The Doctor has left the building

A long, long time ago, or so it seems, I was once deemed to be a promising academic. In one year, I had all 5 submitted papers published (the accepted rate is 1 out of 4). I was one of the younger lecturers in a distinguished sandstone university. I had just finished my PhD, and my thesis was deemed to be near perfect (no corrections!). (Just quietly, in case it isn't obvious, I also had a massive ego to match my impressive CV).

But allow me to wax lyrical about my PhD for just a minute. Truly, it is a magnificent piece of work. I read it now and then just to remind myself that I can write. That I once did write, and when I did, I did it beautifully.

I love my PhD thesis. It's my magnum opus.

Mainly though, I loved the freedom to research; to sit in an archive all day and leave with one juicy find. I loved being a keeper of knowledge, and a creator of knowledge. 

Source

When we made the decision to relocate to Tasmania, we didn't realise that the move would effectively spell the end of my academic career. It's a tough grind being an academic in the humanities these days, and one needs a big city, lots of connections and a long slog working in temporary roles to get even a contract position. And so, after a lot of soul searching and Spirit-leading, I accepted that.

My days are now filled with wearing gumboots chasing after children who enjoy ignoring my warnings that they not go into the bull's paddock. The bull who has been recently separated from his girlfriends. An angry bull, in other words. My life now revolves around attempting to nurture my children, to help foster a love of learning in these two little beings entrusted to my care, to feeding and cleaning and patting and, occasionally, yelling. And it's mostly fun. It's a pretty special moment to tramp through a paddock (sans bull) at dusk, with the golden light fading through the gumtrees, while the kids romp down hill and dale. It's lovely. But it also means that, most of my time, I am out on a secluded property, with very little phone or internet reception, with two small people who demand most of my time and energy.

I've written before about contentment, and finding myself with a change of heart towards at-home parenting. I've celebrated, on this blog, about God's blessing in providing the opportunity to home school my beautiful little daughter. 

I thought ... Look Ma, I've done it! I've reached the pinnacle!

And then came the temptation.

An email, out of the blue. An invitation strongly urging me to consider applying for a plum role as an historian, back in my beloved hometown. Not just any old historian, mind you. One responsible for curating exhibitions, for coordinating research projects; essentially, to oversee the way that history is managed and told in that fair state.

Blimey.

In an instant I was there. I am well acquainted with the building where the role would be based. It seems I spent half my life there, back in those halcyon days of wandering across to Northbridge in the fading Perth summer light. I could see myself charging up the stairs, looking fabulous (of course), taking charge. Making decisions. Finding out cool stuff. Being A Very Important Woman.

I always know I'm far from God when my dreams start to edge out His plans for me. When I instinctively turn off worship music on the car stereo to replace it with something a little less ... demanding. When the Bible gets pushed to the edge of the bedside table so that I can read something that requires less of me, spiritually. When I start to seek my own vision for my life instead of God's.

I know I'm far from God when, instantly, I forget all the lessons He's been teaching me - about patience, about timing, about contentment - and begin to dream my own big dreams.

Is it wrong to want to use what are clearly God-given talents? I don't think so. Is it difficult to really know when one's dreams and aspirations are for the fulfilment of self, or for the glory of God? Sometimes. Oftentimes. At this point, not really. 

I am a fine writer. I know that. I've proven it, amply. The question is, do I trust that God will use those talents, in time, and for His glory? That, my friends, is my next journey.

So long ... For now

Today we were farewelled from our home church, St Clement's Anglican Church. I had woken this morning with a huge knot in my stomach; dread about our impending departure. I've spent the last couple of weeks saying goodbye; last night was a fabulous dinner with a beautiful friend, and today was to be our official farewell from church.

We first walked into St Clement's two and a half years ago, and my immediate reaction was I hate this place. People waving flags, big band music - I just wanted to go home. I actually left that first service for about half an hour, to collect myself and calm down. And now, two and a half years later, I feel like I am leaving my home. 

Our first week in Hobart. How could it be so cold in January?!

We've been so stretched at St Clem's. I have grappled more with my faith these past two and a half years than ever before. I have sought the Lord, sometimes with my face on the floor, I was that desperate. I have sought Him, and He has been found. We have become part of a Connect Group (in the old parlance, home group) and our group has been a source of refuge, of testing, of growth.

And now, we are abandoning this spiritual home.

When we first floated the idea of going back to the mainland, I think we both truly believed that we were leaving Tasmania for good. Gradually, we've come to realise that we have built a home here. We have people we love. Amazingly, there are people who love us! So, we are leaving Tasmania with the hope that we will return, but with the caveat: DV. Deo Volente. God willing.

