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.
This week I feel it's only apt to entitle this blog after our celebration of culture, a moment to pause, reflect and dream. Along the jetty at Coffs, overlooking the white peaked ocean, I find it hard to reconcile the landscape. At one end, American inspired piers path boardwalk style stardom over our ancient coast, while the other blasts of my culture, promising a new wave of solid foundations for the future.
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.
Inevitable. This is the word I've been reflecting on this week as time slows, then jerks closer, forward. All in time they say, or all in a days work. But surely, one day, it will come.
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.