Coming Home

On the last day of Writing the Wild Soul I sat under a tea tree archway, by a young Old Man Banksia, and creamy hakea blossoms with a delicate honey scent. A circle of trees; an enclosing, yet open, bower—sacred liminal space that held me within its circumference.

Birds called sweetly. A kookaburra chuckled briefly. Tiny yellow guinea flowers studded the ground where ants crawled.

This land is harsh, spiky, dry and difficult. I don’t always feel as if I belong. And yet, she holds me. She holds me.

I confess, I forget sometimes. I fall into the darkness of unawareness—that other darkness where nothing grows. But the fertile darkness, that fierce beauty that enlivens these mountains—and myself—from within, is where I remember.

I live on the side of a hill that descends into a small valley filled with scrubby bush, and spring-blooming swamp heath down by the creek. It’s a messy, overgrown place, filled with birds and tiny skinks. Up the valley, to the north, sits a mountain, crouched low like a great beast who crawled onto the land and decided to stay. That mother mountain has been haunting me—a solid, steady, earthed presence on the horizon of my life. She is being written into my story.

And I have felt how my little valley home has arms that embrace me, how I dwell within the belly of my place. I am being written into her story.

I may not always be comfortable here; but no relationship is perfect. And yet, I am held, always, unconditionally. All I need to do is go outside, sit, and wait for the feeling of withness to arrive; or to walk, tread my ways, and witness beauty as I find it.

This land speaks to me with different voices: soft and hard, loving and challenging, bushfire-dry and mist-kissed. What flows through me will reflect that. All I need to do is trust, for she will give me exactly what I need. And every time I hear a magpie sing, I will know, I am home.