I keep being drawn back in time to the Kimberley, to Windjana Gorge. The crevice in the rock we walked through into the body of the gorge. Her dappled light through a canopy of leaves, her deep sandy floor and walls of cool rock rubbed smooth by countless hands and years of water.
This space of telling. The telling of our stories in line with customs of the custodians of this land.Telling and sharing. We wrote and read and listened and learned. We exposed our gut. Saw what we are made of, our essence. Our burdens, our resilience, exposed, shedding layers of our lives.
The Kimberley heat draining our sap. The sky above blue with sunshine. The rock black with dramatic orange patches of story. Birds awaken us each morning with a chorus of song. Cockatoos screeching. Kites circling. And in the evening darkness as we extract ourselves form this dreaming place we are spied upon by the glowing eyes of crocodiles watching.