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.
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.
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...
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.
I called in Friday afternoon to spend some time with the horses, watching them connect and cherish their new friendship. A true gentle nature is more than evident, as they slowly share a pat and brush. Despite the hustle of a mobile phone connected life, these odes to the old times showcase and demand true connection.
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.
I pulled in back home around 12:30 Saturday morning, somehow the time from plane to car dragged as I waited for my bag and then a cab. The morning counted second hands too quickly before the back road through Krambach reached Wingham. The home of wisdom sits seemingly vacant while I gather my thoughts of happier times. If only time favoured now- perhaps it would still be home.