for years now I have ached to tell the story of my country
my place in the landscape
the forest in which I breathe.
named Avalon some 30 years ago after the myth of the isle that appears in and out side of reality.
also named andelain by my partner
and called jellybean road by the children and friends.
I have wanted to sing the twisted curling limbs of the ancient angophoras with their nesting hollows and rough barked trunks scored by the claws of goanna and possum.
I have wanted to capture the dawn chorus in a bottle and spray its full melodic symphony into the halls of parliamentary power, into the barracks of uniforms and guns, into the open hearts and minds of our pre schoolers.
I have longed to distill the essence of wild violet and fungi, of milk thistle and wombat berry meandering sprawling their fecundity around the base of stringy bark, bloodwood, black wattle and she-oak.
Earth has called me to respond, to listen and weave her story into the fabric of social reality
so that none may ever again forget her, so that no human may ever again be in any doubt
about ‘the one place’ that is our home.
I write the story of the mist spider spinning finely wrought mist so that my morning walk in the forest is layered with sparkling webs spinning rainbows in the rising sun.
as I stop and sit with the morning I am entranced with the dance of the mist maidens over the still sleeping hills.
I write the joy of the frog chorus that greets the rain
and I like to tell the story of the baby wombat brought up into adult hood by my daughter
and then released to live its wild and busy life in our forest.
This my place is earth, this forest this home.
It is a cauldron of possibilities,
a hearth of family and love;
a dreaming of harmony
and a creative exploration of life within sacred lore.