Solo Adventures

This morning, Gemma-Rose and I left home earlier than usual because we wanted to drive the scenic route to town instead of going the direct way. After my youngest daughter slid into the driver’s seat of her nifty blue car, we realised there was ice on the windscreen. A few squirts of water and swipes of the wipers, and we were on our way.

Driving along the back road past paddocks of cows, weak winter sun in our eyes, we chatted about all kinds of things, both of us soaking up each other’s company and the thrill of being out on the road. At 7:55 am, Gemma-Rose pulled into her favourite spot in the shopping centre car park. She removed her L plates from the front and back of the car, swallowed a few mouthfuls of coffee from her travel mug, slipped her black mask over her face, and hugged me goodbye before going to work.

It was then my turn to slip into the driver’s seat and make the return trip home. On the way back, I stopped at one of our two parish churches to take some photos. Last year, when the covid restrictions eased a bit after our lockdown, the larger of our churches reopened, but the one closest to our home remained closed. It’s still closed. I haven’t been inside it since March 2020.

Today, once I’d parked the car next to the small grey-painted church, I pulled out my phone and noticed a video message waiting for me. A couple of weeks ago, a few of us from our unschooling community set up a Marco Polo group so we can send short videos back and forth between us. It’s been good. We’re sharing our lives in a more spontaneous and intimate way: we’re deepening our friendships.

I opened the car door and was immediately hit by the freezing wind. A few moments later, I recorded my view – the church and the park – in a return video message for my friend. I also shared my wind-blown goosebumpy self.

Video message answered, I put my camera to my eye and took my photos quickly because my fingers were hurting with the cold.

As I drove home, I thought about how being a support driver for a child is just like unschooling.  Our kids are eager to learn. They need us to let go of our fears and let them sit in the driver’s seat. Yes, it might be uncomfortable for us. We might want to be the one in charge, but how will our kids learn if we don’t let them try? We have to guide, share our skills, and then trust that they can do it. If they make a mistake, we pull over, chat about things, and let them try again. We have to have confidence in our children. They can do this!

I also thought about video messages and how I’m stepping outside my comfort zone whenever I make one. I’m trying not to worry about what other people think of me and my appearance and who I am whenever I hit the ‘record’ button.

I often want to control how people view me because I wonder if the real me is likeable. What if people prefer the edited version? Recently, I expressed this fear to our community, and someone said that when we’re willing to let people see us as we actually are, we become real friends, just like the friends in our face-to-face lives.

So, now I’m home on this cold, windy Australian winter’s day. Soon I’ll download my latest batch of photos, adding them to the others that I’ve taken on similar solo adventures with my camera. I used to go on lots of photography outings with my daughters, but they’re usually too busy to accompany me these days. So, I’ve been heading out alone, trying to find the adventure in the life I’m living today instead of wishing life was the way it used to be.

This morning, as I was battling the cold wind, I was thinking about life as it used to be, those glorious days when my kids and I had adventures together. When I got home, I said to Imogen, “The weather reminded me of when we used to make music videos. Do you remember all those cold winter mornings when we’d set out before the sun rose to film a video in the bush or botanic gardens or on the lookout?” Imogen did remember. How could she forget? Those are magical memories that we will cherish forever.

Today, I created a few new fabulous memories:

Sitting beside my smiling 17-year-old daughter, in the car she paid for herself, as she drove us past frosty fields of cows, on our way to town where she works.

Freezing in the whipping wind, bravely making a video for a friend halfway across the world, who doesn’t seem to mind my imperfections.

Spying our grey parish church through the lens of my camera, hoping that one day I’ll once again walk through its door and see our usual pew, a few rows from the front on the left hand side of the central aisle.

Not waiting for company but heading out on a solo adventure.