Book of Eucalypt

There is something quietly joyful about stripping yourself back to the bare bones of who you are and letting go of all the ideas of who you think you should be. Then comes the moment when you realise what you’re actually about to do, and that excitement gives way to something much more daunting.

I think I reached a point where I became almost afraid of meditation because, just once, I lost my words and my thoughts so completely that I felt embarrassed to be that exposed in front of someone I deeply respect. That’s very different from stumbling over my words with my partner, my dad, or the boys at afternoon smoko. This felt different. Stepping into the role of a mentee and allowing yourself to be seen without the usual layers, while still trying to hold yourself together, takes far more mental energy than I ever expected.

I’ve spent most of my life masking and adapting to fit the people around me. Because of that, there’s a nervousness that appears whenever I have to simply be… raw. To admit my flaws. To acknowledge what I don’t know. To be a beginner again.

I attended a class today where someone spoke about the difference between theory and practice. You can read, study and understand all you like, but it’s the doing that teaches you. Since developing FND, I’ve had to accept that the knowledge is still there if I dig deep enough. What has changed is the way I put it into practice. My practice now has to work around my own variation of spoon theory, and that means learning to meet myself where I am instead of where I think I should be.

I speak a lot about my words disappearing or my mind going completely blank—it’s not even brain fog; sometimes there’s simply… nothing there—I forget about the physical symptoms. My walking becomes unsteady, but because it doesn’t happen as often, I rarely think about it until I’m weaving through supermarket aisles trying not to bump into shelves, or carrying a new garden bed across the yard and wondering whether my legs are going to cooperate.

Lately, I keep being drawn back to the idea of stripping everything away so I can build again. The memories returning are from when I first moved to Sydney. I went from being someone who was basically a “Sea Witch,” where every ritual and element of spellcraft was at the ocean, to living in Western Sydney, surrounded instead by creeks, mountains and national parks.

One of the first workshops I attended after moving was with Fio Gede Parma in the Inner West and I learnt just how powerful and magickal community can be. Some years later I threw myself into Druidry because the Sydney Beaches weren’t for me. I met people like Julie Brett, author of Australian Druidry, and learnt so much through that Grove. I attended Full Moon circles organised by PAN Inc., spent Beltane weekends in The Hills, went to the Australian Wiccan Conference on the Hawkesbury, and even found myself at Psychic Development classes in the little New Age shop on the lower level of Westfield Parramatta (is that shop even still there?) And then there was Pagans in the Park! I’d almost forgotten about that.

I also remember my first altar once having moved while I was living with my ex-husband’s Nan. It wasn’t elaborate. Just a small space on my bedside table that felt completely my own. I’m sure there’s a photo of it tucked away somewhere.

Almost twenty years ago, I packed up my life, moved interstate and started again. It wasn’t just a new city or a new home. Spiritually, I was starting from the beginning too.

Reading this back while editing, I’ve realised something I hadn’t noticed before. I wasn’t finding my way alone. There was a community around me. Every workshop, every circle, every conversation introduced me to people who generously shared what they knew. They didn’t give me all the answers, but they helped shape the path I was walking, and I’m deeply grateful for each of them.

One analogy I keep coming back to is that I used to connect with Spirit, Energy and the Gods through Wi-Fi. It was instant. Familiar. Easy. Then FND came along and knocked out the entire electrical grid. No Wi-Fi. Not even a 4G signal.

So now I have to remember older ways of communicating. Letter writing. Morse code. Maybe even the occasional smoke signal. Until I work out how to rebuild the electrical grid in my mind—or at least upgrade it from something resembling a potato clock—I adapt. The connection is still there. It just takes different tools now.

I’ve walked beside other people as they’ve entered the world of chronic illness, but apart from living with PMDD, this is unfamiliar ground for me. I’m learning as I go.

Maybe that’s why these old memories matter so much and I am so thankful that I have been granted access by my subconscious to them. They’re reminding me that this isn’t the first time I’ve had to begin again. I’ve rebuilt before. I’ve found teachers, community and belonging before. This path looks different, and I’ll have to walk it differently, but perhaps that’s the lesson I’ve been circling all along. Strip everything back. Keep what is true. Then build from there, one steady step at a time.