From the first time I travelled Australia in a '76 Toyota Corolla to living on a traveller's site in the UK in a horse box to living in a bus in Australia to travelling through Morrocco in a Land Rover, I've been tiny homing before we knew it was a thing, and way before #homeiswhereyouparkit hashtags. There's an art in this minimalist living - and you either can do it or you can't.

This time I'm living in my uncle's AFrame caraan parked up in my parent's garden in Australia. It was either that or my van. It's nestled amongst the gum trees and my neighbours are possums. They're alright except for 5 am when they make a noise like a fat man choking on his tongue. I'm hooked up to the 'leccy so I'm warm enough - and it's the first tiny space I've lived in with a microwave so I can heat up my wheat bag. We are in Melbourne winter, and it is could. Maybe not Canadian winter cold, but cold enough.

I have a kettle and a plunger for my coffee, and a little table and chairs that also folds into a bed. There's a gas cooker and a sink, but I'm eating and cooking in my parent's kitchen, so I have no need for that. I'm grateful for past me that threw an extra blanket in the van as I knew I'd be back for winter, or suspected as much. Past me was also clever enough to throw in a few more jumpers and jeans as well. You don't want to be minimal with your clothes when it's this cold.

After five months of travelling in a Land Rover, this feels like luxury. Whilst there's room enough to put away my clothes, Mum had cleaned up the cupboard in the spare room so I have all my clothes in there, meaning this space is sparse and lovely.

I do have a couple of little mementoes from my trip - a lino cut of art from Exmoor which I put in a frame, a card with some nature mushroom art on it, the fossil gastropod from Portugal, and the natural incense from Glastonbury. Minimalism doesn't mean nothing. It just means a consciousness about what you have in your space. Little corners can be cluttered - it's just conscious clutter. This is like a shrine, a little corner that makes me smile.

I'm so glad that the tennants are still in my house. If I was home I would feel like I had so much to do - the garden to maintain, the fire to be lit, the chickens to be fed. Being in a minimal space means I can soften into simply being here, spending time with my parents, sleeping in the afternoon when Dad's asleep. He's sleeping a lot too - his oxygen levels are pretty low. Sometimes he wonders into the garden and comes and sits with me a little, but it exhausts him.

Being in this tiny space makes me feel held. It's a little womb-room that closes around me protectively when I need to sleep, to cry, to stare out the window and lean into what's coming. For two months I don't have to pay bills, to work, to travel, to do anything apart from just be here as Dad prepares to leave us for good. As he struggles for breath, I breath deeper, letting long slow exhalations out into the sky to make room for the strength I'll need as we go.

A minimal space can be sometimes a liminal space - a waiting point between one moment and the next. This tiny home is between homes - between the Land Rover and going back to our house - and it is the place I will wait out Dad being here, and him not being here.

I'm grateful for the lack of clutter for me to be able to process this time with grace and ease.