And then. Just like that … they are gone.

empty nest #margarethogancreative #destinationhereandnow

I don’t quite know where to start with this.

Do I start at the moment we brought them home from hospital, treading on egg shells, staring at these little beings we had created that smelt so good and at first meeting wove unbreakable strings of love around our hearts?

Do I start at their first day of school, so tiny beneath their hats and backpacks?

Do I start with the sleepless nights spent beside them in hospital wards worried for their lives and powerless to ease their pain?

Do I start with the joy of watching them unfold as individuals or the anguish of watching them make mistakes you know they have to make?

25 years of hands on parenting.

For the most part (she says with a wry smile) 25 years of joy.

Nearly half our lives.

And then. Just like that … they are gone.

Just as we were – like a rocket if I remember correctly.

Just as it should be.

We are one week in as empty nesters. And we have our own adventures and challenges ahead. But I couldn’t let this moment pass without putting words to paper. A little celebration if you like of all the mums and dads who sign up so young for so big a journey with so little clue of what lies ahead. Yet another moment in my life when I wish Mum and Dad were around to have a chat.

I stumbled on this poem from Kahlil Gibran during the week…


On Children

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts, 
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, 
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, 
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, 
and He bends you with His might 
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies, 
so He loves also the bow that is stable.

Kahlil Gibran


Turn the page.

New chapter.

Deep breath.

Just give me a moment 😉


    The Bush Hut @ Brooman




    Packed up in a box and shoved high on an unreachable shelf in the back shed. Better yet, dropped in a river like a Jumanji gameboard. Whatever you do, don’t open the box.  DON’T OPEN THE GODDAMNED BOX!!!!  “But the drums!! The drums!!”  FUCK THE DRUMS, DON’T OPEN THE GODDAMNED BOX!!

    Dad always said “No point in looking back” so we won’t.

    Exxxxceppppt …for some unfinished business on the south coast… at Brooman, about 35 minutes inland from Milton, about three hours south of Sydney.

    We have friends from university days who have bought a little property, a very special little property. It overlooks the old village of Brooman and the mighty Clyde River, hidden just behind those trees on the right.


    And just a little bit further up the hill, tucked away in the bush you step into the 1900s, into a wooden hut, the Bush Hut @ Brooman, hewn from local hardwood and built with love.

    bush hut @ brooman

    Verandah inspired by On Golden Pond.


    A catcher of late afternoon light and bird song. Kick back at day’s end. Off the grid. A drink? You betcha.

    bush hut @ brooman

    bush hut @ brooman

    Simplicity. A little sanctuary to unpick, defrag, stop and smell the grevilleas.

    bush hut @ brooman

    bush hut @ brooman

    Candle lit baths under the stars.

    bush hut @ brooman

    We were given permission to explore the Brooman village ruins on the adjoining property, the wobbly remnants of a gold rush – back in the day.




    Textured and a little bit twisted, just the way I like my men 😉




    Weaving and wandering, a valley full of laughter, a river of canoes.

    bush hut @ brooman

    Freshly picked bounty from Julie and Bob’s garden where the lines between flowers and vegies are pinked and blurred.

    julie and bob's garden

    Could I live this life? 35 minutes from town, near neighbourless and self contained? After the year that should not be named it’d be tempting I must say. Peaceful, healthful, cupful. Brimming in so many ways. I’m not sure. But as an escape, yes, this is me, us. A warm bath under the stars.



    But the drums!!

    What drums?

    There are no drums.




    If you’d like to know more about Julie’s and Bob’s bush hut which is available for rental you can see it here on Stayz or Airbnb.


      The healing place …

      Along a dusty road, past many twists and turns, there is a place with no phones.

      And no computers.

      Some thought they were a little crazy to buy it.

      But then they visited.

      And they too fell under its spell …

      blue reeds

      What there is – in great supply – is time, too rare a commodity thesedays.


      Three little huts, built with love – and this past weekend filled with friends – cling to a hidden hillside and look down the barrel of the Clyde.


      It really is a piece of paradise.

      A healing place for a family that had been to hell and back. In the process of buying it, someone tried to gazump them, but the elderly owner said no, this family needs this place.


      He must have been a wise old soul.

      I would cue the frogs if I could and lend you the slap of oars on water, but all I can offer is some fading light this evening. More to come, I promise…

      0s5a1960 0s5a1963 0s5a1967

      You just need to be a little bit patient with me 😉


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