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I wanted to sit quietly with you for a moment, in this turn around moment of the Tide (Gregorian-wise).
I wanted to pause and breathe together, and steep ourselves in the waters.
To marinate in the beauty. That still surrounds and interpenetrates us.
I wanted to be still together as we each reflect and acknowledge, as we notice, forgive, perhaps rage a wee moment (or for longer moments), as we grieve, and as we gently gather unto ourselves what is precious.
And allow to dissolve, that which has had its time ~
As we are silent here with one another, in this darkly effulgent place, tenderness is present. Deep velvety compassion, reaching into the etched inner chambers of the heart.
We are all so very Beloved.
I have used this time to consciously rest. Like a beached seal on the couch.
To read. To walk - twice - on the Place whom I love. Quandamooka Country. (‘Nudgee Beach’,) Meanjin (‘Brisbane’).
I’ve visited with my Dad. We took him a colouring-in book and a big set of coloured pencils. Later, the Residential care staff sent me a photo of him sitting up grinning wildly, colouring in. They told me he is ‘always smiling’. Joyful. They told me he was ‘dancing’ (ie holding their hands as he waved about in his big support-chair). He, like me, was once a Dancer. We did, he and I, win 76 sashes in Father-and-Daughter competitions once.
A long time ago.
We talked about trees. Or rather, he talked and I listened. He reminded me to listen to the trees. Sadly, he told me he didn’t listen to the trees much these days. He remembers it clearly, the Trees; his mates. ‘Listen to the trees’ he tells me again. ‘They’ll tell you what for'. I am deeply grateful, that his bed is right beside a huge window - insect screened and white timber tropical (I will not call them ‘plantation’) shuttered - outside of which is open space . . .
and Trees.
And then I talked with him again, on FaceTime, days before Christmas, him clutching and waving his pencils at me. A mad galah. We laughed.
And laughed.
And the weird thing is, I don’t have a photo of Dad and I together. I have, in fact, very few photos from my childhood and young personhood. When I visited Dad just before Christmas, there was a photo album on his bedside table. I asked him if I could look at it. When I opened it, I was shocked:
page after page after page of his daughter. Myself.
My eyes met the little girl below, clutching the slipping-down koala. Grinning for the camera. Cheeky. In her own skin. I did not recognise her. Wondered who the hell this kid was, and what was she doing in this album.
‘Who’s this, Dad?’
He looks at me, equally shocked.
And then I see it.
And then my body remembers it, the sliding claws-gripping furry being in my arms. Smiling, despite it all (and believe me, there was a lot not to smile about).
And yet. There she was.
Bold as brass.
Vigorous.
Vital.
Joy.
Me.
Watchful. Wary.
Bright. Shining.
Already grieving.
Frightened.
In pain.
This interim, I have rinsed The Saltwater Songlines Project in the grandmother pools. The pools of compassion. The pools of release.
The pools of recalibration and the pools of remembering.
And my People and I, we are gently laughing. Chuckle of mangrove and cool dispassionate gaze of stingray. Searing penetrating clarification of eagle.
Ripping wind and raging storm blast through me and it.
And;
I think I’m ready.
Over two years in, (the formal ‘in’ of website creation)
A full - exact - five and a half years in the conscious walking
A f**king lifetime of the living and asking and listening.
Of active Apprenticeship.
She’s ready.
I, am ready.
Together with ‘resting’ and with ‘reading’, I’ve been ‘learning’. Sqarespace has a new housing for ‘Courses’. And I know I said I was NOT going to offer a Course. But it turns out, I am. Not a ‘course’. More a transformation.
Galleried lessons and Story, and Practices. Whilst the Galleries (and Story) themselves are open to the public, the lessons are not. The guided journey.
The personal pilgrimage into the everywhen everywhere everything.
You get to write letters (yes, Letters!) to me. I steep and soak and listen.
And then, I answer you. Yes; just you.
It’s like a Mentorship, but without the annoying Zoom meeting (Jeepers creepers do we need more of those?)
You get to take your spacious time.
You get to breathe and expand.
You get to be You.
I’ll have more information as the Tide flows in. Soon. Ish.
In the meantime, there is another Preview Room for you;
The Ante-Room. A small Page. There is, as yet, no text on this page.
Just lush galleried IMAGES. For you to soak in.
To contemplate. To take your t i m e
As always, on you computer is wildly superior (otherwise the formatting is lost and the layered images cannot be seen). (Think of visiting a live exhibition. On walls, not on a flier).
PS. What you don’t get in the Saltwater Songlines New Dreaming:
A Facebook Group.
When is this? Sometime early 2024.
For four and half months.
Note: I have not amended the Saltwater Songlines Invitation Page yet.
Waiting for the Tide . . . .
All Love,
Narelle xo
yes. yes. yes.