The Nomad Found Home
The Nomad Found Home It is four o'clock in the morning. Willem is coughing beside me, so I quietly slip out of bed and make us both a cup of tea with honey. The house is still. The world hasn't woken up yet. Those are my favourite moments, when thoughts have room to wander. And somehow, my thoughts wandered back to Nomadic Grandmother. I started that blog because I had become a nomad. Not because I wanted to tick countries off a bucket list, but because life had folded in on itself, and the road became my place of healing. But perhaps it wasn't the caravan that made me nomadic. Perhaps it was life itself. Looking back now, it's almost like seeing my life from an aeroplane. The roads, the bends, the storms, and the unexpected places where I stopped to catch my breath. I was the last child, the laatlammetjie. The wild one. Fearless. The one my mother always called her strong support pillar. She often said she wasn't afraid because I wasn't even scared of the dev...
