What happens when you see what happens

August 2022

On Friday I fly to England to see my family for the first time in almost three years. I’m taking a whole month off. Lots of people have been asking me how I feel about this, what my plans are when I get there, whether I’m going to travel or stay in one place, who I’m going to see. The answer is, as always, I dont know. Lets see what happens.

I wasn’t always as confident with ‘I don’t know’ as an answer. These days it rolls off my tongue as easy as honey dripping from a spoon. I used to think I ‘should’ know. Surely I should know what I’m doing with my life, everyone else seems to. Surely I ‘should’ know why I don’t want to be in a relationship with this person anymore. Surely I ‘should’ know where I’m going. What my five year plan is. What’s next.

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I tied myself in knots for years pretending to know. At parties when people would start talking about politics or current affairs I’d shrink down into my chair. Dont ask me, dont ask me’ I’d repeat silently. ‘So Clare, what do you think?’ Damn.

I’ve always been very good at knowing what people want to hear which has been my downfall and saviour in equal measure. I’d often pretend to have an opinion one way or the other to keep the peace. I’d pretend to side with everyone else, even when I could see all sides, and in fact where even are these sides? All I can see is a circle.

Other times I’d mumble and change the subject ’This wine is delicious!’  simultaneously wondering how to get out of there as fast as possible without seeming rude, weird or awkward. My biggest fear was people finding out I was a fraud, I didn’t know anything, I didn’t fit in, I didn’t belong. I didn’t have an opinion about anything and I didn’t care in what they cared about.

It came as a huge relief to realise, ‘I dont have to have an opinion on ANYTHING.’ I dont know is a complete sentence. I don’t have to justify that with ‘oh I dont watch the news’ or ‘I haven’t had time to read up in yet’. I dont know is all thats needed. what a relief!

The only way I know something is to experience it. I’ve inherently known from a young age that I’m not a details person, which is why I send out most of the event posts with the wrong date and time. I’ve never known what I want. Again, I used to think that was a ‘bad thing’ until I gave up trying to work it out, and got on with the job at hand which is enjoying my life. I have no interest in packing in advance or researching where I’m going. My way is to turn up and see what happens.

I spent the morning writing despite all the voices that tell me  ‘You cant write. What are you doing. This is a waste of time.’ Whenever I feel like this which is often I take comfort in these words by my ultimate crush Liz Gilbert. Forgiveness over discipline. Every time.

I started to feel frustrated around lunchtime. Until quite recently I would have forced myself to stay and tap out some mediocre thing I hated but I’m learning. Slowly. Thank god. It was a beautiful day. Impossibly blue skies stretching out forever. Not quite spring but warm enough to invoke sweet memories of lounging on the beach all day eating ripe mangos. The ocean has been totally flat for a couple of days now. Shark Bay transformed into a sheet of glass. I called my love. We walked to the top of Broulee island and sat in the dappled sun gazing up at the leaves. I laughed at myself. I nearly missed this because I thought I needed to keep writing. He smiles and picks up the perfect leaf skeleton. Every vein an intricate thread. If you close one eye and look through this your perspective shifts. The whole world is transformed.

I’m becoming more and more committed to prioritising joy. Otherwise what’s the point.

So England. I’ll get on the plane. I’ll sit down for 24 hours. I’ll see what happens.

When I left Sydney my original no plan plan was to live in my van, maybe teach the odd yoga class here and there but essentially be totally free from all responsibilities. I had romantic visions of living deep in the forest where no one could find me. I’d spend my days meditating and foraging, only emerging every few months to get supplies before retreating back to solitude. I’d have no expenses so money would be no issue. I’d just spent the last 4 years teaching a million classes a week all over Sydney so I was ready to never see anyone ever again.

I gave myself complete space. I started driving. Where are you headed? They’d ask ‘I’ll just see what happens’ I smiled.

It wasn’t always easy. Living in a van comes with it’s challenges, like knowing where everything is,  drying my one towel and knowing what to do in the evenings. i like to keep things simple. I did not have the fancy van set up. My van was a tiny transit with a bed in the back, under the bed storage, one internal light and that was it.  I had a little gas stove but to be honest I never used it. Instead I’d buy the cheapest vegetables I could find (usually carrots), a big jar of peanut butter and ate that every night. I’d sleep in beach car parks and National parks. It was winter and freezing. I’d go to sleep with the sun at 6:00pm and wake up in the middle of the night. I wrote emo poetry to some unrequited love in the notes section of my phone and posted it on instagram.

I didn’t shower for weeks. I walked the coastline for miles every day. I watched every sunset and sunrise. I started painting again. After a couple of weeks a friend called me. I hear you’ve travelled south? My parents live in this place called Long Beach, near Batemans Bay. Never heard of it I shrugged. They’re off to Europe so you can stay there as long as you like. All you need to do is feed the chickens. The net day I arrived at this beautiful house in the bush. Big open fire. Spa bath and the most beautiful beaches I’d ever seen. Rent free. 3 months.

