I found myself driving today through a less-visited (by me) landscape to get to another lake. I’d been there before, but maybe not at this time of day, this day of the week, this week of the year. Two days after so-called ‘Australia Day’, warm but not hot, a Sunday morning, and hundreds, thousands of walkers striding along the limestone beachside clifftop, ouring one way and the other. The road busy too. Houses on the other side, a cafe or two, very few trees. A south westerly breeze already sliding in. I kept going past suburbs also mostly treeless, pockets of bushland, rooftop tiles lining the horizon. I moved onto larger roads, drove over a freeway, detouring big box stores to come at the lake from the eastern edge, trying to drive its shoreline, but finding more houses, fenced off areas, though there were spots here and there for walkers and bikers. I emerged from a series of cul-de-sacs and took a busy road around, by the edge of another busy road, circling the lake’s northern edge, then coming down it’s western side, more open grassland and trees, into the edge of a small city, through more houses, and eventually a kind of park on its western edge. I had been there before a couple of times. I parked and walked to a little jetty and looked out at the water, the sea breeze stronger now, the water cleaner than the lakes I usually visit, able to see the sandy floor. I watched a coot go down and rise up. A swan swam underneath me. A loud ‘poing’ of a dark-coloured musk duck came from a large group of about 15, circling and sometimes flapping together, mostly males with their large flaps under their beaks, sitting low on the water with tales like platupi; a dozen other males here or there. Some crested grebes sat upright with lighter feathers, their heads a mix of regality and ruffled-ness. Some other grebes with Pacific black ducks—almost archetypal ducks. Some pelicans further away. Wood ducks on the bank behind the paperbarks. I chatted with a man and his wife, talking about the lake, the ducks, his experience swimming iat the ocean nearby when a bird came up next to him. “Cormorant?” “Could’ve been.” They moved off and I turned my attention back to the lake. 

And then I was suddenly struck by a deeper level of that place, faint at first, like an initial trickling line, speaking at a deeper level in me. I tried to listen. It rose and thickened like the rising of the lake after first rains, filling out, filling up. The spirit of this place. I  listened and let it in, silencing all else, giving it my lowest levels of attending. It was like a kind of breathing on another level. And I kind of let go an inner sigh. The hour long drive had been worth it. The place opened itself up, spread itself out like the lake that it was. The largest lake around. And I went with it, trying to stay awake. It seemed in that moment somewhat feminine in quality. Unlike the lake I visit most often. Though maybe not related so much to birthing of things, like other lakes I’ve been. Though still a kind of femininity to the essence of this place. I know a small part of the stories, and the imagination of its name. And these stories seemed to ring true enough this day—in what the lake was saying, in what I was able to hear. And I was grateful.

I walked away from the water, along its bank towards a trail sign, then up the hill to a statue of a woman, which seemed in place, right enough, and true. 

And I reflected that my experience of the journey this day told enough the journey we make each and every day towards truth. We venture off towards a goal we feel somehow called to, but maybe not quite sure we’ll make, nor whether it might be worth it—after all, there are so many other things to do. But despite all this we go anyway, maybe not yet knowing even why, and pass through certain places we might not feel at home; slightly unfamiliar or uncomfortable places, upon which we might throw all sorts of judgments and opinions. But all of this is merely preparation. Preparation for a getting closer. For a kind of letting go. Maybe we realise we’d even been to this place before, but hadn’t necessarily seen it in this way. The smallest door. The smallest resigntion. And a whole river of water can come flooding in. Opinions and judgements left behind. We wake up inside the essence of something—the truth of the matter—and find that essence inside. We find ourselves also in such moments. And find ourselves forever changed. And I think the same is true of the place, of the essence or the truth we discover—also changed—in those times, on those days

The path to reality passes through personal judgement and opinion, but on arriving there, those things do not matter. Reality matters. We find it in ourselves, and we find ourselves in it. This is the real striving behind science. Though we are much more involved and essential to the process than we often admit.

I then drove the freeway back through the city, the lake and country with me, still having to return home. I sat on cruise control watching the other cars, the large trees by the side of the road, a raptor—harrier maybe—gliding between the rooftops of big box stores, the roadworks resting there this day, the lane lines constantly changing with the widening of the freeway. I wound slowly through the city, still with the lake and country, along the windswept river by the side of the road, refuelling on the edge of the highway, taking a straghtline home.

Today at the lake I watch the ever shrinking high-water mark—birak summertime heading towards later summer boonaroo and autumn. The swamphens are walking the northern end of the remaining main-water pool, the moorhens are stalking the line on the easter side, pecking away as their tails flick. The stilts are in the slightly deeper water, their long legs like sticks. A couple of coots are slightly further south, beyond a reed bed, working the shoreline there. Pacific black ducks, pink ears, wood ducks and maybe a couple of teals are out in the slightly deeper water that’s left, where they can paddle still. A lone seagull sits and watches a black duck pass by. A couple of crakes are up on the dryer ground with some buff-banded rails nearby. Three pairs of swans sit in place in shallower areas, or move slowly through a deeper water place. Correllas stick to the dryer shore to the south end, or in the trees above, noisy as usual. Behind, there are white tailed black cockatoos in the trees. 

