We’ve only ever been to one other
Wardandi Country cave together—Calgardup.
While there we were given
entry to Giants Cave as well.

These two are run by state government.
The rest are privately run.
(Though, we’re told, there are about
a hundred others too.)

As we’re getting the briefing
I have a vague memory
of being told
that this cave is more full on
than the rest.

Tight climbs up vertical ladders.
87 metres below ground.
95 percent humidity.
Points of no turning back.

As we head down
I begin to feel the weight
of all that earth above me.

But then I try bring in some 
of the light of the whole Earth—
of the whole human being—
into this darkness.

From this point on,
the weight of the earth
doesn’t bother me.
Even down here I feel buoyant.

At one point we turn off our headlights.
Eyes open or closed, the darkness
is still the same.

We pass through the tight squeezes
between limestone and calcite quartz
on vertical ladders. 
We pass under overhangs,
crawling.
We climb over sections 
where the path isn’t clear—
where there are only chains
and drops back
down ladder shafts.
We slide down wet sections 
on our backsides
tightly gripping ropes.

And finally we scramble,
after having to kill a couple of marchflies,
back towards the windows and doorway 
of light at the far end,
crawling over
the final steps,
and slinking through the tiny 
backdoorway, more gnome-like
than we left, maybe,
but also more human;
more connected to the darkness;
more connected to the earth;
more connected to the light.

We’re kayaking Molloy Island
on the Joojilyup Blackwood River
upstream from Tallinup Augusta.

There’s a howling northerly wind 
blown in from a nearby cyclone.
We ride it straight down from the boat launch,
past the caravan park, past the private ferry,
round the southern side of the island
where we stop at sandy beach and swim.

This island is like the the water rose up
and took form. 
Even in summer it feels wet.
We paddle in and out of little waterways
and emerge on the island’s eastern side 
still somewhat protected from the wind.
We’ve never been here before—this island
between Wardandi and Bibbulman country.
Much is new. 

But then we turn a corner 
heading north,
and there in the water 
is kadar the musk duck.
Female.
All black and sleek
and diving.
We paddle 
and the next time she comes up
we’re almost side by side.

Sometimes all you need is something familiar
in a whole landscape of unknowns
to anchor yourself.

Hamelin Bay bottom of Wardandi country
and here you’ll find some of the best
limestone rocks for skimming across
the water’s surface.

Part way up the beach 
there’s a little reef section
of more limestone.

I stand near the reef and send a few
rocks out into the ocean.
And as I look down to find more,
I realise that the reef formation,
while much larger,
is also the form of a perfect 
skimming rock—sized for giants.

The whole in the parts,
the parts in the whole.
As all living things are,
and all that they create.

As we are, though
we need lose nothing
of ourselves 
on the journey back.

Morning wakeups of kookaburras
flying into closed windows,
over and over again—maybe five times.

Later in the morning
chunyart the 28 is perched
on the edge of the bird bath
before jumping
without hesitation right into it.
He flaps and bathes himself
like an old pro—
like a duck—
shooing off another 28
when he approaches.
And when he’s had enough,
he flaps up onto a nearby tree branch
to dry out.

I suspect a nearby bandiny New Holland 
honeyeater has also had a drink.
He perches on nearby red-flowering grevillea
and feeds another bandiny when it approaches.

The other chunyart stands on the edge
of the bath, drops his head to drink
but doesn’t jump in.

There is a family of red-winged fairy wrens—
only the male of which is coloured 
with red wings and blue head—
hopping on the grass and bushes nearby.

A scarlet robin sits, all red-breasted, 
in the branch of a bottlebrush.

And there are other small birds of dark-grey wings, 
black eyebrows and whiter breast;
plus some even smaller birds like 
tiny silvereyes.

They come on like a flurry
all together
in the morning—
all at the same time,
while now it is quiet.

Perhaps it’s also the usual time 
that the cleaner might come
and gather up any rubbish,
potentially dropping food.
Perhaps not.

In any case,
all it takes 
is a little sitting outside,
a preparedness
to look up from the
screens of life,
and see what arrives—
to see what flies in,
what lands,
and becomes,
inside.

Back where the Marbeelup Chapman Brook
meets the Joojilyup Blackwood River.
There are four big marris and a big
peppermint. The sun is out
and I can faintly see small fish in the
shallows, maybe perch, maybe bream.

Chunyart the 28 escorted me in. 
Karak the red-tailed cockatoo lines
the marri trees above,
screeching out to one another.
Some white tails flew over
on the driving here.

I walk further up-brook along 
the Marbeelup, past the boat launch,
past the barbecues and campground,
along the water’s edge. 
There are signs about the native veg-
etation. There is sword sedge, I think.

