Practising simplicity

be ignoring my intuition to do so. There may have been fear but there was also an undeniable truth and a rousing belief that this was the only way forward.

Road-tripping around Australia was a surprising choice for me at the time, my fourth baby in my arms, dreams of home ownership almost realised. But if I consider the whole picture, the idea had been floating around since I tore a page from a magazine and stuck it on my bedroom wall fifteen years earlier. It was a photo of a girl, standing in a small, vintage caravan, a linen tea towel hung over the door, a wooden broom leaning against the window. It was a picture of simplicity and adventure, albeit styled, and it enraptured me. I was so enthralled by the idea of simple travel that I spent far too many hours researching books when I should have been stacking the shelves of the bookshop I worked in. I ordered stories on nomadic living and the Romanies and added the biographies of female travellers to my reading pile. Years later, in our first family home, there was a pink pinboard in the kitchen so when I was unpacking boxes and came across the girl in the caravan, I pinned it to the board and occasionally looked at it while I stirred dinner, my firstborn perched on my hip. I had ruminated on that picture and what it meant to me for close to two decades before I acted on it. Some may say that I’d unintentionally created a manifestation board; perhaps it was just a charming coincidence. Mostly, I think the concept of caravan travel had been there for years and while it hadn’t been front of mind for a long time, it sat just below the surface, waiting for an opportunity to be realised. I think we’ve all got these dreams tucked away somewhere, brewing. They may come to mind when we’re thinking about what could be or what we most want. When we reach those points that push us to think about our true purpose, that’s when we tap into the ideas and inspirations that we’ve filed away for another time.

Choosing new adventures for ourselves seems like such a frivolous, childlike notion, but I honestly believe it’s how we instinctively navigate the world. But, as with so much of our childhood—tree climbing, mud pies and make believe—we lose sight of it as we grow. We get caught up in the rush and the race, carried along without awareness, until the day when something shifts and we step back to see where we’ve landed.

When people asked me what we were doing and where we were going, I would rattle off my flippant, highly unresearched plans, which, in retrospect, were the largest and wildest overestimations of my life. But what I really wanted to scream to all those people who asked questions was: I have no idea what we’re doing or where we’re going but we’re doing it anyway and if I think about it too much I won’t do it! So I just focused on the beginning, getting there one step at a time. In the words of the great explorer Amelia Earhart: the most effective way to do it, is to do it. So, I did. I adopted the mentality that we’d work it out as we went along, which I now know is the very essence of nomadic living. As with most adventures, it was never about the destination but about letting go, shedding our possessions, practising simplicity on a new level of less and simply spending time, together.

Saying yes to this adventure meant also realising that I was responsible for my contentment.

The adventure wasn’t so much about where we were going or what we were doing, but it had everything to do with the way I saw the world, the way my perspective shifted, the way I settled into my body as I stood barefoot on the sand, the ocean in front, the van behind, a gaggle of kids shrieking as they raced towards the waves. It has always been about these moments—some lasting mere minutes, others stretching out for days—a strange time capsule of experience and

adventure that’s now a collection of memories. We didn’t follow a path but zigzagged instead, pulled by curiosity and consequence, invitation and community. It didn’t really matter where we were going, it was the act of heading off to somewhere, anywhere, and having the freedom to do so. That was our adventure, that’s where I needed to be, in the space where spontaneity lives—the breathing space that’s free of obligation and plans.

It was when we landed in the red dirt of Uluru that I learned the most pertinent lesson. The traditional owners, the Anangu people, encouraged us to connect with the land instead of attempting to conquer it.

It was a simple and polite plea borne of a deep, ancient knowing of and reverence for the land, and yet it’s never been more pertinent as we experience the brutal repercussions of a conquered world. If I have gleaned anything from slowly travelling Australia and taking the time to sit in the landscape, sit with nature, be still and quiet and listen, it’s this: connection is how we make sense of the world. It’s also how we make sense of ourselves.

For me, bearing witness to the land, carving out the time to be with it, brought me back to my centre. It slotted all of my priorities into place. It allowed me to realise what I most want and need. And while I changed my entire life to come to this realisation, I also believe it’s something you can discover in your own way. Ocean swimmers, weekend hikers, backyard gardeners—they know this feeling, and it’s why they return, again and again, to the sea and the mountains and the patch of dirt beyond the back door, to connect and be and reshuffle their priorities, which so easily get muddled in the daily juggle. This is practising simplicity in a world that champions productivity: establishing daily rituals, getting grounded, connecting with nature and then moving forward intentionally, buoyed by a sense of purpose and belonging. These are the simple things in life, the ordinary yet remarkable things we pine for when we feel overwhelmed by uncertainty. My family road trip was a steep, joyous, messy, life-changing experience. It also proved to me, time and time again, that the greatest adventures are the ones we embark on personally: to dig deep, confront our fears and move forward, often in a ‘three steps forward, two steps back’ kind of way. It is not a linear path. There are often hurdles, but leaping to the other side is always worthwhile. For us, that meant letting go of everything that was comfortable and predictable in our lives and embracing spontaneity and the unknown. When I reminisce about all our unforgettable experiences and the moments that shine golden, I also see the life that happened between those peaks. Among the postcard captures of family adventure were all the mishaps, arguments and tantrums you would expect from six people living in a caravan on the road. The highlights carried us along, rejuvenating our desire to explore and experience, but the gritty life on the road that left us covered in sand, salt and red dirt was where I felt most content. And it was here that I realised: we get to write our own story. If we have choice, we can make change. This is an edited extract from Practising Simplicity by Jodi Wilson, photography by Jodi Wilson. Murdoch Books RRP $32.99.