A collection of writings

from the participants of the

Spiritual Ecology Leadership Program

2019

Athena Blackthorn

Thank you. Women’s Country. Your knowledge is the topsoil. Black, rich, life sustaining Birthing hope. Nutrients. The roots of your babies Sink in Stretch deeper Grow thick With the dreaming With your song. Your knowing is mine The ultimate answer Rain touches red dust the way you speak to the hearts of forgetters – They remember. Each droplet A story of connection love Feet travel over the body you know. Bare and breathing Insects hum in conversation with the trees Protectors

Custodians What do they say? You breathe for the words of her branches Dance for her stories. Rock cracks under her force. Clouds travel to bear witness To what is becoming The paint on your body Ochre from the cheeks of Earth say We are here We have always been here And we are not going away Bunjil soars above the heads of all of us He sees your light and your darkness Like always He sees your light and your darkness Like always he sees. What does the poison Look like from his eyes? Dense haze Black puddles Sitting stagnant atop sacred plains He must see your work You carefully tend to the waters

Breathe life into dying places kiss the face of stones ancestors knew. The mist welcomes the dawn The fire melts it To keep us warm. You make us all strong A kind of strength only translated by this land Women’s business Calling us in for help Mothers contracting below Silver leaves Fathers waiting New seeds are planted For each new day We are planting.

Charlotte Cameron

Pentecost Reflection. This poem was created to be read on Pentecost Sunday at Westgate Baptist Community Church, Yarraville. The inspiration for the poem was a story from the book of Acts (after Jesus’ death). In the story, people from all over the land are gathered for a Jewish harvest festival. Many ethnic groups and languages are present. While they are feasting, the Spirit rushes in in the form of 'a violent wind' and 'tongues of fire’. Suddenly, all are filled with the Spirit and able to communicate with each other (Acts 2: 1-13). There are a few references to this story in the poem, as well as a few other bits of the Bible, but I’ve footnoted them so I hope they make sense. how to say what my heart desires to say what God desires to say? I don’t know. the story tells of mighty wind and tongues of fire and spirit’s song the language is foreign, the elements fierce but can I tell you of the breeze that lifted the hair on my cheek just the other day.

it wandered by at a distance you almost thought it would miss me and then I was touched and I think that’s what they call a miracle. but can I tell you of the blanket of stars under which I knelt many moons past at a time when I carried a dam of tears ready to burst and an ache down to my toes that I dared not give air and there hidden deep in the majesty of the sky a voice was heard : look at me look at this what part of you is too dark too bad too small or too sad to step out from under this? this most ancient of lovesongs. but can I tell you that even in the suburbs

the birds perform at dusk and as they twist and bank and soar the most delicious words flow with them: precision. synchronicity. joy. and you get to wondering how on earth did maths get up there? and how come it looks an awful lot like faith? but can I tell you that my favourite types of trees are the ones that turn their faces to greet the morning sun whose leaves applaud to let us know a mighty wind is coming. but can I tell you that in a moment of despair I ran my fingers through some moss and the rising musty scent (it was rich) quietly asked, did Solomon

in all his glory smell quite as good as me?1 but can I tell you that I saw the resurrection! I felt it underfoot in bushland to the west a graveyard of bracken and leaves lay decomposing below and before I could begin to marvel that this was my foundation tendrils of life snaked up

up up

from the rich, dark soil

and I knew it in my nose and I knew it in my toes life and death greet each other as old friends. but can I tell you that at times a fog descends and the thing that holds me in its grip is tired and uninspired greedy and mean and so when I remember

1 Matthew 6: 25-34

I bring it all to the lake whose wisdom winds back to when once it was a hill and I whisper what rules me? if it’s the birds, the trees, the wind let them rule let me extend from them, as a servant branch did not a man once say branches and vines were the way?2 but can I tell you that the human salivates over the box the box, the tribe, the demarcation line and is this not a familiar title for our wandering Spirit: Order-Maker. Chaos control. but can I tell you I see no order in the loveliness of the storm, nor in the shoot emerging from blackened trunk, nor in the scattering of the four winds. I see no order in the story today

2 John 15: 1-17

but still love makes a way but of course love makes a way. but can I tell you that until not too long ago I knew a little doggo, named Scraggy. it was a decade-long companionship and he was, as are all God’s beloveds: lovely wild and at times as dumb as a doorknob but did you know that he was a window into me and a window into You. you see he gave love generously and he trusted with much faith and he learned with all the senses and I looked but I couldn’t find hate do you think if he’d been shooed away from Jesus the amendment would’ve been made: let the little creatures* come to me let the little creatures stay?3

