Perspectives

In 1972 we came out to Australia from New Zealand with my family on the SS Orsova at the age of 10, me with a single box of belongings, having left behind cherished toys, my cat, friends, childhood memories and somewhere, my beloved beachball. The opportunity to return presented in April 2026 through the generosity of a close friend and family and so I set off on a cruise ship to begin my pilgrimage back to New Zealand, and as it would turn out, a journey that would reveal itself in ways that I could not have imagined or anticipated.

Arriving in Auckland just ahead of Cyclone Vaianu, I wondered whether its anticipated ferocity was a portent for things to come … but as the cyclone drifted eastward losing its power, I made my way to my birth home. Even though I was only three when we moved from this home, I remembered the massive oak tree that stood on the edge of the house and the playground. I was delighted that both were still there, the playground no longer had the giant giraffe, but the oak tree had grown proportionately to me, a humble reminder that some things are meant to last and some things were not.

Next stop was a fishing village on the Tutukaka Coast where my family holidayed every summer … as I stood on the water’s edge of the bay, now a beautiful marina, the smells of salt and fish triggered memories of collecting fresh oysters with my father as we navigated the rocks with our bucket of fresh water and a shucking knife. The next memory that I was determined to find was the little holiday house on the hill with a long drive – my childhood memory scanned the hills and vista, trying to find the missing pieces, it was here that I lost my beach ball … careless, it was taken like my sense of justice, and feeling I deserved what was rightfully mine. The paths and roads had all changed but in a glimpse beyond trees that were never there, I saw the pergola of the house. I climbed to that same magical spot and as I looked out over the cove I simply breathed, let go and gave gratitude as I embraced my inner beach ball.

The next day as I drove towards my semi-rural childhood home built on the side of an upturned volcano where I grew up from the age of three to 10, my mind became happily lost in my Artemis world, where I explored the bush, clay pits, swinging vines and the Māori pā – my playgrounds and where I felt most me. After we left New Zealand, and for some years, I had a recurring dream of returning to this home … as if something had been forgotten.

I walked up the driveway knowing that I had to have the courage to knock, to step inside, relive albeit only briefly and reclaim those parts of me I had left behind. The owner generously opened the door to me, the experience was half surreal, half unreal – fifty-five years on, the rooms felt the same, almost smelt the same. I was lost in a nostalgic swirl, playing with Christmas presents, hiding in the foyer cove where the black Bakelite phone sat, aligning the hall with cushions that became a bowling alley, wincing in the bath that soaked pine needles out of my butt, staring at the space where secrets were made and kept … as the visceral memories hit I remembered to breathe, to stay in the now – and I took my once in a lifetime moment to reclaim all that was left behind.

Over the next few days as I made my way south, passing the rose garden where my parents married and with a small tub of mum’s ashes secure in my luggage, I began to reflect on how she had shaped the woman I had become and how I didn’t always appreciate her gifts, or her wisdom. It was late afternoon as I drove through the rain to my mother’s birth town where she and I had visited many times, my mind filled with fragmented memories of tall art deco buildings, my aunty’s home, and exploring together the botanical gardens full of roses, her favourite flower, and her favourite song.

The next day the sun crept through foreboding clouds as I made my way to the gardens, ashes in hand to find the perfect spot to release that part of her that had always called this town, home. Once again fragmented memories clouded my search as the sun slid in and out of providing the guidance I was seeking. As I approached the duck pond, the sun returned, beaming its warmth … its light reflecting off the still water, disturbed only by the family of inquisitive ducks, as if guiding me to the perfect place. I stood at the pond’s edge, and as I lifted the lid, a light breeze collected her ashes, scattering them gently across the shimmering water.

I opened my heart, let go with love and gave thanks for being blessed with the only mum I ever wanted or needed.