Sage is lying on her back – stretched out on the freshly cut grass which circles like an amphitheatre around the Botanic gardens bird lake. The clouds are floating past like elongated balls of cotton wool. They’re white then light grey, then an ominous charcoal. They string out like fairy floss being pulled apart in blobs and strands. The slowness of the dense whites are passed by the speediness of wispy charcoal filaments and in the distant background the steady towering banks of cumulous hold fort over the dancing and cavorting foreground. And all the while it is the earth turning in unison with the gusting wind which assists their passing. The dank smell of stagnant water mingled with bird droppings hangs in the warm afternoon air. It took a while to find a spot not littered with bird poop but she was determined to think and reflect on how she was going to deal with the latest issue at hand. She studies the passing fiesta of clouds as she ponders the gravity of yesterday’s death battle.
‘Well, it was either me or, him and who would have thought that she could turn things around like she did?’
He’d planned it well – his modus operandi – not a fail-safe plan but a cunning one. Daring even. For there was an assumption on his part that she would be of the mind to investigate how and why there were legs protruding from the undergrowth. That in her curiosity, she would wander off the track and into his trap. Someone else might have scampered off in fear or gone to fetch help. Which makes her think that he may have known something about her and her particular mentality. ‘How so?’, she wonders.
Gently touched by the breeze
the grass is so delicate,
but strong enough to withstand the imposition
Much as I wish to gently touch you
and thank you for being
strong enough to withstand
the imposition of my delicacy
The Island. Encapsulated. In well entrenched entitlement.
Landholdings owned by a handful of prominent settler families of dubious heritage.
The land devoid of its indigenous peoples.
Eradication by small pox, a massacre here and there; a long spate of disappearances.
An aphotic disconcerting history covered by layers of white settlement, privilege and impiety.
This Island, ‘Phillip’ in white man’s terms.
Corriong or Millowl as known by the local Boonwurrung peoples.
Local by at least 40,000 years. That would be a ‘belonging’ which, puts ‘30 years local’ by to shame.
During the summer months traditional peoples would scout the coastal territory of the Island by bark canoe, aware of the rich variety of foods available.
Well honed in the nuances of the waters, the variable shoreline; the flora and fauna.
An unpredictable sea cavorting this way and that.
At once a glimmering still mirror, then a gentle swell emitting playful almost melodic ripples, then a surging, threatening turbulence – fierce, erratic, untameable.
Whilst Australia is a wonderful country and there is much to be grateful for, Australia Day remains a bitter sweet occurrence within its historical and social relevance to Indigenous Australians. Furthermore, as long as the welfare of our Indigenous friends is not adequately addressed, there can be no restitution.
Right across this land – look past the horizon – out into the beyond – feel your feet on the surface – zone in – right to the core – feel the expanse – the immensity – the wonder – not just this country but all over the planet – out beyond this planet – galaxy upon galaxy …….. it is not ours to own – to exploit – to tarnish….. and how can we be so conceited to think that we’re the only ones? We are visitors – all of us – we must behave like visitors – with respect and reverence …. Some may think that they own a small piece of it – but they don’t…really….. how can we possibly own that which is not given? We only assume things to be so and as such, we are always at odds with the universal law ……When we learn to abide by this law – when we learn to live in the universal flow…we will cease the struggle, the control and the greed… And what of love? It is said that love is all that is required…as if by some magical flick of a wand, love fixes everything.. How ignorant is that?? Love is an intent – a verb – a doing word – not a random emotion and not something to be bandied around to make ourselves feel good. If we tried to heal our woes with emotions, what a mess it would be! ….And it is! LOVE is the genuine intention of good will – of desiring well being for all. Not this disingenuous crap espoused by those in fancy garb. Let the false prophets be exposed, let the hypocrisy be revealed….let there be a genuine intent – may harmony and ease of living prevail. Stuff patriotism – (as Oscar Wilde said: “the virtue of the vicious”) – I pledge my allegiance to this wonderful universe and its eons old ways of creating harmony and order!
The little minds of human kind are no match for this…
Oh to be a tree
Observing and grounded
To sway with capricious winds
Yielding to uncertain weather
Rooted firmly in Mother Earth
To sense only the changing elements
And the slow turn of passing seasons
Equanimous under a trillion night stars
Bearing witness to passing creatures
Human beings and their monkey minds
Creating havoc and suffering
Whilst the trees practice contentment
Take a leaf from the book of tree
The wisdom of sublime existence