3 Matthew 19: 13-15 4 Romans 8: 22

but can I tell you I believe the fire raged with freedom. and I believe the wind brought with it release. they paved the path and urged take the long road. granted it’s rough granted it’s radical but please remember this is the road along which the wildflowers grow this is the road along which seeds of peace have been planted and groaning in one great act 4 have birthed trees whose shade gives us rest.5 but can I tell you that the first time I let myself listen to creation the same spirit within and without rumbled under the ocean floor of my soul and grief tsunamied up and I tasted it with its coppery tang and it was grief

5 Adapted from a phrase in the song All is Not Lost by The Brilliance

for the people who had come first and the people who are now taken first it was grief it was digging my hands into the grass grief it was leaking hot salty sorrowful tears grief for I’d opened the door a crack and like smoke from a burnt offering the wails and howls permeated into my clothes my hair my skin it was the sound of children children of the Great Mother the descendants of the stars who knew peace in ways we will never know who know God in ways we will never know and if you follow the wind and the flame and the song the path will lead you past Djab Wurrung6 and you’ll hear the wails and howls afresh and you’ll know the story isn’t over yet but let the grief lead you on

6 A reference to the sacred Aboriginal birthing trees threatened by highway construction in central Victoria at the moment. Over 50 generations have been born on these sites and the

let this bond bring you near there is much to be learnt and it starts right here. but can I tell you the spirit fills the gaps right here right now and in Acts just as rain seeps down and deep to the roots so the spirit finds the crevice and makes all things new every creed admires the sunset enjoys the miracle of food have you seen the woman with the scarf she bows to the earth with love I think we could try that too. I have not much more to say but please listen this day and all days to the creation that sustains if we believe the Christ is born in every place where spirit and matter mate,

birthing trees themselves are 800 years old. For more information: https://dwembassy.com/

then it is here, it is now, and it is there, and it is wow so let me leave you with a hymn from a prophet of our times Leunig sees awe breeds wonder and wonder precedes care, he says: Care is the cure. It is slow, It is raw, It is pure. It is simple and bare It is real. It is bold. It is there. Nothing is newer Or older, Or wiser Or truer. Care is the cure.7

7 Michael Leunig, The Age, September 2 2017

Hannah Beggs

Grief ritual. I didn’t have words for my grief Only deep body shaking sobs Eyes clenched so tight that I saw kaleidoscopic patterns blurred but bright Yellow orange red grey Melting into the bowl of tears in the centre of the circle Offering an acacia seed Tiny hard black But infinite in its potential I didn’t have words for my grief Only an earth sized hole in my chest A pit as open as a coal mine My dammed-up waters that no longer dance or spiral For plastic on mountain tops or holding up an entire village of cast aside humans Bare yellowed padlocks of over-trodden land Walked by, raped, numbered, branded, creatures daily plugged into metal machines and sucked of their life energy And I didn’t have words for this grief But it feels like all the lonely cold hard hearts like systems that have bred separation and restrict growth

Like a stolen generation Another species extinct Another family fleeing Another tree chopped down Another temperature rising Another hope dying I don’t have the words for my grief But as I went to the core of it As I dropped fully in I felt it And you felt it with me Brothers and sisters You heard me Held me As I crumbled And burnt it all with a wildfire of rage I washed it with a monsoon season And shook it up with an earthquake And as my passion of this enoughness moved through me, it left a spaciousness That seeped blues and pinks and silvers into my vision And I felt Gaia’s whispers Honey I know I’ve got you Your life has meaning So I swallowed the acacia seed to remind me And slowly like a baby phoenix surrounded by embers I began to rise

Stronger and more powerful than ever Roots entwined with the Centre Ready to mend, piece by piece Ready to build a new world Slowly Patiently Together

Student of the earth. student of the earth burnt by a fire tumbled by a wave stopped by a storm danced by a rainbow lifted by the wind I love feeling small amidst the tremendous power of nature she puts me in a space of pure awe and wonder. unpredictable unstoppable untamed

mirroring and drawing out my own wild ways

Lauren Müller What are we? A reflection. As a person, it’s easy to forget who I am, Forget what it is to be human, Forget that we are free-flowing, life-giving parts, Of a greater confluence of hands and hearts. A river runs her ever-changing course, Across thirsty country; ready to receive, Her free flowing, life giving tributaries, Spreading living veins around the land. What we don’t know, is that the river is everywhere, She is in the stems of the reeds, She is in the veins of the ferns, And in the trunk of the eucalyptus. The river flows into the belly of the myriad creatures, Who bound, flap and hop, Who dive, slither and crawl Their way to her body. The river wets the rock of the earth, She runs, always under our feet, She moistens the air we breathe,

She rises, and falls from above. The river rumbles and jumps, She dances and tumbles, She snakes and swirls, She meanders and waits patiently. She’s worshipped in folklore by some, “The sweet slot between the thighs of the earth”, “The Gran Darma” who lays with the soil, And like the erotic woman, Is feared by particular others. The rivers infinite interconnections, Transcends all intersections of this earth, But I wonder if the river ever forgets who she is? Forgets what it’s like to be a river?

Johann Kettle I have been thinking all day about the moon and why it is that I hold so much devotion to her? On the new moon I am given space to renew and on the full to feel into the collective consciousness. When I feel about the moon, I think about her birth from the sea. If the moon was formed by a tearing away of a part of the outer crust of earth, which science and myth both speculate - it must have remained very close to its parent. Its recession from earth, has over billion of years allowed life to evolve. The moon is just as alive as us. She is constantly letting go of her mother - which shifts, alters and defines both parent and child. They are bound by forces we cannot see but can certainly feel. Sometimes I am not sure if I will ever be able to give enough grace and devotion to my mother. The kind I wish her to feel every morning when she wakes. I think about the weight of time, the weightlessness in the womb, and the weight of becoming mother. It has me lying awake at night pregnant with both grief and love.

I can’t escape the idea that I am made out of this place. It is a very indigenous idea that the earth is mother. In Te Ao Maori we call the papatuanuku and we tangata whenua - people of the land. I think it is quite clear that colonial consciousness has separated us from the earth - our mother. Just think of how devastated the scientific community was when Jane Goodall observed chimps had methods of creating and utilising tools. At this time the ivory tower had defined human superiority on the basis of tool making. But what I have to gather here is that the devastation was less to do with chimpanzee human-like intelligence and much more to do with them hating women. There has existed a desire for the dominance over the divine feminine. The hatred of femmes and women…the violence feminine people endure is born from the same destructive force that degrades the planet. And this is why as long as there are masculine systems of governance there is no hope. - and we are all looking for hope. To me intersectionality is much less about identity and far more

about seeing the connections between very real systems of oppression and envisioning how we can dismantle them for generations that follow us… long after we visit here. I resonate with Anonhi when she says I am actually a witch, I actually debaptized myself. In my christianity I am very unchristian. In my living I am very occupied by death and dying. Maybe this is because I am a Capricorn - I talked with other Capricorn friends about our complete fascination with death and more than death - endings. Our ruling planet after all is Saturn - the time keeper of the universe. I read in a zine that it is a privilege to say the world is ending. Because for many oppressed and colonised, their worlds have been ending for thousands of years. Only now can the privileged start to recognise the terrorism and inherent violence responsible for making the only world you know inhospitable. The psychic violence of being forced to contemplate our own species’ demise, surrounded by the

destruction your own species has induced. (subtle ceiling) I am not looking for one truth because there are so, so, so many. And I think dogma is one of the most dangerous manifestations of the ego. I am engaged with contradictions and polarities and dissolving binaries to make sense of this world. I am looking for essence. For stillness. For connection. When I read about ecology I feel as though I am reading about myself. When I hear that forests are superorganisms that support each other through root and fungi connective systems - I have hope. While I watch my kimchi ferment - I witness the promise of life after death. There are layers and layers and layers of pain in this world but there too are layers and layers of magic. I am learning how to hold the polarities in my garden. These are all very broad statements with holes and gaps. At least now I don’t fear my ignorance but embrace - full bodied, spirited learning.

Hafeez Ali Humility. Handwritten calligraphy from our Holy Quran; Surah Al - An’am (Verses 1-3), Surah Al Hashyr (21-24) and Surah Al Mukminun (115-118). When I was younger, my father would read these verses aloud during Fair & Magrib. Waking up every morning for Fair without fail highlighted his self-discipline- a trait I still desire to perfect and constantly work on. It always started with standing strong, upright and confident, and ended in prostrations and doa’s on our knees… in my opinion, bowing for our Creator only signified his humility. Pursuing calligraphy art has always been an inside passion for me. Infusing with drawings of relevance helps me remember certain events through images. This image of a Samurai Warrior reminds me of my father, inspired by his self-discipline and humility. I know it’s hard to admit, but sometimes our parents have a way of teaching us lessons in more ways than one. I’ll remember this lesson; be humble- know your Creator.

Deep thanks to all those who contributed their wisdom

and art to this booklet and to the program as a whole.

Within all these different voices is one voice and one story, the story of the Earth that needs our attention and prayers, that needs our love and support, as much as it

has always given us the love and support we need. May we remember our role as guardians of the Earth, custodians of its sacred ways, and return once again to

live in harmony with its natural rhythms and laws.

- Llewellyn Vaughan-Lee Spiritual Ecology: The

Cry of the Earth

***

Compiled by Charlotte Cameron.