There are stories my blood could not tell, but my body had been telling them for years.
The numbers did not always speak. The markers did not always appear. Yet the symptoms remained, and the doctors had to listen to a story written beyond the laboratory.
Seronegative.
A word I had to learn, not because I wanted another medical term to accompany my name, but because my body had become a complicated language of its own.
And then came the diagnoses. Not one, but several. Each carrying its own explanation, its own uncertainty, its own collection of medicines waiting to become part of my daily life.
I still remember that airport.
The trolley I could barely push. The cabin bag I struggled to lift. The ordinary movements that had suddenly become extraordinary demands.
People walked past, carrying their luggage, following their destinations.
And there I was, trying to carry myself.
Some days, I grow tired of being a patient.
Tired of counting tablets. Tired of remembering which medicine comes first, which must follow a meal, which belongs to the morning, and which must accompany the night.
Sometimes I feel as though my life has become a timetable written by prescriptions.
Between one dose and another, I search for a little space to enjoy my own rhythm.
To draw. To write. To laugh without checking the clock. To live without constantly negotiating with the limitations of my body.
And yes, sometimes I become bored. Sometimes frustrated. Sometimes I want to give up on the endless routine of managing it all.
Not because I have stopped loving life, but because I miss the freedom of living without having to think so much about simply getting through the day.
Yet there is another kind of pain that does not appear on a prescription.
The pain of being doubted.
When the blood does not reveal everything, some people begin to question whether the suffering is real.
As though pain must produce evidence before it deserves compassion.
As though a body must prove its struggle to earn the right to rest.
And for a while, perhaps I, too, became exhausted trying to make myself understood.
But somewhere along this journey, I began to learn something quieter.
I do not need everyone to believe me. I do not need to display every medical record, explain every diagnosis, or recount every painful morning to justify the care I give myself.
My body is not a courtroom. My suffering is not a debate. And my healing is not a performance for an audience waiting to be convinced.
I can respect the uncertainty of medicine without denying the certainty of what I feel.
I can continue seeking answers without turning my entire existence into a search for validation.
And perhaps that is why this little photograph matters to me.
A suitcase. An airport. A journey between places.
Nothing grandiose. Nothing particularly beautiful to someone passing by.
But I remember the weight.
Not only the weight of the luggage, but the weight of everything my body was carrying silently.
Today, I am learning that strength is not always found in how much I can lift, how far I can walk, or how many tasks I can complete.
Sometimes strength is simply taking the medicine, making room for rest, drawing one imperfect little circle, and allowing myself to have a life beyond illness.
I may not always win against the pain. I may not always understand my body. And I may still have days when everything feels terribly heavy.
But I am here.
Still creating. Still wondering. Still finding small spaces where my own rhythm can breathe.
My blood may not tell the whole story. But my life is more than what the blood can measure.
And I no longer need permission to believe the story my body is telling.
— Geilstonia Under Journey | The Quiet Weight We Carry
I drew two little souls one day, With simple lines that found their way. No perfect shapes, no grand design, Just little strokes that felt like mine.
Perhaps I’ll never draw the same, For every moment has its own flame. My hands were guided by how I felt, By quiet emotions my heart had held.
And somehow, in those imperfect lines, I found a little piece of mine. A simple drawing, nothing grand, Yet something precious from my hand.
Meet G & S — Two Little Souls
Who are G and S?
They are simply G and S.
Just one letter each. No longer names, no hidden meanings, and no need for further explanation.
Somehow, those two little letters already describe them perfectly.
They were born from my spontaneous hand-drawn lines, carrying the simplicity, warmth, and emotions of that particular moment.
In Geilstonia’s little creative world, there may be other characters whose names also begin with G or S. But they are different little souls, each with their own identities, stories, and personalities.
These two will always remain simply G and S.
Two little souls, one gentle embrace, and a signature that feels like home.
Sometimes, a single letter is enough to hold an entire little world.
A Dream That Changes With Me
As years go by, I slowly see, A different life unfolding in me. My body and its systems sometimes disagree, With all the dreams my mind can see.
Some days my energy gently fades, While countless ideas still parade. My body may ask for a slower pace, But my imagination still seeks its space.
Ten years ago, I dreamed of more, Of busy places and an open door. Of working where the world could see, The many things I hoped to be.
