It has been a little while since I posted, instead spending a few weeks reflecting over the where this blog started, what it has achieved and what I hope for its future. I’ve been pondering it a lot, whether it’s adding value and meaning like I intend, whether it captures the elements I seek to share.
Time has seemed to have caught up with me today, as this blog is marked a little later than normal. Clocks ticked with a few days in the city and imitated the horses moving in the round yard. Izz now moves with ease, oblivious to the once apparent sounds and movement.
At the farm, it's evident that the drought has made its mark along the Coast. Surrounded by burnt ground from a raging inferno, the land wilters, begging for the few metres of rainfall that normally meets the ground. Instead, metres of rain is replaced by metres lost from dams and it's hard to think of the once kneehigh green grass that used to make walking through the paddocks difficult.
On country I ponder my mark, the legacy that will be left and the moments of importance that play into the grand plan. I wonder about the daily actions required to reclaim country and society, rethink norms and, replenish and redream life across the Worimi Estate. Whether nature will restore and continue to teach, whether land will share stories from before and lead us forward, and whether culture will sing to bring us all on this journey for change.
After being called in early for a flight back home, we boarded a little before schedule, headed out toward Mudgee, before Taree. In an attempt to connect and learn, I yarned on the first leg. Then the second was in awe of the fire that took the Mid North Coast. A firestorm week, full of radio mismatch and constantly updating social media feeds. All while our Worimi land burned.
Another piece of the jigsaw settled today, finding its place rightly in the Worimi Collective for future protection. This approach seems odd in a way, fighting for the small bits from ancient times. But along the initiation path, beneath the mighty Buccan Buccan, it’s back. All the pieces lay dormant along the landscape, but slowly they return to re-establish the long term hope.
After a change of plans last Friday, I stopped as the clock ticked and settled. For a moment, things caught up with me and dissipated, to be met by the drive back home for rest. Saturday provided that opportunity, before joining the path back to city visits and consults. A moment spared for recuperation until another travel-driven week.
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.
Upon this land is where I awoke, born after a history of strategic decisions based on hope and opportunity. Despite denying the past, society shifted, the streets continued to bustle and visitors made their way in vehicles rather than horse. But alas time and the invention of modern luxuries doesn’t erase the past, nor the pain of the soils and souls. It still shapes the land, upon land I know.
I've spent way too long this week in a state of flux, riding a rollercoaster of uncertainty and fear over misjudgment. I'm not quite sure where the week has gone, how days have fed into nights and back to days or where the caffeine has overtaken my conscious mind. And yet is the stress really all worth it? Long term, perhaps. Just not now...