A Love Letter to Mullalone

The earliest record they have of when this house was first built is from 1942, amidst the Second World War, and two years ago, my parents became only the fourth owners the home had ever had.

This property holds so much tranquility—from the deck wrapped around the house, the beehive, the river, the paperback tree plantation, the various fruit trees, the flowers, the eagles that fly overhead, and so on.

At night, the stars are immensely bright, and the sounds of all the little critters and crickets are a lullaby of their own. The full moon rises over the North, Middle, and South Brother mountains, and the sun sets, alighting the Barrington Tops in the distance, where wild horses roam.

The way the light streams in through the trees around 5:33 p.m. makes me want to cry—it’s so soft and gentle—and every creak and cranny of the wooden floors is a familiar comfort as I walk through the halls.

Time here seems to stand still, and you can experience all four seasons in a day. The leaves rustling in the wind sound like waves rolling into a bay, and the light pitter-patter of rain on the roof is an orchestral gift.

I tend to be afraid of the dark, especially in a big house away from other places, but here, I have never felt safer or more held. When I leave, going down the long driveway, it’s like I am already being pulled back.

I imagine this house throughout the years—filled with people, laughter, tears, and secrets. I imagine all the animals who roamed and roam around so freely, the water-loving souls who float and kayak along the Manning River, and the wild ones who run, getting lost in the fields, only to come back in time for dinner by the bonfire with muddy bare feet and hands smelling of lavender and jasmine.

What a privilege to have taken pause here and to leave a piece of my heart to stay for always.

This was a brief love affair between me and the sweet Mid North Coast. I wish I had more time here. I wish I could have stayed in all the rooms. Still, I whispered a thank you into each one and thought, maybe in another life. For my whole last week, there was a black moth that hovered in my room and settled on the ceilings. It was dark like the night, watching me. Moths are often symbolic of positive transformation. In some cultures, moths are seen as a symbol of the holy union of light and dark needed for a soul's transformation.

"So you can’t tell me anything more about what your visit means?" I pleaded with the moth, looking at it from my bed. It stayed still and quiet.

"Okay, guess I’ll just have to find out."

I felt grateful for it—a rest and recuperation after closing one chapter—and I felt a little heartbroken, too. A sad letting go, trying to hold on as tight as I can, knowing that in my next return, it won’t be to here. A holy union of light and dark.

How do I make sense of this one? After so many houses, so many rooms, so many countries—am I still not used to this?

All my love to you and all your friendly ghosts, Mullalone.

Thank you for the solace.

Yours, always