On the other hand:
And we are on the train to see Picasso Century. So, yeah. Has good points. But our quiet country sensibilities are a tad overcome! Worst for me is public transport full of chemical perfume. I didn’t realise I was such a wuss.
We’re here so that I can present a poem for an exhibition I have work in. Haven’t seen it yet. Tomorrow I’ll meet lots of the artists and the artist/curator, Bridget Nicholson. It’s the last day of the show and there will be artist talks and etc . The exhibition is called Solastalgia & the future.
Pity I had no brain-space to spruik this earlier. But I’m exhausted by this year and life. Even so, I’m here!
The counsel says,
go find a tree.
Address it as Guardian and ask it for teachings
on how to grow and be strong
and to serve a life greater than one’s own.
I think of my burnt trees and weep.
But then I think of the few recovering ones
of how their roots delve in the earth,
how they stand strongly in their foundations,
how they have survived their challenges
are damaged but growing still,
how their seeds sprout and flourish in the millions,
how they could re-Eden the earth if we let them.
Oh Tree, my heart aches for your pain
and for mine. May I be as steadfast
as you. May I, too, find fertility in the char.
May I, every day, breathe
of the air and the sunshine
and be nurtured.
May I, again, grow strong and cheerful,
living in the shining, living in the shining
with my roots in the good earth.
The book contains most of my poems since the fires that razed our place. Moving, apparently; important, some said; but I don’t think it’s miserable. To be published by Ginninderra Press
I am working on an exhibition to go up in Tillbrook Estate’s new and beautiful eco cellar door. Annabelle Tilbrook is organising it. Last SALA, on the walls there, she showed her instagram record of the winery’s ‘recovery’ from the fires. ‘Recovery’ is in inverted commas because it sounds like past tense to me, whereas recovery is still very much a struggle for most, including them and me.
Anyhow, Annabelle was encouraged by how people stood to read the stories, and asked me to put poetry on the wall. She was hoping for some more lighthearted work, encouraging and community oriented, a little less one dimensional than most of us, who went through this fire, have become.
It is time for this, in many ways, certainly for me. But to go anywhere near that, I had to clear myself. Thus this book. The visual work, (which does, indeed include poetry)also contains some cathartic work. Well, how could it not?
The book will be called ‘Echidnas Don’t Live Here Any More’ and the exhibition will be called, ‘Echidnas, Any Minute Now’. It will show for SALA, opening on 7th August at 2.00 PM. Put that in your diaries, Dear Folk. I will also give an artist talk and a poetry presentation on 21st August. Here’s a link for booking for either of these. Free, of course! They would really appreciate booking for catering purposes, especially for the opening/launch. The book will launched at the same time by the wonderful Rachael Mead, who also did the blurb.
Why Choose to Dance, Grandma?
My child, there is nothing else
to be done about the world
and its horrors.
There is war here, drought there,
There’s flood and fire and famine
and there’s not a lot that you and I
can do about it. But when
there is something we can do,
we had better be ready.
How can we stay ready when
each day the plight of others
settles in our gut like stones.
We can suffer it, let it weaken us,
bind us, eat us whole.
Or we can dance.
We can dance and we can sing
and we can draw the good
energy of the earth and the wide sky
into ourselves, fill ourselves
with joy and love
and that’s how
we can stay ready.
Almost everyone to whom I read this poem, gets it. I consider it a gift, to me and to others. If it is useful to you, take it. If you feel it is useful to others, fell free to share it. I would prefer for it to be attributed to me, but if that gets lost on the way, I won’t have a conniption. I think we all need to find our joy wherever we can. We need to stay healthy, especially given the levels of trauma we witness everyday.
The idea isn’t new. I have heard various versions of the need to find joy in order to stay whole in the face of trauma. One is attributed to Native American people who continued to dance and find joy even through the atrocities they suffered.
For me, personally, still recovering from the trauma of the fires two years ago, it is important. I’m trying my hardest to find joy. I’m very serious about it! I’m even working towards a solo show on the subject. How is that going? Well, there appears to be a lot of black ink. Any minute now I’ll lighten up.
Mind you that Lesser Wanderer is sitting on our house that burnt. Dark and light, dark and light.
(My drum was made by the master drum maker Tamaryn at spiritdrum.com.au
The exhibition, which will include my poetry and performance, will be in the cellar door at Tilbrook Estate winery, for SALA, in July/August. Whether this butterfly image makes the cut, who knows.)
A garden begins with violence:
fire or the hoe, a cleaning out, a smothering,
a clean break from the past.
But after the violence, intimacy.
Hands that spread seed, tiny packages of hope,
or that cradle a rootball as gently as
a parent washes the head of a newborn,
tucking the roots into the soil and crooning.
