Words of Love

I have been writing journal entries for more than fifteen years, and they capture the most euphoric and gloomy moments of my days, and everything in-between. 

I wanted to share with you some of my own memories of my heartaches over the years. Please enjoy - to not feel alone in your own heartaches, to know it always retracts; and when it does, it’s scars leave us all the wiser for carrying them. LB x


An Exploration of being Nude by creative Jenna Tyson.

Jenna Tyson muses on what it is to be nude as part of the ongoing LB Intimacy Series. “Bound to secrecy and pretence, shame longs to keep us in the shadows. Yet, despite shame’s convincing and manipulative attempts to make us want to hide our humanness and strive for approval.

Nothing covered. Nothing hidden. Fully seen.”



Artisanal Elegance

Shop hand-crafted buckets and baskets in our Australian clays and unique colour-ways.

Shop Now.


Nothin' But A Heartache

To the thousands of ships launched in its bitter causatum, to the countless melodies written in its wake. To the moments of devastating aching that remind us what it is to feel, remind us to appreciate the joys that now seem so far away. 

“Without pain, would we ever feel rapture? Without our own stories to project on them, would all the songs and art that moves us so even matter at all?” asked Jess Blanche.



How to be more materalistic

"I remember someone once telling me, the worlds’ problem is not that we’re too materialistic, it’s that we’re not materialistic enough; we don’t value the things we own, cherish them and enjoy their long term addition to our lives.
As wabi-sabi guru Leonard Koren says, it is '…about the delicate balance between the pleasure we get from things and the pleasure we get from freedom of things,' and I hope we strike that careful symmetry ... "


LB lifestyle

Love Letters For Your Long Days

I love you as the plant that never blooms

but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;

thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,

risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.’

XVII, Pablo Neruda