I was a mix of excitement of new and resistant to leave what feels like home now.
I feel stuck as we are asked to write about Tunnel Creek. Feels too far away from the experience of yesterday. Clouds of wool where my thoughts should be. Why can’t I plug in? I can think about it but no longer feel it somehow.
An image appears, Dylan’s feet. Ok, I’m in..
Tears form, start to fall as I allow this image to grow. As I sat and listened to his soft, low voice, I could only see his feet. Long, slender, black with pink tinges around the soles. Encrusted with dirt and dust. Cracked, wise, old feet that talked to me more than his voice. They spoke of the pain of his ancestors, his hope for a better, more united future for black and white. They told of an unspoken sadness, perhaps as old as time. Those feet that have crossed this land that we sleep on, those feet proudly took him to the Opera House to sing. Travelled to Redfern to say hello to his people. I felt love for the feet of this man who opened his heart, his hand to guide across water. It’s Dylan I will remember most. Not the incredible tunnel, the climb up to the rock to hear him sing, to see the rock art older than time I can imagine. His black feet, narrowed, tapered ankles that seem to slight to carry him. His kindly eyes and smiling face. His gentle telling of Jundamurra’s story, his story. This is what sits in my heart.