I rested deeply. Friends and lovers came to visit occasionally but I spent most of the time by myself. Ater a very time orientated existence, days spread themselves out lazily at my feet.

Sometimes panic would creep in.

What am I doing?? Why did I leave my dream job in Sydney? What if I never teach yoga again? What if I never work again? What if I run out of money. But every time my mind went into a spin I’d look up and realise, I’m on this big planet spinning around in space. It’s fine. let’s just see what happens.

The first night I arrived in Long Beach I went into ’town’ to get supplies. At 7:00pm in August the whole place was deserted. I was used to the bustling streets of Newtown and for a while really thought that something serious had happened. Maybe there’s been some kind of zombie apocolypse. There were no people anywhere. The town had an eerie vibe as if a plague had run through. Pre-pandemic this wasn’t something I was used to. But somehow, Batemans Bay stole my heart. The surrounds were so breathtakingly beautiful I would pinch myself every time I’d turn a bend. Everyone I met seemed genuinely interested in me and my story. I was falling in love.

I left for a while to run other teacher trainings in Bellingen and travel to Peru but I knew I was coming back. When I left I wrapped a stone in my hair, covered it with my blood and buried it under a Banksia so I wouldn’t forget.

When I got out of the jungle the first message I saw was from Soul Tribe’s original owner, Danni. I still have the message. The message that would change my life forever. 23rd October 2018. She’d had enough. The studio had been closed for a few weeks. She had family stuff to deal with. Did I want to manage the studio for a few months?

The universe knows what it’s doing. I said yes, expecting it to be a studio manager role. I’d spent four years managing Dancing Warrior Yoga studio in Sydney’s Inner West so I knew how to do that. I got back to Batemans Bay a few days later. I was still living in my van with the same old mouldy towel. I’m ready! I said. We sat down in the courtyard of the studio, the very spot I’m writing this now 3.5 years later.

Ok, here’s the keys. This is how much the rent is. This is when it’s due. I’ll see you in 9 months! We’re off.

Ummm. I sat there. Mouth open. This wasn’t a studio manager role at all. There wouldn’t be a salary of any kind. It was up to me to revive this studio that had been closed for many weeks now. The whole place was a ghost town. And the rent was $2000 a month. There were no teachers. There were no students. There was no system. There was no email list. There was just me and my inability to say no.

From that moment I felt taken over by some strange force. The whole thing was crazy. I was terrified. This was more rent than I’d ever had to pay ever. There were electricity bills and plants to keep alive and booking systems to set up. There were payment systems to buy. The building didn’t even have internet or phone reception. It seemed impossible but I was ready. Peru had taught me all about fear. I didn’t let it get me. I just got on with it. I went to the library, printed out hundreds of dodgy flyers and walked the streets relentlessly.  I made a timetable. The same every day. Lots of classes. Consistent. I wrote about the studio constantly and told everyone I knew on social media to share. I created instagram and Facebook account and told the world every day, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere I yelled a thousand times a day. I’m here.  I’m committed. I’m not leaving.

At the start I was teaching every single class because there were no other teachers. I’d show up every day at 5:30am, light candles and wait. It took a few weeks for anyone to walk through the door. I’d be there dancing around, sometimes crying, sometimes chanting, sometimes writing. I remember the first time a student walked in I was shocked. What are they doing here I thought before I remembered, ‘oh this is a yoga studio!’

People started to trickle in until every class had at least 1 person in, then 2, then 3. I didn’t let myself think about how many students I needed to cover rent, let alone have any money over to feed myself. I closed my eyes to anything that would derail me. I  didn’t look at my bank account. A few years earlier I did a bungee jump in Cairns. As I stood on the ledge with a towel wrapped round my ankles and my whole body screaming at me to get the fuck down, the weary guy at the top said in a deadpan voice. ‘The longer you stand here the harder it is. dont look down. focus on a spot on the horizon and jump.’

And that’s what I did. I didn’t look down. I kept my gaze straight ahead and I jumped.

Every day someone would say in a concerned voice. ‘How are you doing? You look tired. This is a tough town to crack. I dont think Batemans Bay are ready for this yoga studio. It’s too different. You can’t just say you love everyone. That will definitely turn people off. You can’t be this happy all the time. Maybe you should go back to Byron.’

For a while it seemed impossible. The building stood empty most of the time. The cafe hadn’t been sold. A thick cloud seemed to cling to the dilapidated roof but little by little, one delighted student at a time the energy started to shift. In December hundreds of tourists spilled out of Canberra. ‘

We heard there’s a new yoga studio they said. We heard you’re open every day! I ran a class on Christmas Day. Everyone laughed. What are you doing? They said. No one will come to yoga on Christmas Day. 30 people piled in. It was before I’d knocked the walls out and the mats were literally on top of each other. People raised their eyebrows. She’s not messing around’ they said.