Most days, lately, I work over the brassicas
(cabbage and broccoli) wiping off the eggs
of the Cabbage White Butterfly or squishing
the caterpillars with my loving hands.
Violence and love. Yesterday I found
the empty chrysalis of a parasitic wasp. They flit
through the garden right now, drinking nectar
and laying eggs into the bodies of caterpillars.
They will feed from those bodies until they cut their way out
and settle to spin their own chrysalises.
Meanwhile the caterpillar is so changed by tending them
that it spins extra protection and guards them until it dies.
Today I watched the mating dance
of two Cabbage Whites. She settled on a leaf
and spread her wings flat, her black dots like a beacon,
while he flittered and fussed.
She will lay eggs of a dubious fate.
The butterflies are plentiful, the caterpillars are plentiful,
the wasps are plentiful, the host plants are plentiful.
Everywhere violence, everywhere love.
You came to me one December morning.
You taught me how to live with nothing,
you old nothing-maker.
You are all consumption and digestion.
You are heat, wind and embers,
but I didn’t get that close.
When I left home that day, my life
was as buoyant as a fish in water.
When I returned there was no normal.
I don’t know how to
finish this story. Maybe
I never will.
We can’t live together but I can’t live apart.
I rely on you, being, as I am,
made of plants that are made of you.
And I like to warm my bones in winter.
you’re a little close for comfort.
Stick to the sky, please Friend,
or in the hearth behind closed doors.
I want to love you from a distance.
. . . . . .
The middle paragraph of this poem is the crux. It seems I am stuck with this subject, for now at least. Probably there are unresolved issues in my psyche. (Really? You think so? says my psyche, who is often sarcastic.)
Oh well. Dear Reader, forgive me for being boring. It is the nature of trauma, apparently, to rehash the thing again and again. My sweet husband has answers to trauma: living in the moment, quietening the thinking, etc. He tries to encourage me to be light hearted. Perhaps in time.
In the meantime Christmas is doing its number. I have been busy, writing poems. On the 11th, Illuminart will launch a light show on the buildings of Mill Square. It is called Flocking Together. The animation (which will be delightful) includes a long poem that I wrote for it. (16 minutes, recorded!) I haven’t seen what they have done with the animation since before the words were finalised but when I did see it it was sumptuous, colourful, a feast for the eyes. Local kids were invited to do pictures of birds and these hop in and out being just gorgeous. Exciting!
It will show in a loop every evening from 11th till 23rd December, sunset till midnight. Three of those nights you would need to book, even though they are free, because of music on the 11th (details and booking link) and Christmas market, (details and booking link)
And then the 12th, I will give a poem that I wrote for the official turning on of the lights at the Oval in Lobethal. I wrote this poem for the hearts of people. Just a hint, there will be no fireworks that night. That’s good, in this town, at this time. There will be other spectacular instead. UPDATE! The first night of the lights’ concert on Sunday 12th is ‘postponed’ due to ‘covid uncertainty’. Everything else is still on, including the lights in the town and the Illuminart ‘Flocking Together’ wall spectacular (with my 16 minute poem) is still on 11th-23rd as stated above. Details about what else is on here: Lights of Lobethal Festival. ‘Postponed’ means it won’t be on until December 2022, apparently! Personally, I would call that ‘cancelled’. That choice of word is funny! I only just got a surprise resolution to an internal problem in the poem that no one else would have noticed, about an hour before finding out. I’m glad it got resolved before I found out. I can happily put it to bed now.
Here’s an aside. Some years ago, before the fires that so changed the lives of people in this district, when the fireworks for the beginning of the festival started (we could see them from our place), the cattle in the next paddock began rushing down the hill towards the road. As usual when there are fireworks, all around me birds were making alarm calls. I thought, ‘Those cows are going to rush right down onto the road.’ A stampede, I thought. But when they got to the corner of the fence, they rushed up the rise towards the fireworks and stopped on the crest of the ridge. They were rushing to get a better view!
Oh Pilgrim, the way of life is long:
sometimes joyful, sometimes hard.
Still we walk, foot over foot, foot over foot,
sometimes into chasms or over rough terrain,
through storms and buffeting winds.
Sometimes through meadows
abundant with comfort and flowers,
butterflies and soft sunshine.
Enjoy it, smell the flowers,
lie down there awhile and rest.
Above you: the sun, that fire of fires
round which our small lives turn.
It dries our tears and grows our food
the friend of winter hearths
the friend of hearts
the spark of life
companion for the way
But one can’t laze in a meadow forever.
We rise and walk
foot over foot, foot over foot
carrying our spark of life.
We fall down, we get up, oh Pilgrim.
Oh Pilgrim, the way of life is long
breath deep of air that is laced with stardust
that is stardust, as you are stardust,
as you walk on stardust
foot over foot
on this path of stars.
You are not alone in your dark nights.
