We are embraced by the same Mother Earth, founded by Biame and built on Black Lore. Founded on principles guided by the land, our culture sings her songs, responds to the stories of the past and is guided by Elders. This is the same Earth, the same mapped landscape since eternity. Our guide.
The most beautiful sunset awoken hope for tomorrow’s sunrise, as the pink tones danced with the rolling green hills for an eternity. The sunned canola interfered for just a moment, radiating in hope to pray for another drop of rain. But meanwhile its empty promises is realised, promised instead to roaming sheep who fill the emptying crop voids. And while my family's country, by lore, spans the plains north, this country feels just as much home to me.
Surrounded by the buzz of university, I became interested in the craze of money attributed to the hopeful lifestyles of doctors, accountants and lawyers. It was a stark comparison to much of my childhood, but the dreams of hustle and prosperity was evident from the families of the apparent elite. Money, and the status associated with it, seemed to rule placements and the future. I became addicted, dreaming of ferraris and large houses, captured by things, rather than feelings.
The garden has started to thrive despite the lack of rain, with broccoli forming and the other plants growing quite well.
The alarm sounded at 3 on Saturday morning, awoken to a cup of coffee, quick shower and an early morning drive. Back up north, we loaded the Morris and turned straight back around down south. The Morris Eight demands a bit more attention in the sunlight, as the 70 year old car tells her story of a different past.
Along new and familiar roads, the car's tyres moved to the beat of some country tunes and podcast pondering. It was a week of new thinking, new wisdom and new pushing, all on old country. But the words of a familiar folk named Sparkles caught me off guard with a simple comment- it's good for Boorowa.
It started on the road- back to hometown feels, tall trees and running sheep. Out under the rain filled skies, new screws held old tin against hand cut beams on the shearing shed. Then from the farm, we piled in on a trip to Goulburn via Crookwell. Greeted by chilling winds and the promise of snow. The Southern Country has nostalgic charm.
On a centre stage I connected. Blessed, and in the presence of a greater strength, words flowed about my family, climate change and agriculture. I look back at my family's history and find hope. Hope for a better future. Hope for change.
By the waters edge, a story swirls and seems to play out as it is told. The story written in the landscape proves the legitimacy of each word, confirming the time some 7,000 years ago. When the sea's shore was over 120 kilometres from where it is now, it's obvious this changing climate of ours is now speeding up.
Counting time on through events, reminds me of the ticking stopwatch used to count grain. The contrast of hard hands to tie off fence wire, yet soft enough to cradle lambs and handle sheep. Although 12 months has passed, it's hard not to still feel your presence. A cracking season, healthy lambs and wool amassing faster than the period before. Still caretaking, still managing the landscape. The Quiet Stockman.