In a world subject to changing fast and trying to keep ahead, gentle giants and a few old maps question the revolutionising change. Amidst the rush, a wave of slowing paces the hallow hallways, screaming for a recognition of the past. Often unnoticed, it is still here. Always was. Always will be.
The image of youth being nudged to dance on the Opera House steps makes me ponder our future. As a didge hums, clapsticks form a heartbeat and a young painted man sings the words of eternity. Forever, in one place, our ways and traditions captured for a time beyond now. And despite the many countries across this land that are represented, in this ring we are one.
After a quick yarn to the owners of the new hardware in town, I left the workshop where my Grandfather worked for 50 years, with photocopied picture in tow. I can't recall ever seeing it before, somehow hidden or forgotten in an old album, but there's something about it that makes me light up. With it, old facades embracing early model Holdens, a testament to the changing times.
Early morning fog lifted as the pressure from a lone garden hose released to the sight of purple horse shampoo. Touching up the soft, flowing feathers from just a few hours the night before, it was then onto the float and back inland for the Dungog Show. It was the first horse show since May, but Izz took it in her stride and reintroduced herself to the ring.
The heat of last Saturday seemed to be the perfect time to start building a veggie garden in our otherwise fairly empty backyard. Scorching the Earth and threatening more due to our changing climate, it was no wonder this season has been reflected as one of the worst since colonisation. Yet if people listened to our Indigenous Elders, they would understand that these severities aren't just from modern times. Just more common, just more severe.
Amidst the early morning Gloucester fog, a cows head emerged near the roadside. Sitting patient in the field, the car noise seldom worried him. Ettamogah, a placid braford bull was the joy of my early drive to Sydney, signifying time and in many ways life. Somehow, he was at the right place at the right time, just like each of us.
"We have much to learn". These are the words enthusiastically sprouted from Sydney's Mayor Clover Moore at the Indigenous Streams Summit on Wednesday. Together at the National Centre of Indigenous Excellence, our mob got together to share stories of wisdom, strength and optimism in a world where our knowledge is often forgotten or devalued. Unhushed, these voices awaken to honest discussion. Lived freely through the words of our people.
Chasing rainbows to the farm end, the welcomed rainfall greened the countryside further, encouraging more growth. It's crazy to think that in the past few weeks our rainfall has been measured again in the inches once again, refreshing the landscape and those dependent upon its revival in our area. Growth now awaiting time yet again.
Despite clocks moving forward, the second hand has made its way around a little slower than normal. Nights have shortened to the early morning only as the rooster continues to early morning crow. Locked into phone call schedules and guided by the constant buzz, this week has been driven by interruption.
Tattooed deeply in my skin, crossing my heart, are three symbols, running boldly across my chest adjoining my mob name. Each mark is representative of the braford breeders before me, my Parents, Grandparents and Great Grandparents, those that fought and strived for the joy of a new calf. Each mark representative of where I have come from, who I'm accountable to and my passion.