An hour and a half on the freeway, and we were there. A small town with wide gravel roads, roundabouts instead of traffic lights and a city centre with a Myer that felt like it had been trapped in a time warp since 1995.
It was quaint, it was quiet, with hidden laneways and old, stately buildings pushed up against clean, modern structures, all edges and glass.
It was the chalk to Melbourne’s cheese. We could have been anywhere.
But we weren’t. We were here, in this mashup of a town, where you could spot a local from a tourist from 100 metres away. And we had a week to make this place our home.
It felt like we had brought everything but the kitchen sink along with us. But when we arrived, it was refreshing to get inventive with the ingredients we had on hand, and cook up something delicious.
There was less choice, less mess, less clutter and less complications. We simply had to make do with what we had.
By the time Friday night rolled around and we brought in Shabbat, I was feeling inspired. It was the first real holiday we’d taken in over a year. The fresh country air was heady, bursting through layers of the usual city fog, and clearing my head. The walking we’d done left me feeling tired but satisfied. Even the cool, fresh air and patchy rain wasn’t dampening my spirit.
That Friday night, it was just us, in our quiet little oasis, in a place so close, yet so far from home, lighting tea lights that we’d placed on a square aluminium pan.
The change of pace was a holiday for my brain. The way you caught glimpses of mountains on a walk into town made things feel expansive again. There was so much fresh air to fill my lungs with!
We had limited clothing with us, often having to recycle an item to make it last for the week. But less clothing also meant less choice. And less choice meant an added dose of clarity. And once again there was that thought: less really does equal more.
Less clutter equaled more space in my brain. Less choice equaled more peace of mind, and less physical possessions equaled more time to focus on things that mattered.
We ate our modest, yet delicious Friday night dinner on white plastic plates and plastic cutlery. It was modest, but it was everything we needed, comfort food at its best.
It’s interesting how going away is a way of coming home again.
How is it possible to sit with quiet truths when you’re frantically running a silent race against time, stumbling over yourself in the process?
Something’s got to give eventually. But often when we wait too long, it’s simply too late. Nothing is so important that it should cost us our mental or physical health. Rushing only perpetuates the cycle, but we do it anyway.
We shouldn’t have to feel pressured to race against time. We’re bound to lose, anyway.
The world can wait.
Yes, the world can wait.