Beside you, companions walk:
foxes, owls, roos and people
We walk together trusting the earth
to meet our feet.
You have stepped through fire,
and you have survived.
Sure, the going is hard
and terrain will be rough for some way yet.
But you have survived and
you step forward, foot over foot.
Oh Pilgrim, surely
you can trust yourself by now?
Surely, despite your wounds,
some of which reopen and weep,
surely you can trust the healing?
Surely you can trust yourself in this world by now?
Surely you can trust
It has got you this far.
Step forward, step forward,
step forward in
this moment of walking,
this moment and no other,
This moment is free from the past
with its grief and wishes.
It is free from the future
with its worries and desires.
It is just this moment and no other
through which you step
foot over foot.
. . . . . . .
This poem was written for and performed at an exhibition called Regenerate at Fabrik Arts and Heritage, at the end of 2020, nearly a year after the area was ravaged by fire. I wrote it specifically for fire victims who still to this day have a long way to travel before they are healed, though I think it speaks to anyone who has experienced trauma, Covid, for eg. or loss.
Performance poems often don’t translate to the page, but I think this one does ok. It’s interesting that most performance poems are very much about the presence of the performer, but this one dictated that it did not want me to meet the audience member’s eyes, so that they could take the poem to themselves in a private way. Beforehand I explained that to them, and also told them that the meadow is a metaphor for their life before, or rather, their memory of their life before. Because when one is trying to get one’s life back, it is very easy forget anything that was not perfect, but it will never be the same anyway, and maybe that’s not a bad thing. In any case better to aim for the best it can be, rather than for some lost thing.
And it seems that the mental health of people in trauma is nurtured mainly by one thing, and that is to be in the moment in which one finds oneself. There is so much to think about when trying to get one’s life back together, and the past is full of sorrows. Mentally, one is busy the whole time. There is no rest and the only way to get rest, and to find joy, is in the moment. Simple things, like sounds and scents, what one’s own hand feels like. These are the things that nurture us, in times of stress.
And simple things, like the face of a flower:
. . . . .
So, this was an exciting thing. I was employed as a narrative artist for the Regional Arts Conference that was here in Lobethal at Fabrik Arts and Heritage over the first weekend in September. These are the results.
I have never done such a thing before and, frankly, I was terrified. The last big wall that I did was in charcoal, but I love ink so decided to work in it. The pic below was shot in our house where I found a corner to pin up some paper to see what it was like to work in ink vertically. I usually work ink on a table. I was listening to a podcast of Robert Mcfarlane at the time.
Anyway, one throws oneself in at the deep end. It was great to do. I got to listen to and witness most of the first day except the workshops.
I only heard a little of Ali Cobby Eckerman’s workshop, sadly. I really like her poetry and she was so moving. Actually, I wrote a mistake here. She didn’t say she had got to thirty years old never having expressed an emotion. She said she got to thirty never having had an emotion. Worse, really. She was thirty when she first met her aboriginal family.
And I didn’t get to make a basket with Aunty Ellen Trevorrow. She is such a wonderful woman, quietly teaching people to make connections, ‘stitch by stitch’. I did a workshop with her once before, but she used raffia that time. I was terribly disappointed that I didn’t get to work with the reeds she brought in. Never mind.
Most of the drawing is about the first day. Melinda and René from Fabrik wanted the conference to be artist led with a large proportion of indigenous content. And it was. Such inspiring stuff! Trish Hansen, Laura Wills and Will Cheeseman (couldn’t find a link for Will) did wonderful workshops.
Trish began with a talk about ‘deep time’. On one of the walls she had represented time since the formation of the earth, with all the major beginnings of life. The space of that wall equated all of earth time (since it was just gas and matter, until now) with a year. Here’s a photo of the part representing the last two months of this metaphorical year.
And, in this photo, the last 5 days. So humans have arisen in the last 30 minutes and the industrial revolution in the last minute. Since the industrial Revolution (and these are my thoughts) we have managed to create a situation wherein we could annihilate the better part of life on earth. We are lemmings headed for a cliff and about as intelligent, seemingly.
Later Trish, Laura and Will used biomimicry as an idea base to have us consider our connections and interconnections with each other and nature, using the metaphor of mycelium. They had us draw our ideas connecting them, a bit like a mind-map. So the following photo is my wall drawing and is a copy of my response.
I mind-mapped about the drawing I did last year. It is still under the paint of the same wall where everyone was now working. How it was connected to the fires, because everything for me is connected to the fires lately. (For new readers, during the fires on 20 December 2019, my husband and I lost everything except the few things we packed into the cars.)
They had us consider a natural thing in that scenario. I thought about charcoal, back to fire, to the trees, from which I got the charcoal for the wall, then to the earth that the trees were growing in, and, naturally, the squillion fire fungi that came up after the fire. And that was a nice segue into what their original metaphor was: mycelium. There was more to mine, but I don’t remember now. I only put the basics in the wall drawing.
