Remembering Africa

I didn’t cry. I walked out of the Johannesburg airport with my one year old little girl in a sling, snuggling close to my heart, my three year old’s hand, small in mine and a baby on the way. We boarded the plane and left for our new life…

I have an uncanny ability to dissociate. Over the years It has served me well. Arriving in Australia, it was easy to focus, no, necessary to focus on my children. We were doing this for them after all. The novelty of a new country along with the distraction of needing to build structure around our children and our lives, kept me from grieving for my home country. Some losses were obvious such as our significant drop in living standards and my husband’s significant step back in career. We justified it. Other losses were subtle and slow. Friends started to drop off our radar and a sense of belonging evaded us. For a time, our sense of adventure inoculated us against loneliness. Some losses were laughably small, yet no less significant. I remember breaking down in the aisle at Coles, looking for sugar. I had walked there, pregnant, with my two small children in a pram, trying to do a quick shop. Everything was packaged and organised differently, so the “quick” shop ended up taking over an hour. These are the sorts of things which are difficult to explain to people who have grown up, or emerged into their environment. With no friends, no extended family and no real home, we drew closer to one another and focussed on making it all work.

Thankfully, within walking distance from the our very humble abode, was a play group. It was there that I met my first two Aussie friends, Rebecca and Nicole, who I assume took pity on me. I was introduced to the concepts of morning tea and afternoon tea. Concepts which added to my waistline, the results of which are still with me. Or should I say, on me! Once we purchased a car, a whole new world opened up to me as I now had access to the beach, which was delightful! In South Africa, we had lived inland. We lived on Gymea Bay Road, just a few kilometres up from the small Gymea village, so there wasn’t often a need to drive anywhere initially. It’s still a lively little place, with shops and restaurants. I loved being able to walk up the road with the kids for a cuppa and a bit of toy shopping. Everything we needed was there and more; a bank, an excellent art gallery and the train station was in walking distance too. We were happy, even in our little hovel.

Giving birth in a foreign country was not as pleasant. The medical system in South Africa was in fact, excellent at the time. My previous births had been in a birthing suite, a bit like a hotel room with a double bed and ensuite. I could eat, walk, chat, have a bath. My husband could sleep over with me. The meals were excellent. The midwives, like family. I found the experience here rather primitive. Strange for a first world country. It was also a stark contrast in that besides my husband and our two small children, I had no visitors, no flowers or cards, no welcome from family. We had hired a baby sitter for the birth; a lovely young lady with long blonde hair like a mermaid. She was wonderful with the children and was prepared to come by whenever labour began. My kids loved her. The Anglican Church in Gymea, which we attended at the time, was also phenomenal! Even though we were new, they brought us cooked meals three times a week. This was done for all the ladies of the church who gave birth. What an absolute gift! I was so grateful! I was learning about the culture and friendship and performing practical deeds for friends. I remember my friend, Rebecca, offering to come by and watch the children so I could take a nap! I was shocked at her offer. Back home, one was always the gracious host. There was no way you would ever sleep while someone else was in your home! There was a richness here that I had not experienced before. Sadly, when we left New South Wales to move to Victoria, it was a totally different experience. But thankfully I had a new distraction; home schooling.

Through the years, it’s been like that. We have enjoyed adventure and taken on challenges; enough to keep any home-sickness at bay. The first time I gave into it slightly, was when we received our Australian citizenship. It was a realisation that I was cutting a cord. I wrote a poem to express how I felt and then moved on. As the children grew and I became more of a facilitator in their schooling, I took on another distraction; learning. I sank my time and brain into anything I could; painting, Photoshop, pattern design, Procreate, business, social media, more workshops, teaching painting, and the list goes on. I do get my money’s worth on Skillshare every year!

Then in January 2026, surgery. I was in the middle of painting a red Dahlia, which I was unable to complete before my admission to hospital. My ten days in hospital were spent on Skillshare learning Affinity Designer. I just wouldn’t give my brain a break. Returning home, I was unable to complete the Dahlia. It took months. When I finally completed it, I realised why it had taken so long. I hated the process, even though the result was good. If I was honest with myself, I hated everything that I was producing. Art had become a chore, a strain. It no longer served the purpose which I had originally, with all good intentions, intended; a celebration of beauty to glorify God. I was lost. My husband was working up in Sydney at the time. I joined him for about a month with the intention of working, figuring out what to do, but I just couldn’t. I was burnt out! And then it happened.

Slowly at first. It began with snippets of Africa in some movies that we had watched, and the series, 1923. A longing began to stir. Then I listened to Out of Africa by Karen Blixen, who wrote under the pseudonym, Isak Dinesen. I listened to it twice. Then I purchased The Flame Trees of Thika by Elspeth Huxley. I was longing for Africa. I was grieving. This time instead of distracting myself, I leaned into it.

The painting above started out as an illustration for the above mentioned poem. I began it over a year ago. In my usual fashion, I stiffly applied the skills that I was taught. Everything needed to be perfect and realistic and tight and controlled; that’s how I did life in general. Of course, the sheer size of the canvas and the unfamiliar paper overwhelmed me. I abandoned the painting. Figured I’d probably never finish it. But the gentle grieving I was allowing myself, opened my heart to new possibilities, not just in my art, but in my life too. Too much to write about on this occasion, but I will say, I allowed myself to actually go through the grieving process, to really feel the emotions, let them settle and distil. It dawned on me that I was not unlike the explorers who went to Africa, hoping for a better life. I started to understand that it wasn’t necessary for me to control everything or to have it all figured out. It was okay for me to be an observer. It was okay for me to go through a process. I wasn’t born here. How could I expect myself to live and be like someone who was? I archived most of my Instagram posts and I gave myself permission to explore. And to fail!

I scrubbed out as much pigment as I could from the flowers I had painted. I overlaid them with sepia in order to soften the harsh lines and the bright colours and the details. I braved some loose marks for the tree and the grass. I embraced the imperfections of the washes and even the masking fluid, which could not removed from the paper after being on it for over a year. The work had become my transition piece. There are remnants of my old work in the flowers. New strokes reveal the possibilities of future exploration. More importantly, I allowed myself to lean into grieving the loss of my home country. After eighteen years, I finally allowed myself to cry.

In the Archive

This month in The Archive, I’ve created printable postcards and August’s calendar. Print postcards onto 300gsm card for best results. I hope you enjoy!

With joy and beauty,

Jo xxx