David Macfarlane - Building Paradise: The Story of an Eco-Lodge on the Great Barrier Reef

Id like to thank the (literally) hundreds of people who helped me either intentionally or inadvertently on my journey, and the many others who helped in the process of writing this book. They were all appreciated, although many were not adequately thanked at the time. Id also like to thank Mum and Dad for their faith, unwavering support, and unconditional love. And Id especially like to thank fate/karma/god/the universe, or whatever you like to call the great unknown, for blessing me with such incredible luck.

Im also grateful to the following authors and their books which provided me with information, inspiration and guidance: Richard Bach Jonathon Livingston Seagull); Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi (Flow); Garry Egger and Boyd Swinburn (Planet Obesity); Tim Flannery (The Future Eaters, The Weather Makers, Here On Earth); Michael E. Gerber The E Myth); Oliver James (Affluenza); Stephen King (On Writing); Ian Lowe (A Voice of Reason); Linda Joy Meyers (The Power of Memoir); Mark OConnor (Overloading Australia); Barry Schwartz (The Paradox of Choice); Ekhart Tolle (The Powerof Now, A New Earth); Christopher Vogler (The Writers Journey); Neale Donald Walsch (Conversations With God); Richard Wilhelm (I Ching translation).

The best way to discover what you want to do with your life

is to be fully present, to live in the moment,

without fear or worry,

to live each moment fully and with joy.

Eckhart Tolle

Bondi Beach November 1993

Its an empty sunny Sunday. The sea is calm and clear, but the fickle breeze is soft, so its not worth lugging my sailboard down to the beach just to flap around going nowhere. And although my back still aches from another hard weeks work, Im feeling too restless for a lazy afternoon on the hot white sand. For want of something to do I decide to walk into the city.

Bondi Road is jammed with the usual Sunday morning beachgoers, their cars packed with surfboards, sunhats and squirming kids. The smell of suntan lotion and rancid cooking oil from the takeaway cafes mixes uneasily with exhaust fumes from the old station wagons queuing impatiently at the traffic lights. Im sweating by the time I reach Bondi Junction at the top of the hill, so the walk through Centennial Park should be a welcome escape from the traffic and hot pavement. But the early morning parade of puffing joggers and grimacing power walkers is almost as bad. Maybe the beach was a better option after all.

After leaving the park I head down a sad and seedy Oxford Street the stench of stale beer and smoky breath wafts from the open doors of the deserted pubs and bars. A few kilometres further, the sterile office buildings of the CBD strike a stark contrast. The footpaths are almost empty. Nobody lives here, and most of the shops are closed on Sundays. The only places in the city likely to be busy today are around The Rocks and Opera House, where I imagine the tourists and day trippers will be swarming like hungry ants, looking and laughing and eating, and buying things they dont need and never use.

But theres a big new development at Darling Harbour that opened recently, showcasing some interesting architecture, so I head in that direction to check it out. When I arrive fifteen minutes later its bustling with the same people Id imagined at The Rocks.

Ive lived in Sydney nearly half my life in fact its the only place Ive lived more than four years and as much as I love the familiarity of the golden beaches, banksia scrub with its rusty sandstone outcrops, and endless variety of urban landscape, Ive often felt the need to escape. Sydneys too crowded to be my idea of paradise.

Ive got no idea what to expect when I absent-mindedly wander into the Psychic Fair. Ive never seen an exhibition like this one there are more caftans, beads and beards than a sixties folk festival. Apparently, not only can I buy my way to paradise, but for a few extra dollars I can find out exactly what it looks like, and when Ill get there. Its too good an offer to refuse.

A tiny, wizened lady sitting at a table stacked with tattered tarot cards solemnly takes my twenty dollars. She stuffs the note into an old felt purse then gazes intently into her sparkling crystal ball. A long minute later she deliberately turns the cards, contemplating each one for several seconds, before slowly looking up into my sceptical eyes.

My readings are usually gentle and encouraging, but you need a good talking to, she says, glaring at me as though Ive just run over her favourite cat. Youre wasting your life; you have many opportunities, and plenty of ability, but you need to stop dreaming and start doing.

I slink out of her dark smoky tent feeling like a naughty schoolboy berated by a stern headmistress.

On the way home I stop in Centennial Park to rest. Im sitting in the shade of an ancient Moreton Bay fig not far from the main path, still a little stung by the harsh words of an old lady. A breeze rustles the languid leaves, but its warm and quiet, with few people around to disturb me until something makes me look up. Its Albert Einstein on a bad-hair-day, turning off a path and walking straight up to me. He stops only an arms length away before glaring down. Apparently its my day for attracting nutters, but his deep voice is clear and firm.

You shouldnt think of your dreams as being dreams, as something in the future, he declares with authority. In fact you should just forget about your dreams and face reality. And the only reality is the present moment, which is free of worry or fear manifested by thoughts of the past or future and full of endless possibilities and opportunities. The future is simply an infinite extension of the present moment.

He talks like this for the next fifteen minutes, never stopping to ask me about myself. Its not a conversation, its a lecture or perhaps the same sermon he gives hapless strangers every Sunday afternoon. Im just another stranger, but Im definitely not hapless. Im amazed.

Well good luck, son, I felt you needed to hear that, he finally announces before striding away.

I stare after him as he shrinks into the distance. Ive never had a stranger approach me in Centennial Park before, and certainly not with such profound information. But I understand what he was saying. I walk home seeing and hearing everything around me as though for the first time thinking about where my life is right now, rather than worrying about where it might go which Ive been doing a lot recently.

Its tempting to say that my life isnt going to plan, but the truth is, Ive never really had a plan. Ive always just done what felt right, what interested or inspired me the most. Some would say I follow my heart instead of my head. Im not so sure about that it makes me sound like I dont think things through.

Perhaps its more accurate to say that Im motivated by different desires challenge and adventure rather than money or prestige. And it doesnt seem to matter what I do, as long as I work hard, do my best, and trust that things will turn out well, they usually do. Maybe Im just lucky.

Im well into my thirties, but right now Im as free and directionless as a high-school dropout. A couple of weeks ago my girlfriend for the past year returned home to Israel to start uni. I dont expect to see her again. We had a good time together, but neither of us is heartbroken. We both need to figure out what to do with our lives.

For the past few weeks Ive been working as a carpenter renovating an old terrace house in Darlinghurst. But I feel theres something more important I should be doing. I recently graduated with a degree in architecture, after returning to uni as a mature-age student. Before that I was running a small building business and Id been lucky enough to make good money during the eighties housing boom. So I own my flat, and Im not in debt but Ive got no savings and very few possessions other than an old car and some cheap furniture.