But now my dreams have changed their tone, I long for a quiet space of my own. A little gallery, a peaceful room, Where tiny drawings are free to bloom.
No need for noise, no need for fame, No endless race, no grander name. Just time to draw, to rest, to grow, And let my little creations flow.
When Little Art Meets Bigger Dreams
Perhaps one day these works may sell, Each carrying stories I cannot tell. Perhaps young artists will join me there, With little dreams and art to share.
And if these drawings earn their way, May kindness travel beyond my day. May what begins with simple art, Bring warmth and hope to another heart.
For what is the worth of a dream we make, If nothing is shared for another’s sake?
The G&S Seal — A Signature of My Creative Journey
So here is my seal, my G and S, A little embrace, a quiet tenderness. Not made to prove how much I can do, But to remind me to remain gentle and true.
I may grow slower, I may grow small, But I need not stop creating at all. And when my hands have less to give, My little dreams may still find ways to live.
For now, this is enough for me, A quiet beginning of what may be. Two little souls, a circle of care, And a dream of kindness growing from there.
A Little Note From Geilstonia
The G&S Seal is my personal signature stamp for the creative works I hope to make and share through Geilstonia.
It began as a spontaneous hand-drawn doodle, shaped by my mood and emotions at that particular moment. Its simplicity speaks to me more deeply than perfection ever could.
I cannot promise that every drawing will look the same, or that I will always have the energy to create. My body is teaching me to respect its limits, while my mind continues to imagine possibilities.
I once dreamed of working in busy public spaces. Today, I find myself longing for something quieter: a little art gallery, a peaceful place where I can draw, create, and simply be.
Perhaps one day I will sell some of my artwork. Perhaps Geilstonia will also become a welcoming space for young artists to share their creations. And if this little creative journey eventually generates income, I hope that part of it can support humanitarian causes.
For now, these are gentle intentions, not promises or deadlines.
I am learning that a dream does not have to be enormous to be meaningful, and creativity does not have to be perfect to be worth sharing.
Sometimes, two little souls and a few imperfect lines are enough to begin.
Drawn by hand. Made with feeling. Shared with kindness.
You are the signature of your own existence, A little imperfect, yet beautifully yours. Let no one measure the worth of your presence, Or make you feel smaller than you were before.
Guard your energy, but never your kindness. Grow through the seasons, wherever you stand. Let hatred fall quietly out of your garden, And leave room for wonders you cannot yet understand.
You may feel the pain, you may carry the sorrow, You may lose your courage for a moment or two. You are human today, and human tomorrow, And being imperfect is part of being you.
Forgive for yourself, not to erase the story. Forgive without forcing your heart to forget. Take the lesson, accept your responsibility, But don’t let your past decide who you become next.
Pray a little harder for your own healing, Pray for the people who bring you delight. And pray for the ones who have left you hurting, Not to bring them back, but to wish them light.
Then grow a little wiser, And wander a little further. There is still a world you have yet to know, Still a thousand little reasons to wonder.
For you are not here to become somebody else, Nor to prove your worth to every passing eye. You are the signature of yourself, A little work of art beneath an endless sky.
These little drawings were made years ago, almost spontaneously.
They began with something very simple: my fingers moving across a screen, putting together colours, shapes and small figures without thinking too much about whether they were beautiful, sophisticated, or even technically “good”.
Looking at them now, I can see how childlike they are.
But perhaps that was exactly what I needed.
Behind those simple shapes was a wandering soul trying to find somewhere to rest.
At that time, drawing became one small way of stretching beyond my comfort zone. I was quietly exploring what I could make, but perhaps more importantly, what I could become.
The journey was not really happening on the screen.
It was happening somewhere inside me.
I was travelling inward, sometimes towards places I had avoided for a long time—old wounds, insecurities, fears, limitations, and parts of myself that I had not yet learned how to understand.
Slowly, I began to realise that healing was not always about defeating those parts of myself. Sometimes it meant sitting beside them. Becoming familiar with my limits. Learning not to treat every vulnerability as an enemy.
And from there, taking another small step.
A little more courage.
A little more curiosity.
A little more willingness to learn about self-esteem, spirit, and the person I might still become.
Perhaps that is why I still keep these drawings.
They remind me that creativity does not always arrive as great art.
Sometimes it arrives quietly, through a finger touching a screen, a childish-looking flower, two little figures walking together, or an image created without any plan.
