My mind turns to the soil under my feet. Our home is within moments of a traditional Bora Ring, the saleyards nearby marked by tree carvings to symbol sacred ground and the Buccan Buccan sings in the sun of men’s business. Reflected in shadows peacefully on the ground. Here, birds chirp with meaning and crows gossip on the handrail across country for understanding. Together, we search for modern relevance and understanding.
We trekked north Friday night, winding through roads resembling home and in pursuit of tail lights. We arrived late, yet in time for a yarn and then sleep. After a checklist tick box visit to a few destinations, we celebrated the 1st birthday of a friend’s baby. At that age, everything seems relevant and possible, outside the scope of age and correction.
We travelled home, and then without hesitation it was time to pack the next bag. We stopped in to watch the impact of the nearby fire.
The glow of a ravaging bushfire shouts to the upcoming trees, whispering hope for rejuvenation in history’s sake. The waterfront has no privileges and moves the fire on, acting as a bridge for its fellow force. Though the water slides amongst the landscape, it too seethes the Earth for more water.
Sydney, Dubbo, Nyngan, Dubbo. I had my first Board meeting with superstars from across the State, with total awe of their skills and knowledge. It’s incredible to be part of the family, and I can’t wait to see what we achieve! Yet out there the drought defines the landscape, browning the hardening soil for starkness.
It was then back to home for a moment’s rest and a check in. I spoke for the first time on our lands about the impact of climate change, welcoming in language to land I feel in my blood. To a packed house we shared our stories, our motives and the hopes for the future. And I hope all these little parts help make it worth it for the next 60,000 years.
Meanwhile the garden dances in joy after the recent rain, with roses now in abundance.
Yesterday, I backtracked to Sydney for meetings, before shots and a quick film to celebrate the birthday of some awards. It was back to the Native Food Garden, which has flourished incredibly since my last visit.
And meanwhile, I ponder if is there any wonder that the lyrebird can recite invoking corroboree sounds from millennia. Sneaky it must have been to recite this, hidden in the passing bushes. Or perhaps it was there, now holding parts of our forever culture.