip all the hard parts and start the next phase already. But there is peace to be made in the in-between.
As we work our way south, pulled into our future—through portal after portal, closing doors of alternate realities behind us—I’m guided to be here, fully. To find joy in the discomfort of it all. To lean into the frosty mornings and midday meltdowns.
I’m acutely aware that these days spent travelling, exploring, and beating around the bush with our kids are the ones we’ll cherish most when they’re grown. I refuse to wish them away.
Leaning in this month has meant:
Layering up and getting outside for my morning asana most days, breathing in the crisp winter air as nourishment rather than something to hide from
Turning my face to the sun, soaking in her warmth whenever I can
Placing loving attention on problems, instead of seeking quick fixes or daydreaming about alternate timelines
Allowing joy to fully overcome me, noticing where I can choose it over distraction
I used to have a bedtime tradition with my baby daughter—we’d step outside to say goodnight to the moon, then place a hand on the bus and whisper, “Thank you, bus, for carrying us safely.” I think it’s time to bring this practice back.
Consider this a quiet nudge to feel into the energy of your space. What parts might benefit from your mindful care and gratitude?
Stay curious and kind,
Simone
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