And somehow, those small acts can hold an entire inner journey.
These sketches may belong to another time, but the journey they witnessed still belongs to me.
They remind me that even when my soul was wandering, some part of me was already trying to find the way home.
There are moments in life that do not arrive with great announcements.
Sometimes they arrive through little feet walking across freshly worked earth.
There were many of them that morning.
Little feet, shared curiosity
Children moved among newly planted native vegetation, each small contribution becoming part of something that may grow far beyond the morning in which it was planted.
Small boots moved between the seedlings, accompanied by giggles, questions, and the kind of curiosity children seem to carry so naturally. Together, they helped place young plants into the earth.
That morning’s Kingston Beach Coastcare working bee had been registered as part of National Tree Day. It was the first time the group had registered the activity with the event, bringing many children and families together to participate.
Looking across the planting area afterwards, I found myself thinking about how small everything looked.
Small hands. Small plants. Small individual contributions.
But meaningful ones.
And perhaps that is precisely how many meaningful things begin.
Small today, perhaps shelter tomorrow
One of the young plants placed into the earth during the working bee became a quiet reminder to me that what begins small can eventually grow into something that gives back to its surroundings.
The plants in the photograph may look tiny today. But given time, care, and the opportunity to establish themselves, they can grow. Their roots may strengthen the ground beneath them. Their leaves may become part of a larger habitat.
What appears to be a very small contribution during one morning may continue giving to the environment long after those who planted it have gone home.
I think there is something about life in that.
The Things We Plant
Weeding alongside other volunteers—hands, soil, conversation, and one small contribution to a much larger collective act of care.
My own task that day was mostly weeding, gathering what had been removed, and working alongside the other volunteers.
But I was also quietly observing.
I found myself noticing the people around me—the beautiful souls who had chosen to spend part of their morning contributing to this place. I was learning from them and wondering how I, too, might become more meaningful in the ways I contribute.
My hands were inside gloves, working with soil and weeds, while around me people cheerfully did what needed to be done.
There were also conversations—small exchanges, light discussions, laughter, and the easy companionship that can make a voluntary activity feel like something you would happily return to again.
And I liked that.
For a long time, much of my life seemed occupied by big things—study, responsibilities, uncertainty, plans for the future, and questions that sometimes felt larger than myself.
This small activity reminded me that contributing to life does not always have to be big.
Sometimes we simply remove one weed.
Sometimes we plant one seedling.
Sometimes we turn up.
And perhaps that is already something.
A Connection That Began Years Earlier
My connection with this activity did not begin this year.
Around 2021, Barbara Marshall, who had once been my English teacher, introduced me to Kingston Beach Coastcare.
I still like calling her my teacher.
Yes, she once helped me with English. But over the years, I began to understand that some teachers teach us far beyond the subject through which we first met them.
At that stage of my life, I was overwhelmed by many bigger things.
I joined the mailing list and quietly read the messages that arrived. I could see activities being organised and people continuing to care for the area, but I was living in another city and could contribute very little.
So mostly, I watched from a distance.
Years passed.
Eventually, I attended one of the activities for the first time.
Again, I did not do very much.
But something stayed with me.
Perhaps it was the place.
Perhaps it was the people.
Perhaps it was seeing the consistency of something continuing year after year.
Somehow, Kingston gradually became one of those places towards which life kept drawing me closer.
And eventually, life did bring me closer to this part of Tasmania than where I had lived before.
Consistency
What has stayed with me most is not one particular working bee.
It is consistency.
Over the years, I have watched my teacher remain connected with this work.
Life changes. People become busy. Circumstances shift. Energy rises and falls.
Yet some people continue showing up for the things they believe deserve care.
There is something deeply beautiful about that.
Through her example and reflections, I have also begun to understand that volunteering offers much more than the completion of practical tasks.
It can nurture relationships.
It can connect people and build networks.
It can create opportunities for leadership.
It can leave a legacy that extends beyond one person, one activity, or one season.
It can also create a sense of psychological safety—a welcoming space where people feel able to participate, ask questions, learn, contribute in their own way, and gradually develop a sense of belonging.
I once thought teachers were people who stood at the front of classrooms.
Life has gradually taught me otherwise.
Sometimes teachers are simply people whose way of living quietly asks us:
What will you contribute when you enter the next chapter of your life?