The word started to spread. I bought the business from Danni. I wasn’t sure how all of this was happening but it was. I own a yoga studio? I thought. I was supposed to be living in my van as far away from people as possible. What happened? I own a business??? I have a commercial lease? I guess this is what happens when you see what happens.

In February 2019 my Dad fell off his bike in England. I was running a retreat at the time in South Sydney.

My Mum was on the phone. Her voice cracking. ‘They found him on the side of the road. He’s in a coma. They say the brain damage is severe. They don’t know if he’ll wake up’  My entire world fell apart. I drove in a daze back to Batemans Bay, picked up my passport, booked the next flight back to England. I called every teacher I knew and explained what happened. One of my friends had just moved down to Batemans Bay. If it wasn’t for her the whole studio would have closed and I don’t know if it would have recovered, but she took the reins just as I’d done a few months ago. Every class got covered. The studio survived. Another miracle.

I walked through customs with a severe pain in my stomach. I sat on the plane for 24 hours. I had no idea what I was coming home to. I didn’t know if my Dad was still alive. I knew he couldn’t breathe by himself. Machines were doing everything. I cried and waited and cried and waited. My Mum and brother picked me up from the airport. It was freezing and grey. I couldn’t work out what had happened to my life.

I sat by my Dad’s bed every day reading to him. I knew he could hear me even though it felt pointless. I wasn’t giving up. It shocked me how quickly his muscles wasted. He lay there, white and frail, plugged into machines that pumped oxygen into his lungs. My Dad had always been (and is now) extremely healthy, energised and fearless. I thought he was indestructible. Seeing him like that broke my heart into a million pieces. There was a monitor above his head that showed the pressure in his brain. He was in an induced coma. They were keeping him unconscious because there was so much swelling in his brain. ‘When that number goes down we’ll be able to take him off sedation’ they said. Then we’ll know more. I started at the number going up and down and up again and willed him to get better. I bought twigs and leaves and flowers from the park outside and laid them on his body. The staff raised their eyebrows as I walked in holding bundles of organic matter into the sterile ward but they didn’t tell me to stop. How could they.

I stayed for 2 weeks. There was no improvement. i overheard the doctors telling my Mum it doesn’t look good. He’s not responding. his swallow reflex isn’t coming back. He might have to stay on these machines permanently. We all knew he wouldn’t want to stay like this. Obviously. Who would. He’d always told me very specifically, ‘Clare, if I ever can’t look after myself and my brain fails, I want you to hit me over the head with a shovel’. Now we were really here. How could we make that decision. And how would you even sneak a shovel into ER.

As I was sitting in the airport on my way back to Batemans Bay I got a call from my Mum. Good news! He’s woken up! He’s responding! When I got back to Australia the studio was still running, thriving even. Every day we dedicated our classes to your Dad, the teachers said. I had strangers messaging me offering distance healing. Even Jorge sent healing from the Amazon. It worked. Another miracle.

A few weeks later I went back to England to be with him. This time was brighter. He’d been transferred to a brain injury rehabilitation centre called Moseley Hall. When I walked in he was sitting up in bed, reading some obscure scientific journal with a bowl of fruit next to him.

‘This is my daughter!’ He beamed. ‘All the way from Australia!’ We spent the next few weeks together. Every day I’d visit and take him out.  I’d push him around the parks of Birmingham and take him for falafels. I watched him improve every day. We started to walk instead of take the wheelchair. Each morning we did yoga together. I’d get him to twist and fold and extend and mobilise his joints. I insisted he took his shoes off and stand barefoot on the earth. The nurses would shake their heads. ‘Don’t overdo it’ they warned. But I knew my Dad. And I wasn’t giving up. He had to learn everything again. How to walk, how to stand, how to read, how to write. How to tell the time. He was convinced for a while he was 20 years older than he was. I’m doing so well for 91 he’d tell anyone who’d listen. ‘Dad I think you’re 71’. He wasn’t convinced. When I showed him his birth date and he finally believed me he grinned. I’ve got 20 more years than I thought I had! I better get on with it.

3 months later he was back at home. Now he’s healthier than ever and reading this (Hi Dad!)

He went back to his conservation work, I went back to the studio. Things started to settle. I ran my first teacher training at Soul Tribe. The studio got busier and busier. The country got drier and drier. I wondered if we’d ever see rain again and that’s another story.

I’m so proud of what I’ve achieved. I’m so grateful I stuck with it. I’m so grateful for everyone who supported this vision. Now I have a team of 14 incredible teachers, I’ve hosted and facilitated thousands of workshops, tens of thousands of yoga classes, free community classes, multiple teacher trainings and have just started a new cafe, community space, art therapy centre and live music venue next door.

So, this is what happens when you ‘see what happens’.