I have the feeling that all the
places of the wold seek to die
into—seek to serve—the Spirit
of the Earth as a whole.
I have the feeling that I, too,
seek to die into—seek to serve—
fully awake, fully alive—
the Spirit of Humanity as a whole.
I make a space for the dying of places into—
for their service of—
the Spirit of the Earth—
(through the Spirit of Humanity—
same spirit—)
in me.
Looking out onto the drying lake
with mostly teals, black ducks and
coots remaining—
some swamp hens, a couple of
stilts and an avocet
in there too—levels probably at
one metre on the gauge—
a slight westerly wind, blue
overhead. And then
I pause my going out into it,
and instead let it come in,
like a turning of the tide on
the coastline or river nearby,
though inwardly, all inside.
And then I find there is a part
of the lake seeking to die—
but a kind of death by service—
as there is a part of me
seeking the same.
A kind of death into what?
A death into the Spirit of the Earth, I would say—
which is the same as
that most human part of each of
us…by any other name.
Venus, Saturn, waning gibbous moon,
Jupiter and Mars all in
the sky—all in a 9pm
line—with Mercury by
the side of the Sun,
hours below the horizon.
Orion is there,
chasing the Plaeides—
chasing the Seven Sisters—
while Jupiter tries to
join.
To the south
lies the cross.
There are echidnas
and goannas,
kangaroos and emus
up there too,
as there are down here.
Snakes and caves and waterways.
The spirit of this place.
Finally, there is the one they all seek
to serve—the Spirit of the Earth—
and there is his countenance
too, who keeps dragons at
bay.
Fires burn in Hollywood hills
while five presidents
preside over the death
of one of their own—
first ladies, VPs and unsuccessful
candidates by their sides.
They laugh. They smile.
They shake hands and rise.
Human beings being human.
Wars continue.
Countries collapse.
Nature speaks up a fury—
a mirror
to our own selves.
Crisis upon crises.
Challenge upon challenge.
All pointing back to us—
so far so that the pointing can
point back out upon the world,
which can pour its way in upon us—
become us, as we become it—
the whole world this time—
whole reality—-not just the surface lines,
not just the single parts…
if we craft the eyes for it, that is—
if we let it grasp itself
in us.
Lake today, well into Birak, levels at 1.13 metres, or thereabouts. There are birds scattered across the water—mostly coots in the centre—with ducks of all kinds on the edges, as well as a few swans, stilts, and more. There is relative calm as I watch from under the figs on the south end in the shade. And then, suddenly, there is a simultaneous flutter and flurrying of wings as birds from the north and from all edges of the lake fly towards its centre. They seem to fly together in species clouds—there is a group of stilts, and a group of teals, there are Pacific black ducks together (with nine newborn chicks in a line trailing after), and amongst the groups are scattered also coots, shelducks, shovelers, wood ducks, pink ears low and grey, probably some hardheads but I don’t see them, some grey-feathered cygnets. Even the white corellas above me start fussing about, though only slightly moreso than usual. I’m looking around for the raptor—likely the swamp harrier—and there he is, coming in low across the grass and rushes like a jumbo coming into land, then flying higher, whirling around. More birds fly into the centre, other birds come in from the north. Crows fly across the lake, but don’t head towards him. There are no seagulls to chase him today. Up above, much higher, a cormorant is exiting the scene, while about the same level as the harrier a white-faced heron is honking and gripping at the air the way he does in his flying style. More birds come towards the southern part of the lake—it is getting pretty full in there. Only the ibis seem to have stayed put on their melaleuca perches to the west. The harrier cruises around for a while longer, mostly over the rushes to the east, before eventually returning to the north, as the birds begin to slowly move back towards the edges from the deepest part of the lake—the last part to dry in late summer. The whole scene like the workings of a kind of organism—the way a body can contract towards the centre in the face of fear.
We start a fire and then I’m hit with the sudden thought reminder that it is full moon tonight. We head out towards the river through the narrow laneway, and as the path opens up suddenly there it is, big and bold and yellow between clouds on the horizon, its reflection lighting up a rippled line along the river. Above, between the clouds right at this moment is Jupiter, then Saturn higher, and then a very bright Venus to the west. The belt of Orion still off to the right.
Our friend from the Netherlands is staying with us, and we go for an evening walk along the cliffs by the river. I make a quick scan for dolphins. “Dolphins!” he says.”Where?” my wife replies. “Calling to them,” he adds. “Dolphins!” We walk on, maybe no more than a hundred metres, and then I spot some by the cliffs on the north side, heading downriver—one, two, three dolphins. We watch them come towards us, cutting across the edge of the sandbar, before they go past, heading further south. We go on to the end of our usual walk, pausing a little longer at the turnaround than we usually do; and in that time we see another pod on the other side of the river by the tree where all the night herons roost—one, two swishing around in the flatwater shallows between the yacht club jetties. “If I had the honour of naming dolphins, I’d call them Pea One, Pea Two and Pea Three,” our friend says. “Peas in a pod.”
We turn back towards home, and within a couple of hundred metres, there are some more dolphins right in the armpit of the river—right where it bends. We can see their tails—they look to be fishing—maybe one, two, even three. “Could be the same ones. But usually if they’re heading downriver they won’t turn around and come back again.” So we’ve either seen three groups in one outing (highly unusual), or two with one group behaving very unusually—whether they’re all part of the same overall pod (they’re not usually that spread out) or different ones.
We thank the kwilena the dolphin…and our friend.
Today preceded by alto clouds like snakeskins, predicting rain. In the morning my wife and I head out, grey skies to the west. “It said it was going to rain today,” she says. We look at her weather app. The image says rain. The words say no rain. The clouds look dark. We walk on, and before we get to where we’re going there is the very lightest misty spray, and then it is over. “Unusual for this time of year,” she says. Only later that night do I remember the full moon.
John Stubley 