Windjana Ramblings

Windjana Ramblings

Here I sit on my plush latex king-size bed and long for my thin blue mattress on the rich red earth.

Walking through the feminine arch of the Gorge at Windjana. Hearing stories from the land and sharing stories of those I sat sacredly in circle with . It was a bubble it would seem now. The waking to early birdsong and an orchestra of zipping tents, falling asleep to the not so gentle snores as I gazed up at the stars.

Shooting stars like meteors. Mars shining brightly orange in the far skies. The floating, yellow-orange eyes of the night time crocodiles as we would our trail out of the gorge at dark.

The smooth, shiny green frogs who took up residence in the toilet bowl. The heat, the searing heat. The gorge bringing delicious respite. My feelings of angst as I struggled between intruding on the land. To the honour and horror of learning their story. The story of the people from the land.

The writing, telling and hearing of my own stories from deep within still echo in me. Residual snippets still floating about me. Perhaps wanting or needing more work. A deeper look, a closing comment.

How to be in this world now with pockets filled with that world, that experience, that me..

Windjana Gorge

Windjana Gorge

by Heather

The stories have been written
Preserved for an eternity of time.
Our heartfelt thoughts and feelings
Described in every line.

We peeled off all the layers
Of our lives, present and past
Read out loud to others
So memories will last.

We acknowledged the custodians
Each foot upon these sands.
The endless souls that touch the rock
Rubbed smooth by many hands.

I’m leaving now I’ve done my time
I shall not mourn this place.
Just hold it in my memory
With dignity and grace.

Wild

Wild

by Liz

I’m sitting in the sand of a gorge, a wilderness ofwater, cranes, squawking cockatoos, buzzing, crocodiles and the presence of humans. I’m thinking about the wildness of mind as a huge flying wasp/bee/insect circles the group, buzzing heavily. Wild minds , set free on the page, taking us into the unexpected, the destination unknown until we set off.

I need courage to set off today. Other times I’m leaping down that pathway, at one with my mind, delighting and confident in the unexpected turns, caves and heights. Standing at the top of the wild gorge, surveying the view, the meandering of the green water, the crocodile eyes. I’m free, fearless, at home in my skin. Lightfooted with the ease of a gazelle-like spring. Eager.

Then, out of nowhere I’m in the fog. The air becomes stifling, icy, thick. Danger.

Breathe into this.

Wait till the fog clears.

A shaft of sunlight reveals the view below.

Wild

Wild

by Helen

I remember and my body feels that sense again as I feel the shape of the word in my mouth. I remember how it was that first few months. I don’t remember how it happened, but the why of it, yes. My body felt torn. Something essential had been ripped out. My blood moved in my body in different ways, sometimes erratic, sometimes too fast and sometimes so slown down I thought I might also die. And I started to go to the dancing classes of Biodanza.

It was like being plugged into an electric socket when the music started. My body rippled and dragged, pulled and tugged, flung in the space. The act of walking, taking up all the space I want. In the beginning at the start of every class – and little by little over the weeks – I found the freedom and recovered the space around me in the walking.

The music drew out of me the wildness. I could throw my body, shriek my limbs, howl my back and shoulders and fly, twitch, jerk, furiously hissing the raging sense of being caged, flying out from the boundaries of sense and reaching out to the dying with the flying of my body and spirit over the boundaries and beyond all the little picket fences of custom, kindness and social obligations. To swing in the air, pound the ground, stamp out the wilding of spirit.

When the music stopped, my body fell, unplugged, and the sense of lightness and ease moved across my
skin and through all my muscles. This dancing was a boon to me for months, and helped me hold steady in the endless transactions in offices, the continual searching for papers

Visit to the Art Centre

Visit to the Art Centre

by Helen

The room full of creations – dream time – the life saving explosions of each artist – man, woman, child – and there were men, black-skinned, white haired, slow, benevolent, moving slowly in this grey concrete floored room.  The walls were line with soul journeys – explosions into colurs – magenta, blue, green of trees, ochre brown land picked, pocked and personned with vulva^shaped water-holds meeting piints, circles, dots black by blue green purple and overpainted with the gods of the dreamtime – the rainbow serpent, the barramundi, the praying swaying browngreen dried grass, the witchety grubs in ochre spokes radiating from the turquoise heart.

The quietly moving silky eased presence of the old man sitting at the table- firm in place, no sense of urge or walling, simply doing the task of painting into being the colours shapes and spirit of country.

I feel first staggered and then blown off centre by the power ofthis whirlpool spiral of creation.  I hold the painted stick in front of me, pointing it down, to ground my spirit, using it as a lightning rod.