Not long after we began to make plans to leave Tasmania I read these words:

Now listen, you who say, "Today or tomorrow we will go to this or that city, spend a year there, carry on business and make money." Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes. Instead, you ought to say, "If it is the Lord's will, we will live and do this or that."' James 4:13-15

In every other decision Jim and I have made cursory nods to the Lord. We're relatively capable people, well-educated and not too socially inept so we've been able to push ahead with our own plans to a large degree. This time, we are stepping out in faith. In faith the our Heavenly Father knows us, has a plan for us and will reveal that plan to us. I greatly desire that we return to Tasmania. I could say to people that we are only going for six months; after all, Jim has a job waiting for him in 2013. But I am realising the futility of that. We could say that. We could genuinely believe it. But if God has different plans, then our words are in vain (and on the other hand, we could also say that we won't return but God may think differently!). 

So, while I do hope that we come back, we have to wait and see.And in the meantime, there be cows to be chased, and kids to be educatin'!

The leaves are turning, and our time here is nearly up.

We've made the monumental decision to leave the paradise island which has been home for the past 2 and a bit years.

Paradise found? Yes, this really is our local playground.

I say 'we've' made the decision, but really it has been God who has opened the doors for us ... which helps when I start to feel stressed and anxious (which is often!).

So, we're packing up our things and heading north. Back to the mainland, as the locals say.

Packing up is a bit of an anomaly. Really, what we are doing is getting rid of stuff and then riding out of this town on our metaphorical horse, which in this case is one small sedan which will be filled to the brim with a guitar, four bags of clothing (one for each family member), a box of toys (the selection of which I am dreading), four people (one big, one medium and two rather small) and two guinea pigs. Everything else is being given away or sold for ridiculous take-it-off-our-hands prices, save for a few cartons of books and personal items.

And it feels pretty good. How long can we last without all the personal detritus which gets accumulated when one lives in one spot for any period of time? Our first stop is for six months, and we will be living in furnished accommodation and I am adamant that we WILL NOT accumulate. Certainly we'll have to get a couple of things - bikes for the kids, for example, or they will drive me nuts - but I am hoping that I (and the kids) will happily adapt to not having a thousand and one kitchen gadgets and a trillion Polly Pockets and their assorted teeny tiny accessories which seem to litter the house.

What started out as a way to save serious cash has now morphed into something ... different. More noble? (I'd like to think so, being the self righteous fool I can be). Deluded? Time will tell. But it is exciting, this process of shedding the things which root us to this earth instead of looking ever forward.

Bring it on.

It can't have been nearly a year...

since I last wrote a blog entry, can it??

Time waits for no man. We now live in a house which overlooks the ocean, instead of a house which overlooks a stinky noisy industrial estate. We have guinea pigs in our backyard. We still struggle with things like not owning our own house, or not living near to extended family.

But the greatest of changes is this. I don't want to be working anymore. GASP! Did I just write that?!

What a change of heart I have had these past few months. God is good. Now, don't hear me saying that mothers shouldn't work. Au contraire, working can be fantastic. Even the simple act of putting on clothes that don't have vegemite stains on them can be fantastic - and having them remain un-Vegemited for a whole day, even better. Having a desk which hasn't been artfully decorated by crayons. But for me, at this point in my life, it is no good.

For much of my adult life I have defined myself through an attachment to work, or to speak in Marxist terms, through my contribution to the economy (yes, I do appreciate the irony of an Arts specialist writing that!) Firstly as a student, then progressing to a PhD student, then to an historian. Don't get me wrong, I am glad - mostly - that I did finish the PhD. I think it would have caused problems down the track had I not finished it. Resentment, bitterness, all that delightful stuff. But I have worked, in some form or another, since my girl was 2 months old. I even told my sister-in-law that I would be taking into hospital drafts of a book to rewrite when I had Boysie-Boy (to which she gently replied 'it might be good to have a rest').

(This photo makes me laugh. Clearly I was a little excitable that evening. My supervisor, the one to my left, not quite as excited.)

So, I've come to the conclusion that I'm not doing anything very well at the moment. I'm missing out on lots of important things. I go to bed most nights thinking I didn't do a good job today.

Before this epiphany, I would think that I wasn't doing such a good job because of myriad variables: my child was too naughty/work was too hard/my husband wasn't supportive enough. None of which, in retrospect, were true in the slightest. It is time to focus on the things which matter to me. And those things are two little human beings who still, astonishingly, want me around, and one big human being who seems to like me still. 

Awesome.

I am so glad for second chances!