But the result by the three facilitators and the participants was an amazing huge drawing, where everyone connected to the person next to them, talked about how they could be connected in or what they have in common, and connected their drawings.
Even on the floor!
These images are very early on, it just kept getting better!
Towards the end of the day they had us think about the future we desire. It’s possible that I can’t remember all the details of what they had to say, but they had us think, imagine, dream, about what we would like the world to be like in fifty years time. They had us write and or draw what we wanted on strips of recycled paper that they supplied. Here are my wishes.
Then with the use of some wonderful ingenuity, they had us turn the bits of paper into small planting tubes, fill them with soil and plant Xanthorrhoea seeds. Grass trees. They talked about ‘seed time’. Time, for a seed, is waiting until the conditions and right, and then growing. And we were instructed to take our tubes home, plant them in the earth, and wait for seed time to sprout our wishes for the future and the grass trees to grow.
How beautiful is that?
(Don’t you wish you were there? Watch Fabrik’s programs, they do the best things, with the most amazing delightful, inclusive stuff. Hats off to the director and program manager, Melinda Rankin and René Strohmayer.)
The second day was more problematic for me as ‘narrative artist’, because they were panels mostly, with more than one happening at a time. It was quite difficult to be in two places at any one time, I found. So because I couldn’t possibly do all of those faces, or even listen to what they had to say, and get the thing finished by five o’clock, I thought up a good way to represent the panelists. I got them all to come to the wall and drew around their hands. I think I got everyone, except where the panelists were streaming from interstate. As I said, I didn’t get to listen to them properly, but you can find some details on the program.
There is even an audience member’s hand there, which is great, though quite accidental.
But I can’t wrap this up without mentioning the two other portraits on the wall. Given what they had to say ‘wrapping up’ could take a while.
The first is the wonderful Elaine Crombie, who was our MC. She is yet another super strong First Nations’ woman. She is a bundle of vibrant energy.
This portrait is the one that I like the least, because it didn’t go anywhere near capturing her vitality. She gave a great wrap up also. Speaking about how she was not going to take her mask off to speak to us, because people do not deserve to see her face until we right the wrongs (my words), and recognise that the ownership of this land was never ceded, it was stollen. It is time we recognised that, and afforded some respect. Actually (still my words) given the crisis that we are facing, we should recognise that we need the wisdoms of First Peoples to learn how to live in harmony with nature.
Which brings us to Uncle Mickey Kumatpi O’Brien. He is a Senior Kaurna Man and gave welcome to country, and a talk/conversation with Trish Hansen.
I would like to pay my respect to him and the other elders (from all time) of the Kaurna and Peramangk peoples on whose land we reside here in Lobethal, Adelaide Hills, South Australia.
Welcome to Country, he said, is to join us here and now, and to chase away sadness. Don’t you think it is a great act of generosity? Given what they have been through? And did you see that bit in Ali Cobby Eckermann’s portrait above, where she says, ‘I have to do such a lot of bloody forgiving. Blaming is futile, it does no good, but forgiveness changes things.’ That is also an enormous act of generosity.
There were so many take home messages from Uncle Mickey, too many to list. He spoke of the dreaming and the recent history of the Adelaide area. The political history is tragic, not only because of the tragedies that they suffered, but because we were very close to having a mutually respectful situation that was thwarted by timing, slow ships and ignorance. Early on, (and I don’t have details), this:
: was the proposed flag of South Australia. Here you have depiction of respect. Sadly it was not to be. (Sorry about the quality of this photo. And all of them really.)
There is much more to his talk and I wish I could do them justice, but the thing that touched me most was his listing of the importance of things. It is how I look at things and is in direct contradiction of how most westerners look at things. Everything in this list relies on the things above, therefor we humans are the least important in the scheme of things.
Somehow, (my words) insecure writers of the bible decided, in the very first chapter, to put humans on top, as if we live in a vacuum, or as if God will come and save us when we have pillaged the earth and its inhabitants, and are doomed. Are we children? Certainly, we’re idiots. How can it not be obvious that we have to take care of the systems that sustain us.
. . .
So! how about that? What a great thing to be part of! And I’m quite proud of my self with this wall. I also gave a speech at the end summing up the conference. I can’t remember much of that, but I probably got on my usual high horse, and told people to look after themselves and each other, and to get off their backsides and save the earth. Quickly, preferably. You lot too, please.
Here’s my wish (among others) for 2051:
frogs like canaries
in the clean place
of the world
Uncle Mickey said, ‘We don’t say “goodbye, we say “see you later.”‘ So, even though this is an abbreviated version of the conference and I have left things out:
See you later.