There is very little private outdoor space where I live now but the security lights go out at 10pm and the neighbours are inside watching screens. Lately I’ve taken to standing on the edge of my porch for a few minutes every night and gazing at the stars before I go to bed. I seek out the Southern Cross constellation then gaze into the hazy depths of the Milky Way.
Locating myself here beneath the southern skies grounding into Earth
“Something told the wild geese It was time to fly.” Write a piece of flash fiction of up to or exactly 144 words, including the given line in the order in which it has been given. You may add or change punctuation, but you may not add words in between the given ones.
I haven’t down a Prosery challenge on d’Verse before. I hope I got the rules right in this piece:-
The days grow shorter here in southern Australia. Today the sun had already set as I was coming home. The air was cool and the autumnal twilight stretching across the land was as mystic as a poet’s dream. On a whim I took the longer route down country roads rather than hurtling down the highway with all the commuters. Twice on my journey I saw long lines of ibis flying in a vee formation. Glancing up at them as I drove they took on the appearance of punctuation marks scrawled across the soft grey sky while beneath them the land drifted off and dissolved into mists of deepening shadows. An American poet once wrote something told the wild geese to fly at the turning point of the year. Seems the same voice speaks to birds here in this wide southern land as winter approaches.
I have been reading about the work of Deborah Bird Rose, an American anthropologist who spent many years over here in Australia learning about aboriginal traditions. The last book she wrote before her death in 2018 is titled ‘Shimmering: Flying Fox Exuberance in Worlds of Peril. In it she explores the aboriginal concept of shimmering – a way of seeing the world that recognizes the dynamic interconnection of all life.
At the beach the early morning shimmers across the sea. Transfixed by the light I breathe in the beauty. The park bench becomes a Torrii gate.*
Awareness expands. shimmering in unity I am one with life.
*A torii gate is a significant symbol in Japanese culture, representing a spiritual and physical boundary between the sacred and secular worlds. https://whysojapan.com/what-is-torii-gate/
My nine year old grandson likes to draw Manga. One cold winter’s day I looked after him when he was home from school with a cold. After hours of drawing his favourite Manga characters he said he’d run out of ideas. I gave him some of my books on Japanese woodblock prints to look at. While he could see how the Manga characters he likes are derived from the figures in these prints, it was the cherry blossom trees in some of images that captured his imagination. From that day on cherry blossom trees have featured in his art.
Earlier this year his parents were able to buy a home after many years of renting. A great deal of their household talk now revolves around decor and gardening ideas. A small section of the backyard is covered with white gravel. As soon as he saw it my grandson decided it would be the perfect site for a cherry blossom tree. The idea appealed to everyone and now work is underway. His dad spends his free time digging out a pond while his mum researches varieties of cherry blossom trees and garden layouts. My grandson follows all these activities with great enthusiasm and helps out as much as he can.
Cherry blossom trees inspiring creativity across time and place
Post-pandemic, life on the peninsula has changed. The seaside towns know no off season now. Ever expanding housing estates sprawl out across farmland. Narrow country roads are clogged with SUVs. The solitary tracks I used to walk have become bustling thoroughfares.
I’m past solastalgia* now but I don’t think they’ve coined a word for what I feel these days. This numbness. This sense of unreality and disbelief. Don’t people realise we’re killing the planet?
Driving at sunset yesterday an autumn mist hung in the air. Hazy lines of it streaked across the rising moon. The seas of tranquility were obscured. Despite the hour and the need to get home I pulled over by the old jetty for a moment. Seagulls wheeled overhead as I left my car. Out on the water recreational fishermen turned their boats back towards the harbour while all around me walkers, cyclists and joggers pursued fitness with vengeance. As I lifted my phone to take to a snapshot, I saw a professional photographer unpacking his gear. Suddenly I became aware of myself as the observer observing the observer.
Stepping back further, retreating into silence I pray for the Earth.
Yesterday I went to the You Yangs with some family members. The You Yangs are the blue hills across the bay which feature in many of my photos. The traditional owners of this country are the Waddarung aboriginal people and the name “You Yang” comes from the Waddarung words Wurdi Youang or Ude Youang which mean “big mountain in the middle of a plain”.
Loaded up with cameras, art supplies and food we set off with my daughter drivingand two boys full of excitment in the back seat of her big vehicle. The older one was prepared for any eventuality and had a backpack full of survival gear including a wooden dagger and some string to make a bow if he needed to get a fire going in an emergency. The younger one who aspires to be an artist when he grows up clutched a sketch book and a freshly sharpened pencil.
Our route took us through a grimy busy city and on through the industrialized suburbs on the outskirts. Once we left the ever expanding housing estates behind it was a short trip up into the hills. Turning into the park we were all silenced by the power of ancient writhing trees and huge granite boulders towering up around the narrow bush tracks.
There were a lot people everywhere as it’s school holidays. We drove around for a while looking for a picnic spot. The heavy rain of the past week had wreaked havoc on the dirt roads and I was really glad we were in my daughter’s big car. My little hatchback wouldn’t have been up to the task.
We finally found a picnic spot that was relatively quiet. There were signs that big bushfire had been through there many years ago. We were surrounded by trees with blackened trunks that had survived the fires and other hollowed dead ones that towered like sentinels.
Wandering around with my camera I was struck with the relationship between the grey gnarled trees and the grey granite boulders.
There is a solemnity to this country and an inspirited quality that speaks of endurance and resilience. There is an ancient feel to the place that is stronger than the impact of the roads, walking trails, biking tracks and rubbish left behind by ignorant people. People have walked this land for eons. The aboriginal presence is strong and the trees feel like embodied spirits.
Later in the day we drove a one way road that took us over the ridgetops and around the far eastern flank of the hills.
The road was in a very bad state so once we were down on the flat my daughter pulled over beside a little water hole. Not many people come this far into the park so we had the place to ourselves.
None of us were in any hurry to head back through that busy city so we got out the art supplies and attempted to draw the world around us. The results were highly variable but we had a lot of fun until the late afternoon chill crept into our bones and it was time to head home.
Back to the mundane after time in wild country the heart feels lighter.
The autumn light in town is hard, Like hammered steel it glints splintering into laser beams off cars, highlighting the flatness of life these days, these Anthropocene days.
For reasons too numerous to mention I drive most days now guzzling gas, adding to the pollution. Pumping carbon into the atmosphere my life becomes a farce of itself. My conscience twists and turns unable to justify my own actions but caught, oh so caught these days, these Anthropocene days.
Out of town on country roads the light glimmers, stretches, an autumn haze blurs distances and I long to be free to drive, somewhere, anywhere away from these days, these Anthropocene days.
Most days when I’m driving, thinking these thoughts, feeling this ecological grief, I see eagles wheeling high above the sun bleached land, and the roads that just go on and on but never arrive anywhere I want to be these days, these Anthropocene days.
Certainties dismantling all we once held as true unravelling these days these Anthropocene days yet still the eagle soars. I hear its message on the wind. See the big picture. there’s always somewhere new to go, somewhere higher, somewhere lighter.
Wayfaring 