So today I am officially joining the ranks of the hundreds and thousands of expats who live abroad and write about their experiences. Why? Not for any particularly good reason, other than that having bored my friends and family with the wonders and woes of my life, I’m now forced to seek a different outlet. And what are my experiences, I ask myself? Leaving behind a successful journalistic career? Reducing our income by 90%? Being married? Moving abroad? Living alongside a different culture? Trying to understand my neighbour who has no teeth and a goat for a best friend? Running two and half businesses? Being a good mum? Failing to shed the belly that my baby left behind? Spreading my love for the yoga that I never actually do? My collection of dogs and their collection of poops? Being no nearer to liking snakes? Attempting to grow vegetables? Huge emphasis on attempting. Improving my baking? Huge emphasis on improving, although my banana bread is pretty damn good. Trying to be a vegetarian, I’m sure you get the picture now. Or what about creating a sanctuary in my home? De-cluttering my physical and spiritual life? Being obsessed with buy, swap and sell sites? And re-cluttering my de-cluttered life? Where does one begin?
For me, writing is so therapeutic, as is reading. And in simply writing, then reading this first paragraph alone has put an incredible smile on my face. I write for myself principally. To give a fresh perspective on the funny, sad, bewildering, exasperating, boring, depressing, tearjerking, frustrating, exciting, joyful things that happen in my life. Sometimes seeing it all spelled out in front of you, helps you to understand it. Helps you to reflect and to absorb it all in a different way and if nothing else, it lets you open up some dialogue, even if it’s just with myself!
The collection (three dogs and a baby)