Personal Journey and Adventures of Nina

THE FINAL WORD Present: As I prepare for my return trip to London, I flick through upcoming walks on Meetup hoping I might join one during my stay, when I come across a picture of him from a recent event. A woman, his latest girlfriend I suspect, leans into him smiling contentedly. She seems happy. He looks mildly distressed and lost in contemplation. I suspect he needs to tell her something but he is too afraid. He’s done it again. The Parisian Doctor and I didn’t work out. We did go for lunch and it was all very exciting but I don’t think I was quite ready and there was that niggling feeling that I was being catfished. After Paris, we met up a few more times for walks and drinks where he persistently asked me about “the Doctor”.  I wondered whether it was jealousy or zealousness to have me attached so that I might make a trajectory out of his orbit. I think the latter. Sipping Pinot Grigio at Gordon’s wine bar near Charing Cross station one afternoon, he confessed that he w

  Ah, Paris. The romance of Paris is not about romantic love. It’s the art it exudes in all its forms - paintings, sculpture, architecture. It’s in the history that seeps from its walls. The stories that echo in its chandeliered foyers. The appreciation of beauty. The leisurely pace. The love of living. What better way to celebrate Paris and all its beauty than through photography? I am very fortunate to have my great friend J, a fellow photographer, here living in the very heart of Paris, just a moment's walk from The Arc de Triomphe. We spend each day walking and photographing and sometimes just being tourists visiting iconic spots, and partaking in the great Parisian pastime of shopping for clothes, which J is surprisingly good at. We traverse the city scouting its best locations, where we shoot from bridges and great landmarks; the Eifel Tower at sunset, and the Louvre at sunrise. Pont Alexandre III Pont Alexandre III and all of its gold-gilded glory is the chosen location for

  As the train weaves its way through the vast green, undulating hills of Kent, I feel a mild flurry of anticipation. He has planned two days of adventure for us and after all of this time, I am finally granted a glimpse into his brave new world; his new apartment with recently acquired furniture and décor, the print of mine of our Tongariro Crossing that he had framed, his new sporty car, his local shops and pubs and the walking trails he takes each day. Anxiety reeks. He opens the door with cautious hesitation, and I see that he is nervous. “It’s not as nice as yours”. He says   We spend the morning wandering through the historical Knole, and its surroundings, an ancient woodland home to fallow and silka deer. Then a stroll through Shoreham, a quaint unaltered village where cobblestoned streets and crooked old cottages ooze tall tales of Tudor escapades and Shakesperean drollery; and finally a brisk walk around Sevenoaks Nature Reserve, a former quarry now a wildlife conservation are

  Anxiously, I wait precisely as instructed at the bottom of the escalator, across from the exit gates at Liverpool Street Station.  Where is he? I followed his directions implicitly. He will definitely be in a panic somewhere by now.  He is a fastidious planner and adheres to agendas with meticulous precision. If not to schedule, he becomes horribly distressed. He will also be uneasy about our meeting for the first time since he left me bereft at Sydney airport more than a year earlier. It’s one thing to hide behind the safety of our distant locations. Phone messages and calls are impervious to the nuances in a person's expression. The furrow of the forehead, the squint of an eye, or a turned-up mouth edge all go undetected behind the protection of a WhatsApp call. In the weeks leading up to our reunion, he connected constantly about plans for the theatre, dinner and grand walking tours. These calls and messages intensified as the day approached when I would jump onto a plane and

"When Twin Flames meet there is a powerful recognition followed by an overwhelming intensity, as a forceful magnetism, draws the two parts of the same soul together.  A constant pull toward each other to reunite." We are inexplicably drawn to each other like dazzled-eyed moths to a fiery flame. As our messaging and conversations resume, we find new ways to bond. One morning on my regular walk in the National Park, I happen upon a pair of Superb Fairy Wren snuggling on a fallen log. Unperturbed by my presence, I continue to watch them. Observing them takes me out of my head and stops me from thinking about how alone I feel and how much I miss him. I resolve to use being present and birdwatching combined to set me on a path of healing. I take it one step further by bringing my camera along to record my journey. A journey along which, he becomes a willing companion. _________💙__________ "Your job as a twin flame is not to focus on your twin but to focus on healing yourself

He sits childlike on the floor of his room besieged by suitcases and a seven-month hoard of clothes, souvenirs and mementoes. He looks up at me helpless and confused and utters, "please can you help me?" I calmly sort things out for him. We take out his hiking boots and some clothing that I will give to charity. I tell him that it was okay not to take his hard copy of The Luminaries I'd bought him for Christmas in preparation for our New Zealand trip. I hand him an old iPad with the digital version already loaded along with all the music we had listened to during our time together. "You can give it to your mum to use when you get back," I know she'll love it, now that she finds books too heavy and awkward to hold. He takes a deep breath, and relief comes over him. He appreciates me coming to the rescue, as I have done so often. Fixing it so he could stream his football games live on TV from the UK, reprogramming the universal remote so we could watch The Ho

          Tell me what you're feeling          I can take the pain         Tell me what your heart wants         such a simple thing... Ray LaMontagne's impassioned vocals stir in my earbuds whilst I busy myself with breakfast preparations. He appears from his morning ablutions energetically gesticulating through his daily Trump diatribe. No mention of my announcement. Anger is not usually an emotion that I entertain but this agitated me. To respond with numbing silence after my heartfelt revelation then carry on as if nothing had happened, unlocked a formally dormant fervour within me. Fuelled with seething indignation and a readiness to move on, I reinstate my dating app and within a couple of days connect with a potential suitor. We meet at a cafe in Killarney Heights, considerately selected halfway between our two locations. I take note that as well as being thoughtful, he is more handsome than his image on Bumble represents. My interest is piqued.  As part of my job as a P

Australia it is then. Of all the alternatives, including returning home to England, or staying with other friends in Sydney, he chose to live with me. Of all the people in the world with whom he could have spent lockdown and isolation, he chose me.  Every morning begins with a cheery holler from his bedroom,     "Niiiinnnnnaaaa!" I return the call with his name. We greet each other with a hug followed by our choice of hot caffeinated beverage, tea for him, espresso for me followed by our daily walk through bushland at the local National Park. Each day we vary it slightly but always beginning with the one hundred and forty-seven steps down the hill and across the footbridge to the park entrance where, as consistently as the sun rises, he gives me a playful shove and then catches me.     " One of these days you'll miss me. Then you'll be in trouble." I smile to myself, secretly taking pleasure in the affectionate interaction and hoping he'll note the doubl