And as I come around one corner
there is a long black line on the trail—
around one metre long, with yellow underbelly,
body a bit thicker than a thumb.
I pause—a few meters off—and watch 
as he slithers into the bushes by
the side of the path.

All of this reveals itself in the 
light of blue-morning day, 
the first clear sky in a week or more.
But it reveals its essence
to the observing mind
and finds its fullness
in relation to the widths
and depths
of the human being and the earth
found there.

On the banks of the Joojilyup Blackwood again
near its mouth in Tallinup Augusta.

We’re on another work call 
and I’m looking out the window
at all the water
rushing in between the shore
and a sand bar 
near the river’s centre.

There are people on stand-up paddle boards,
dogs, kids—many of them swimming across the current 
to stand on the bar mid-river.

Limestone lines the other bank, far over.
The ospreys are still in the Norfolk pines.

Part way through the call things shift
from the pushing of some kind of program
to an opening of doors
to all those who feel called
to be there.

Something switches,
inverts. The guiding spirit
of the work comes rushing 
in, through, between…
like a tide that pauses, 
breathes, 
and turns.

It’s so-called Australia day again
and maybe we’re doing a retake
on some of the cliches of the day.

In the morning we head to the beach—
Hamelin Bay—
for a swim, 
but with stingrays.

Then it’s into the karri forest
for a spot of four-wheel driving,
though we take a two-wheel drive
and spend all our time looking
up at the mighty trees
and observing the consequences
of fire, and of no-fire.

Back home after, for a barbecue,
of regenerative eggs, 
sourdough, vegetarian patties,
organic tomatoes, onions, 
capsicum, zucchine and even 
a spot of bok choi.

Later, we take the water craft
down to the river,
though here there’s no jet
skis, just our inflatible kayaks,
spending our time 
finding red-winged fairy wrens
and fantails
amongst the bushes 
by the side of the Marbeelup
Chapman Brook,
then following it down
to where it flows into the
Djudjulyup Blackwood River.

There are some big marri trees
on the upriver side,
and a big peppermint.
This is a large meeting of waters
on this large country.

It is big country, deep country,
flowing through—
as gift—
the country 
of human beings
this day, 
transfigured,
transformed,
and now—
as gift—
back out again.

Back at the mouth of the river,
with Katie this time.
Saturday morning
southerly and sun. 

I put down a blanket and
flick a disgarded prawn head—
likely left by a fisherman—
into the water.

There is the brown water,
the limestone on the bank 
of the other side,
the small peppermints,
the coastal daisybush,
the fan flowers.

On the water arrives yet
the Pacific black duck.
I say hello.
He steps out of the water
and onto the shore in front of us.
He finds another prawn head 
I must have missed—
all hard head and shell—
and gulps it down.
Another piece, all shell,
he leaves behind.

I stand and he slides back 
into the water.
I look upriver. Wind seems
to blow in from the mouth and from 
upriver at the same time,
as the water bends here almost 90 degrees.

I spot the limestone
of what lies further up there—
what lives further up there,
further in here,
millenia wide,
millenia deep,
meeting here,
in the cave of my self,
by grace,
something of the future light—
the light of the earth,
of human beings—
seeking to illuminate all.

We’re in a bath in the middle of the forrest
and I’m telling Katie 
about some of the nature of this writing
and the writing of this nature.

Any worthwhile insight
comes as a gift.
And anything worthwhile
in the writing of it
is given as a gift
back to from where it came.

We paddle up the Marbeelup Chapman Brook
and out into the Djujulyup Blackwood and
head upriver. It is calm and cloudy
and humid-hot and quiet.

Peppermints hang out
over the water, light green
against the rest of the forest
all darker green marri and jarrah and karri
and I assume blackbutt,
maybe other eucalypts.
There are tuarts all grey-green
and huge, further upriver;
malaleucas too.

In the water we have to dodge
the odd fallen tree.
“How long do you think it takes 
a log to decompose in the water?”
Katie asks.

There are one or two pied cormorants
shifting positions on the dry parts
of fallen logs.

Towards the end of our paddles
it starts raining softly—warm
rain spun inland by a cyclone 
further north, off the coast. 
The drops hit slowly,
deliberately.
“Let’s see if we can avoid them.”
But we don’t need to. It is
warm, and still, and we are 
happy to sit in the boat
and watch the way the rain
falls into water with a round
splash—the whole surface 
of the river drumming to life 
as if little crickets or frogs were splashing.
It is more an experience 
of water rising up from specific spots
than of water falling down…

….here, where rivers meet,
where currents meet,
where spiritual streams
and streams of time
do meet.