And suddenly, as I’m watching this calm Thursday morning, cool-day almost full-moon scene, the swaphens in one cloud start flap-running their way east into the nearby rushes and reeds; the crakes and rails go with them, disappearing between the separate branches in the shadows and shade; the stilts hop-fly into the centre of the lake; the moorhens and coots step off the shoreline edges and shift to deeper waters; the ducks in a couple of species-clouds do the same; the seagull has vanished; the corellas lift off into clouds and circle around the trees to the south; and in all the visial whirling I hear the yapping little bark of the stilts, the gutteral-turned-higher pitch craw of the hen, the short quacks of the ducks, the slightly higher screech of the coot and moorhens. And all the while I’m moving out from under the paperbark and eucalyptus limbs where I’ve been standing, sheltering from the cooler wind and morning sun. I’m moving slightly south, and looking up, but seeing nothing. The birds keep on moving in the shoreline scene below me. I walk out further, opening up the sky, and wait. And then, before much longer: the stretched, circling wingspan lengths, all brown and orange, of a swamp harrier gliding overhead. He makes a turn, wheeling around, barely needing to flap. I look out again as he circles back behind the tree. The birds left in the centre of the lake are still, and watching intently. The disappeared ones in the reeds are disappeared still. The swans have stopped their preening, watching, but haven’t yet moved. Nor has a white Ibis I now see on the shoreline. And nor has a white faced herron now moving obviously on grey branch towards the centre of the lake. The whole scene seems to pause a little longer, the harrier comes around again. Nobody moves, except the screeching swirling corellas further south. And then…gradually…he seems to have gone. The whole frozen moment eventually, slowly, slipping into movement again. 

The birds in the centre begin to spread out again, the stitls pick up their legs and begin to walk away. The ducks start to paddle apart, each their own species way. The swans resume their preening pruning. The moorhens and coots slowly spread back towards the muddy high-water mark. The corellas screech a little less, and start to settle back upon the ground. The heron resumes his stillness, the ibis moves a little, the swamphens return from the reads and begin to spread, while the rails and crakes take a little longer.

And I’m struck by the directions of it. The way so many that just a moment ago were on the shoreline—on the high water line—shifted quickly either to centre or periphery. That is where the life went: to the shallows or the depths. Nothing stayed on the shoreline (except the bigger  ibis). Life contracted or expanded: moved to the middle, or to the edges went. Life moved away from the shoreline, from where a moment before it was feeding—it moved away from this. Life moved away from the shoreline, because here and now, the shoreline, even at this life-filled lake, meant death.

I watch quenda the southern brown bandicoot work his way through the sword sedges, and down onto the lush green ground cover covered with small blue flowers and the low-down working of bees. He moves along, burying his long-thin snouty nose and front feet in one spot after another, little ears listening, going down for the good dirt, digging. His fur is all brown and hair, smooth though made up of hundreds of finer points. He hops along like a little kangaroo, though more bent to the ground, stretched out along it, cultivating.

And from the edges of my observing I see kooli the buff banded rail emerge from where he so often figures from. His back all turtle patterned and brown, his underside a kind of zebra patterning, his chest and eye a sort of rusted orangey-brown, what the birders call ‘buff’. He moves along, occasionally flicking his tail as he pushes his beak into place after place along the soil of the dryer bank by the rushes. His feathers are all neatly folded over one another, giving him the patterning and colours, feather-ends all rounded and fine, each tip planted within his skin. 

And I watch him, kooli, and quenda the bandicoot get slowly closer in their foraging, until they are about to cross directions, about 30 centimetres apart. And I wonder who will make way for who. And then, at the same moment, they both hop a little past each other and away, keeping their distance, neither advancing towards the other, a kind of mirroring of one another’s movements. 

And I can’t help wondering about the forming of each on this the edge of the lake, here at the edge of the world. The dry lake shoreline of birak summertime has fashioned from out of its edges these two creatures, one a bird, one a mammal, though so similar in their workings, in their doings—as if there hovered above each a kind of bright shadow, out of which one day one was fashioned, out of which the next day the other. A kind of lake shoreline cultivation shadow, condensing into quenda, condensing into kooli, the way ice condenses from water into different forms; same water; each coming from the same spring; a common languaging before it fell into these here terms. Quenda the southern bandicoot. Kooli the buff banded rail.

I watch as the swamphen walks his recently dried-out lake shoreline border. He is the most obvious bird that’s left. A black-blue purple, with red beak, hen sized, singing up the will-filled depths, tail flicking as he walks the shoreline with large splayed-toed unwebbed feet, the now-cracked bed littered with its prints. I watch him at the borders of the grass and faintest high-water line, still wet, most recent; the whole thing shrinking. It looks like his domain. A guardian of a kind of threshold. One of the few, maybe the only watery bird, who stays. 

But then in the clump of maleleucas, on which used to be a kind of island, I see a small flitting and a rushing, as one bird chases another, just a couple of shadows, then disappearing behind another clump. Then out they shoot again, and I see they’re crakes, probably spotted, but they’re so far away. Like a smaller version of the swaphen—a smaller version in and out of branches and shrubby trees. A smaller version of the bird who stays. And I’m reminded too of the buff-banded rail. All belly striped and buff/orange colourings, slightly bigger than the crake, but stopping short of the swaphen. Another shoreline bird who stays, but masked and masking within the reeds and rushes and the shade. The rail another kind of version of this archetypal shoreline birding. The moorhens and the coots step into the water more often than not, swimming; and leave with the water. Not the swamphen, and now I’m wondering maybe too the crake and rail. But what they each seem to announce is an archetypal shoreline lakeside bird. A bird that gives these three forms for this place, but given different places, different plants and lakes and waters, generally a different context, would produce different birds. Like the native black tailed hen. Like a million other other-place variations. 

Like Goethe’s archetypal plant with an infinite amount of potential manifestations, so too the lakeside threshold bird. The lakeside threshold hen.