Kakadu dreaming & mosquito attacks

what does a meaningful life look and feel like to you?

As the full moon climbs over the mountains I’m asking the question (inspired by Jules) ‘What does a meaningful life look and feel like to me?’

How can I stay true to the life that is mine to live and not be so seduced by the incessant dangling carrot of ‘more.’

🌕

I’ve just returned home from 10 days in the Northern Territory.

As wondrous as this trip was, nothing brings me more satisfaction than being here, at home, at the studio, fully immersed in this life I’ve created.

I used to resist this ‘homebody’ part of myself. For years I created an identity of world traveller, van dweller and hostel hopper, my backpack as my home and stamps in my passport as affirmations of my worth.

When I landed in Batemans Bay in 2018 all desire to travel left me. I searched around for a while, worried that some spark or essence had been lost prematurely. I tried to convince myself one place wasn’t enough. But sunset by sunset, swim by swim, tree by tree I started to settle. Home. Here.

Even though I complain about it at times, maintaining this home is meaningful to me. Sweeping hardwood floors multiple times a day. Collecting sticks for the eternal winter fire. Thinking of ways to use up the withering vegetables in the back of the fridge and tending to the needs of a hungry milk guzzling teenager. Cleaning the dust from the skirting boards and (badly) cleaning the windows, leaving them worse than before I started. Hanging socks on the line and picking up pegs from the dusty veranda.

This is a meaningful life.

Moments like this morning when I pause before getting in my car and crane my neck to receive the star studded canopy above. It’s the moon rising impossibly big in a lilac sky that invokes such tenderness in me as I drive to teach the evening class.

This is a meaningful life.

I used to shun domesticity, maybe with good reason after being thrust into her cloying arms at a young age.

Now I stay home as often as I can.

This full moon week (and always) I invite you to ask yourself the same question. What does a meaningful life look like to you? What does success look like to you? What really brings you pleasure? How can you peel yourself lovingly away from the noise and plug back in to your own knowing?

Stillness. Space. Rest. Its the only way.

Having said all of this, I want to talk about the vast, untamed, unforgiving land of the Larrakia, Bininj & Mungguy people, the top end, where my friend Deepika and I led ‘Dreaming Land & Sky’ - the first of hopefully many Australia focused yoga, hiking and meditation experiences.

Another thing I once believed impossible has come to pass.

I used to think hosting ‘retreats’ or experiences within Australia was out of reach. Too expensive, too remote, too difficult to organise. I was wrong. For the millionth time, I was wrong.

I was also wrong about becoming immune to mosquitoes but more on that later.

We spent 10 days exploring Kakadu (Gagudju in language), Arnhem Land, Nitmiluk & Lichfield (Kungarakan) National Parks with our capable guide, Mike, from Offroad Dreaming.

I remember the sky. Azure. As you are.

I remember the russet cliffs rising from deep waters.

I remember crying in the dirt, overcome with a sadness beyond my understanding, gazing through wet eyes at the intricate, ancient figures painted on the cliff faces. Fire woman. Lightning Man. Crocodile. Wisps of figures under the overhang where no human hand could reach, protected by The Mimih spirits they say.

I remember the initiations, through fire and swarms of mosquitoes so thick they obscured the sky.

Each night we pitched tents with no fly so we slept under the dark emu, the spaces in between the stars. The moon grew with us. On our final night she was so bright we wrapped scarves around our eyes.

Thanks to my friend Cat and her binoculars, I fell in love with birds I’d never met before like the male Jacarna , Dad of the century and his three babies, fluff balls on legs darting haphazardly around the lotus covered wetlands. I met the stunningly beautiful Honey Bee Eaters sparkling like emeralds from the tree tops.

On a small boat packed with tourists a local man called Madijaijai with a quiet voice and commanding presence told us about the death rituals of his people.

‘We dont put our loved ones underground’, he said.

‘We elevate their bodies. The spirit wants to rise. After six years the bones are taken to a cave and the memory is laid to rest.’

‘The process takes time. There is no rushing grief.’

He paused. Gazing out across the escarpment.

The delicate silence was broken unbelievably by AC/DC’s TNT blaring from a tinny speaker. A large man to my right fumbled with his phone. A woman who I’ll assume was his wife sat in front of him with steel in her eyes.

He silenced the call. They rang again.

‘I’m dynamite!’

‘Turn it off! Completely off!’

‘They’ve rung twice’ the man said. ‘It must be important’.

‘Dont. You. Dare’. The wife hissed.

The phone was silenced.

Deepika and I exchanged looks.

Our guide ignored them.

As we floated past art of animal blood and oche he looked up and smelled the air.

‘The ancestors are here. They’re watching us. I can feel them.’

As I write, thousands of miles away from that sacred river, three black crows swarm the balcony. One flies straight into the glass. I can feel them watching me too.

Each night after setting up our tents we made dinner together. There’s an easy bonding that happens over cutting onions and group decisions about rice. There’s something very intimate about waking up and going to sleep together, seeing other in every stage. We woke together in our see-through tents. We met each other bleary eyed, wrapped in sarongs as we brushed our teeth and showered. We spent the evenings together until the yawns overcame us and we climbed into the tent, changing into t-shirts and pyjamas and willing sleep to come. We heard the noises of each other in the night. Twists and turns and snores. We witnessed each others dreams.

On the first night a swarm of mosquitoes descended.

I like to think of myself as pretty hardy. There’s not much that phases me. I have no problem with bugs or spiders or snakes so the onslaught caught me totally off guard, bare skin exposed in the evening heat.

We’d just finished cooking on the camp fire. I’d just sat down with a plate of freshly cooked barramundi in my hands (you haven’t tasted barramundi until you’ve tasted Darwin barramundi Mike said). Mosquitos started to appear slowly at first as the sun set. I didn’t move.

‘If you ignore them they’ll just go away’ I said.

A few seconds later the swarm descended. The sound was deafening. Each time I opened my mouth another flew in. They swarmed around the tent lights and head torches so we tried to eat in the dark. We soon realised it was hopeless.

‘Run!’ Deepika said.

‘Into the tents!’

We unzipped the tents at lighting speed and slid in, commando style on our bellies but there was no way to avoid the little assassins entering. We sat on camp mattresses holding our plates as hundreds of mosquitoes buzzed around our heads. We started the slow painful process of attempting to kill them one by one.

‘That’s it.’ Deepika said, ‘we cant leave’.

‘What if I need to pee?’

‘You’ll have to hold it’.

In the middle of the night I whispered, ‘Deepika. I really need to go. I think I’m going to wee inside this bottle.’

She looked at me. ‘Have you ever done that before? I reckon it’s harder than you think. It’s not a good idea.’

Sanity prevailed and we both ran to the camp toilets through the Biblical swarm. Something wet landed on my leg and I was proud of myself for not screaming. When I looked down I saw a bright green frog gazing up at me. A sweet relief.

In the top end there is a lot of sky and a lot of scrub. There’s red dirt and iron infused cliffs. There are four metre long crocodiles lounging on the banks, surrounded by ducks and cormorants who are too small of a snack to warrant being eaten.

There are jewelled water holes that are as close to heaven on earth as I’ve ever been.

People say the land is spiritual.

I agree. I say all land is spiritual.

As I come to terms with the south coast winter and the toe curling cold of this valley we call home I can feel the spirit of this land. She’s calling me outside. Into her ever loving arms.

If I get really quiet I can hear her. Her heartbeat. One heartbeat. Du Dum. Du Dum. Du Dum.

~

come away with us next year!! stay tuned to @soultribestudio to learn more

come practice with me, daily, in person on Yuin Country, far south coast, NSW