True gold at rainbow's end

There is such wealth of stories from both sides of any family. Isn't that so? Truth be told, I've only just begun to discover my own family's stories. Stories of Chinese immigration from my mother's side. Stories of headhunters and river travellers from my father's side. Everyday stories we enact at the dinner table, on the way home from work and school. Stories of my own remembered vague childhood which I have retold to Darren. He finds it fascinating, hardly believing that I was ever young, hardly believing there were no such things as computers or VCDs when his brothers and I were growing up.

Do you suppose that is the purpose of writing? To find a commonality in everyday stories? Or perhaps, it is just an outlet for everyday stories.

Darren likes it when I tell him of days gone by. I think it gives him a sense of belonging, and makes him feel loved. There is also a feeling of a escapism, a sense of adventure, romanticism for him. Remember how, when we were children, we loved to be told a story? People in stories always seem to lead terribly exciting lives. It was as if, when we sat quietly to hear a story, we could borrow a little of that sparkling excitement to brighten our tiny existence, never thinking that our lives had its own sparkling excitements.

My late grandmother has been on my mind a lot in the last couple of days. I was sure it was to be something profound - a message from the beyond, perhaps. But no, it was merely a jumping off point. Once I started to articulate the memories, and the emotions that were behind the memories ...

Everything happens for a reason. One stroke of the brush will lead into another naturally. You only need to let it flow. This time round, the brush stroke is absent-minded promise to someday weave the stories of my family into some kind of story. One day. Some day. When I grow up.

I leave for Melbourne on Saturday. It is always a wrench to leave Mum and Dad and Darren, even though I know Melbourne is waiting for me to resume my life. It is especially hard, this time round, because I'm not sure when I'll be back again. This summer has somehow been a definite crossroad in my life, even if nothing stupendous happened. I can no longer long for days past. I can only go forward on my own, now.

I am terrified.