Not necessarily something enormous.
Not something that needs recognition.
Just something useful.
Something kind.
Something that leaves a place, a community, or another person slightly better than we found them.
More Than Caring for a Coast
The activity I joined was organised by Kingston Beach Coastcare.
The July 2026 working bee formed part of winter planting and native vegetation restoration at the entrance to Piramina, also known as Browns River, Saltmarsh Reserve. It was also registered as part of National Tree Day, bringing children, families, and other community members together to care for the area.
Kingston Beach Coastcare’s wider program includes planting, weeding, clean-ups, dune restoration, and other practical activities supporting the local coastal environment.
But what I am writing here is not an account on behalf of Kingston Beach Coastcare.
It is simply what I felt as one volunteer standing among plants, soil, children, tools, and other people giving some of their time.
To me, Coastcare began to mean something larger than caring for a beach.
It showed me something about caring with people.
About creating spaces where children can learn through their hands.
Where people of different ages can work alongside one another.
Where relationships can grow naturally through shared work.
Where knowledge, leadership, and responsibility can be passed quietly from one person to another.
Where people can feel welcomed and safe enough to contribute, even when they are new, uncertain, or able to offer only a small amount.
Where small actions accumulate.
Where care for nature can quietly become care for community as well.
Perhaps that is why the word care feels increasingly important to me.
Care does not always announce itself.
Often, it is simply repeated.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Until one day, what used to be a tiny plant has roots.
I Still Haven’t Done Much
I cannot say that I have contributed very much.
Not yet.
For years, I mostly read the emails.
I came once.
Then disappeared again into life.
Now I have returned, pulled some weeds, shared a little time with others, and watched children place young plants into the earth.
That is all.
But perhaps I no longer need to measure contribution only by its size.
Maybe this part of my life is teaching me to begin differently.
Quietly.
To arrive where I can.
To help where I can.
To learn from those who have been caring long before I arrived.
And perhaps, with time, to give a little more.
Like those tiny plants in the photograph, I do not yet know what will grow from it.
But roots do not need to be visible to begin.
Learn More
Kingston Beach Coastcare brings people together through community activities including planting, weeding, clean-ups, and native vegetation restoration across the local coastal environment.
My reflection here represents only one small personal experience within that much larger collective effort.
For readers interested in learning more about Kingston Beach Coastcare, its activities, or opportunities to become involved, I encourage you to explore the information available through Kingborough Council, Landcare Tasmania, and Kingston Beach Coastcare’s community channels.
Acknowledgement
The activity reflected upon in this post was organised by Kingston Beach Coastcare. The July 2026 working bee involved winter planting and native vegetation restoration at Piramina, also known as Browns River, Saltmarsh Reserve. It was registered as part of National Tree Day.
I am grateful to Barbara Marshall for introducing me to Kingston Beach Coastcare, for her years of consistent care, and for the many lessons I continue to learn from her beyond the classroom. I am also grateful to everyone who organises, supports, and participates in these activities.
This post is a personal reflection written from my experience as a volunteer. All thoughts and perspectives expressed here are my own and do not represent Kingston Beach Coastcare or any associated organisation.
This painting has been the background of my phone since the day I painted it.
I never deliberately decided that it would stay there for so long. I simply never felt the need to replace it.
Perhaps some images remain with us because they continue to hold something we have not completely understood yet.
The painting itself still has no name.
I have thought about naming it many times, but somehow every title feels a little too small for what I was trying to express when I painted it.
At the time, I was thinking about the journey of life.
Sometimes life seems to travel across different dimensions.
We move through land, where our feet meet the tangible world.
We cross the sea, where horizons open and certainty becomes less visible.
We look towards the sky, carrying hopes, questions, imagination, and possibilities beyond what we can immediately reach.
But perhaps there is another landscape as well.
Somewhere beneath all of these visible worlds lies a much deeper place—the quiet trench at the bottom of the heart.
Like the deepest parts of the ocean, much of it remains unseen.
It carries memories, tenderness, longing, joy, pain, dreams, and parts of ourselves that perhaps even we do not completely understand.
And yet, I like to imagine that somewhere within this complicated landscape there is still something very simple:
a pure soul inhabiting a beautiful space.
Not untouched by life, but still capable of recognising beauty.
Not protected from storms, but still willing to look towards the horizon.
