The dry wind rolled off the mountain behind our house in chilled waves, whipping my fine hair into into a tangled mess and leaving my cheeks red and raw. Each gust flung more dirt onto our already filthy faces, as we pedaled as hard as we could on our bikes down the road to the house dam. The wind was always the worst in Winter.
I’d wanted to leave for as long as I could remember.
In primary school, I’d stay at home when my siblings were mustering cattle with Dad, instead immersing in books about ancient Egypt. By 12, I was at boarding school two hours away and while there was plenty of mournful weeping in those first months, within a year I rarely came home.
By 17, I was living seven hours away for university, and after graduation I shifted another five times in five years with my job as a TV reporter. I became adept at running away – from jobs, relationships and friendships – when any of them became too difficult, and there was usually collateral damage.
“This isn’t you, not really,” my favorite high-school teacher warned one day after class, “there are only a few days left of school and you don’t want people to remember you like this.” I’d grown disdainful of classmates I was convinced I’d never see again and had begun lashing out, in a process I’d sharpen over the next decade.
I’d watched my Mum become brittle with unhappiness as she raised four children single-handedly, while my Dad worked relentlessly on the property. Life had failed to deliver what she’d hoped for and I didn’t want the same for myself, even if it meant never giving a place or a job the chance to grow on me.
“You cut people off Jessica,” she’d accuse one day, “that’s what you’ve always done.” We were arguing around in circles, as it became obvious we didn’t really know each other at all. With every move, I’d shave relationships away like dead skin – even those with my family – in the hope that what was underneath would be fresh and new.
It’s a liberating feeling running away, one that makes you believe not all problems require solutions. I felt empowered every time I left a place, knowing I’d removed a little bit of my life that didn’t work for me. Out of sight, out of mind. Which is how I ended up in London at 26, starting over (again), having fled my career in the hope that moving (again) would help me find purpose.
Rory was tall, lanky and very British. My friend and I were in Barcelona for a music festival and had just arrived at our hostel when we struck up a conversation with two men outside our dorm. Rory barely spoke a word, instead letting his friend Dave do much of the talking. I mistook his shyness for indifference and told my friend he wasn’t my type, but secretly I was deeply attracted to him. We spent the next three days watching bands and flirting and by the end of it, we were in love.
Our first few years together flew by. We were engaged (in Barcelona where it all began) and married within months in a small ceremony in London. Rory was just starting his animation career and I wound up working in a newsroom in the City. We travelled as much as we could and my job took me out of the country once a month, but the unsettled feeling still clawed at me. I wanted to leave more desperately than I’d ever wanted to before and would spend weekends barely able to get out of bed, heavy with a sadness Rory couldn’t fix. Was I homesick? Depressed? Or both? Within a year I was pregnant.
“We’ll drop in on you every day after the baby arrives,” my midwife explained, “just to be sure.” I’d been placed on a watch list because of my history of depression. I tried to be reassured, rather than offended that health professionals thought I was at risk of hurting my newborn or myself.
Magnus was a big baby in no hurry to arrive. After 16 hours of labour, his heartbeat slowed to a faint whisper and I was whisked into an operating theatre to have him cut out of me. Doctors were in such a rush they nicked his face, leaving a small scar on his left cheek – a story that’s become familial fable, told over dinner. I loved being his mother so much more than I thought I would. His babyhood enthralled me, happily consuming me with an endless need for care. I celebrated his every tiny achievement like over-indulgent mothers I’d despised and somewhere in there, I started tinkering with Rory’s camera.
Buddhists believe you can’t know yourself until you take the time to be still. Becoming a mother forced me to slow down and work out solutions to my problems, rather than flee from them. While my journey into photography gave me the purpose I’d been craving. The problem with always running away is that you never allow yourself to love wholly or invest yourself entirely in anything, because of the underlying knowledge that eventually you’re going to leave.
I’d been worried that all the traveling and studying had transformed me into someone who didn’t belong anywhere. But leaving had just started an extended process of coming back.
The stillness I felt helped me realize where I needed to be.
It was late in the afternoon when I arrived home for good. The wind of the day had eased and the air was cool enough for a long-sleeved shirt. Magnus giggled as he climbed the fence of our house paddock, marveling at the strangeness of the cattle. The sky was a deep pink, dotted with the faint outline of a full moon. Sunsets were always the most brilliant in Winter.
