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.
This week started with some rain soaked fencing with Nan, working down on the other block to build a holding pen. It was then to Canberra for a road trip on Saturday before feeding sheep on Sunday.
Anachronisms created mixed feelings this week, focused on farming across seas. While being exposed to some of the newest ag-tech at the MobileTech Conference this week in New Zealand, it's hard to remove the thought of Braford cattle roaming ancient Worimi country and Clydesdales pulling antique carts. Tech, or no tech, this joy keeps me awake at night.
I'm still not sure the ground is there, other than in soul and spirit singing out loud. Country tunes have guided me across familiar roads, as my phone revives from exhaustion from the constant calls. My tyres are tired from running, weary eyes peer outside the bags amassing under my eyes. But this week, I wouldn't have it any other way.
I'm sitting in our new home. Views of the Buccan Buccan play through the rear windows as paint lines walls throughout. A soft breeze continues to provide life and flow here. Each breath an opportunity for new life.
Being back home this week has helped distil my thoughts from the last few, allowing time to see the stars and connect a few dots. A different time, a different momentum, all stacking up to what we see. And then eventually to what we don't. The past, left stagnant for what was, urging the creator to pay respect for the future.
As I sit and stare out the Cathedral windows, in which no doubt you must have done a hundred or so years before, my splintering week must feel trivial to your time here. Cramped, two to a bed, used as a slave, in some sort of emerging nation, very different to the struggles I am presently feeling. Yet here we are, sharing grief and respect in the stagnant halls.
Rams roam in the front paddock along a tree lined driveway, connecting the Kenyu Road to the old farm homestead. Time trapped, stagnant, the old promising home seems a mere ruin to the naked eye. Yet in my heart, I know it promises much more.
The sun awakened to the waves crashing, calling for the beach and nearby dolphins to bathe in Worimi beauty. Nearby, a child's laughter warms the day, as pelicans play for attention and a feed. Saltwater, saltwater people, owned by this glorious county.
It's been a week since work finished, a time to celebrate and share, relax and unwind. The coffee consumption has slowed, naps occur frequently and the sun's rays kiss the skin more often. Worimi country lights up, translucent water illuminating dolphins and ancient trade routes, the nearby beach sparkling and glistening in the sun.