Perhaps that was what I was painting.
Or perhaps I am only beginning to understand it now.
For the moment, I will let the painting remain unnamed.
Some things need time before they tell us what they want to be called.
Untitled, painted 6 January 2026. Sea, land, sky—and the unseen landscapes beneath them. This painting has remained on my phone screen since the day it was created. Perhaps I am still waiting for it to tell me its name.
A Pure Soul Between Worlds
Across the land, we learn the weight of footsteps.
Across the sea, we learn to travel without knowing exactly where the horizon ends.
Across the sky, our thoughts become wings, carrying questions farther than our bodies can go.
But beneath them all there is another world—
a trench inside the heart,
deep enough to shelter forgotten dreams,
quiet enough to keep the voices we once thought had disappeared,
and wide enough to hold both joy and sorrow without asking either to leave.
Perhaps the soul lives there,
somewhere between water and earth, light and depth, memory and becoming.
And perhaps life is not about escaping from one world into another,
but learning to inhabit them all—
with tenderness,
with wonder,
and with enough courage to remain beautiful inside.
I used to think that some things happened at the wrong time.
Too early. Too late. Not according to plan. Sometimes I wondered why certain things could not have happened differently, or why particular chapters of life arrived when I was not ready for them.
Life has gradually taught me to see time differently.
Perhaps there is no perfectly “right” time against which every moment of our lives should be measured. Things happen within circumstances much larger than what we can see at that moment. Some bring joy. Some bring disappointment, separation, uncertainty, or pain. And often, their meaning only becomes visible much later.
I am still learning this.
I am learning to welcome happiness without assuming it will last forever, and to experience difficult times without believing that they define the whole journey. Acceptance does not mean that everything that happens is good, fair, or easy. It simply means recognising that what has already happened has become part of the waters through which I have travelled.
Perhaps life is a little like sailing.
We cannot command the wind. We cannot flatten the waves or ask the tide to wait until we feel ready. Sometimes we sail with confidence beneath a bright sky; sometimes we move slowly through waters we never intended to enter.
But we can continue to hold the sail.
We can learn from the wind, adjust our direction, and give meaning to the distance we have travelled.
Looking at this little drawing, I think that is what I see now: two small travellers, each on their own vessel, reaching towards one another while continuing to sail.
Not every journey needs to arrive at the same shore to have meaning.
And perhaps that is one of the lessons life continues to teach me: do not blame the timing. Live the journey, learn from its waters, and allow meaning to emerge along the way.
Poem — The Time of the Tide
I will not blame the tide for coming when it came, nor ask the wind why it carried me this way.
Some waters brought me laughter, some taught me how to grieve, and some remained unanswered long after I had sailed through them.
I cannot command the ocean to follow the map inside my hands.
So I am learning to loosen my grip on when, to stop asking life to arrive exactly as I planned.
There are journeys made together, and journeys where paths divide. There are shores we reach, and shores we only see from afar.
Still, every wave leaves something— a lesson, a memory, a different way of seeing.
And if I cannot choose the wind, I can still raise my sail.
I can give meaning to the waters behind me and keep travelling towards whatever waits beyond the horizon.
Don’t ask me why I draw this way. I simply use my fingers and whatever tools are available—whatever gives me the freedom and simplicity to create.
Over time, these strokes have somehow become my signature.
I first discovered these characters during a spiritual journey, when I was imagining the feminine and masculine energies within my soul. Yet when they appeared, they also seemed to carry something much simpler: my inner child. There is joy in them, a little mischief, movement, and the sound of children giggling. Whatever form they take, their spirit has always felt positive.
Tonight, drawing them again felt a little stiff and unfamiliar. I have stopped for some time, and perhaps my fingers have forgotten some of their freedom. But that is okay. Creativity does not always need to return perfectly. Sometimes, it simply needs to return.
This time, I am giving these little sketches a different home.
Perhaps this is also part of learning how to grow my creativity and understand my own creative identity: placing it somewhere where the right frequency may find its way through a sense of alignment.
Geilstonia can be that space.
A place where I can become a little braver with art, even in a world that often makes creativity feel like another competition.
I am not here to make perfect art. I am here to keep creating.
A small commitment to the soul, one imperfect stroke at a time.
So perhaps the best way to open Geilstonia’s creativity page is simply this:
