It is still Here

Stepping away from the bitumen car park, I walked toward the blue shade of the scrub.

It engulfed me.

A scrappy woodland, regrowth over disturbed ground before the arrival of weedy grass. Land taken back by the native. Resettled, reinstated, reestablished, alive.

By the time trees are behind me, the whole atmosphere has changed.

The road is close but the air diffused by wood and leaves. 

Sound, smell, temperature. In every way this place excludes and expels the grim state of town. To the drivers who rush by in their air conditioned boxes at speed, it's just a messy bit of scrub pending development. To the people of the land it is terra firma, safe haven, home.

Inside this open space my senses are become attuned to the natural order, space rhythm. A 3 dimensional space, but actually 4. Clean, it renews and cleans the spirit.

I hear dry leaves rustle as small lizards attack each other in an ongoing battle for territory, breeding and hunting rights.

The scent of dry wood, leaves and clean earth enters me and compliments my essence. 

Old bones from campfire feasts and roadside carnage are lightly dispersed, bleached white and crumbling occasionally crack under foot. Scraps of metal protrude from derelict earth mounds, an old settlers dump reclaimed.

Cycads show a brilliant spread of green spiky foliage, their fronds shade sprouting seeds that defy the baking earth and sprout bravely on bare ground. 

Stringy bark trees maybe 40years old are the foundation of this place, because of them we call it woodland. They stand tall and straight always watching, sheltering all with a loose canopy of grey and green. Vines occasionally sprout and encircle their trunks.

A dark figure emerges from the cover of low brush, funny I didn't see him coming before he was quite close. A young man, thick curly hair, fresh and clean looking, dressed for town, not at all like the people who sleep rough in the bush.

He moved silently across the dry twigs and leaves toward me, his eyes fixed intently on mine. Clear sharp eyes, in polluted by sleepless nights or smoky fires, no sign of the scourge of ganja or grog.

With a flick of his wrist from a couple of meters away he asks without speaking "Whats up?".

I return the sign and he signals the unmistakable "got a smoke?" With his hand.

"Nah sorry mate" I reply verbally and clumsy. He looks into my eyes, deeply, shrugs and walks on past me.

I turn to see where he is going but he is gone. Vanished. A peculiar meeting in the trees. To Yolngu there is never a chance meeting. He must have been somebody. What did he want? What was he doing?

I looked around some more. Whatever else there may have been here before, everything I saw and felt told me the spirit of the land is alive in this place.

Looking down I saw a stalk of fragile pink and white flowers. I walked slowly back to the car. Stepped out of the cocoon of life and back into The World.