The Watcher: The Moments between Moving and Leaving

The wildfire did not arrive as a single event, but as a series of moments—some lived in action, others only felt much later. These pieces belong to that unfolding.

There are moments in a life so traumatic

the mind cannot hold them -

and so it places them somewhere deep within us,

beyond feeling.

The evacuation of our home and village -

a wildfire devouring 125 square kilometres

of countryside,

taking houses with it -

was one such moment.

Emotion pressed down.

Action rising.

Movement.

A packed suitcase—documents.

Grandchild.

Dog.

Hastily gathered,

placed into the car.

Six weeks into our new life -

not yet settled into its walls,

still carrying the echo of arrival -

and already,

the possibility of leaving.

The body knows what to do.

An automaton.

Gather what matters.

Move quickly.

Stay calm.

There is a child present.

There is no space

for fear to lead.

And yet -

as we fled,

there was a moment.

A pause

within the urgency.

I turned back,

needing to take it in -

perhaps for the last time.

My beautiful home.

My haven.

The house stood where it should.

Unaware of the encroaching flames.

Unaware of what it held.

Not just walls.

Not just things.

But the fragile architecture

of a dream:

We made it here.

We began again.

This is ours.

And in that single glance,

all of it

became uncertain.

There is no resolution

in such a moment.

Only movement.

Only the necessity of leaving

without knowing

if there will be anything

to return to.

So the mind does what it must.

It closes the door on feeling.

Stores it carefully.

Labels it: not now.

Months pass.

Life resumes its rhythm.

The house remains.

Days fill themselves.

And then - over lunch -

the gentle wisdom of a friend,

unremarkable, almost -

and the memory opens.

Not as panic.

But as feeling.

Raw emotion rising -

because now, at last,

there is space

to hold it.

It was never only about danger.

It was about standing at the edge

of losing something

just as it had begun.

The possibility

of losing the dream.

The vulnerability

of starting again -

and the quiet realisation

that nothing

is ever fully secured.

And yet -

within that memory

lives something else.

Quieter,

but no less true.

There was movement.

There was decision.

There was care.

The realisation -

that I coped.

That I did not collapse

when uncertainty arrived.

The slow knowing

that I can -

trust myself,

even in crisis.

Not that nothing would be lost.

But that whatever comes next -

I can meet it.

And perhaps -

that is what remains.

Not the fear

of what might have been taken -

but the quiet knowing:

all is well.

There are moments when truth arrives softly,

and others when it slips in sideways, disguised as humour.

The Watcher sees what is.

Sage makes it easier to bear.

Between them lies a shared knowing -

of what we carry,

and what, in time, we may learn to release.