A little over three weeks ago, I boarded a flight from Paris to Sydney, heading to my native homeland for many reasons.  Ahead was a journey of soul searching, a road trip as a solo parent without my partner in life along for support as I inject a little Australian heritage into our children, a journey as an adult child, a grown up friend, a daughter, a mother, a sister. 

I wouldn't be understating myself in saying that I've never felt overwhelmed by patriotism.  Quite the opposite, I never understood the need for a get together and booze up on Australia Day, the National Anthem never moved me (perhaps due to it being changed to a new and different one as I neared the end of my schooling), I didn't dance and kiss strangers when Sydney won the Olympics.  Rather, my adopted homeland is where my loyalties have lay.

Yet, much has come out of this time that is passing by so quickly.  After many years where I hadn't been in my homeland for a day of celebration or rememberance, on Saturday I stood amongst the crowd remembering fallen ANZAC's, their loved ones, friends who served alongside of them.  I hadn't anticipated the level of pride that would engulf me, the goosebumps, the tears that at times wanted to roll, hidden behind my dark glasses.  So proud to be a part of it, for my children to witness and ask questions; sad to see the loss in those who returned home with memories of Diggers gone to better places. Utterly moved by the friendship and the smiles that passed between faces.

May the memories live on for a long time to come.