"All the World's a Stage We Pass Through" R. Ayana

Sunday 15 January 2006

Goddess’ Children

Goddess’ Children


The swimming hole is perfectly still, with a sheer meniscus of water bulging toward the glowering thunderheads reflected within its pellucid depths. Downstream a small waterfall plashes and pours into the pool, but the torrent doesn’t disturb the mirror sheen with rippling distortions.

        We shatter the liquid crystal, diving from heat and humidity, leaping in to streak through the coolness, dodging turtles while eels, perch, mullet, catfish, ducks and geese stream away from us. Today there’s no seven-foot goanna splashing away from us, but a green tree snake awaits frogs on the bank.

        It’s very hard to be burned by the Sun here amid surrounding verdant viridian which sucks up all U.V. attempting to penetrate the depths of the valley and the fireproof canopies we’re carefully rebuilding. Less than a hundred yards away, heatstroke awaits any mad dogs or Englishmen out on the gravel road.

        The rainforest water is perfect velvet. This small part of the river has had the same name for thousands of years, since the dreaming and the vast times during which Goorah’s ancestors (see previous posts) lived here and passed through. It’s legendary; a blessing to be able to live here. The area guards itself well, rejecting most who attempt to live here – without transforming themselves. Some places are, for all practical purposes, inaccessible.

       You know all those times one says to oneself, “This is something that needs to be changed in me, something to transform in myself,” – and then are distracted from self-realisation by hypnotic human society or mundane physical obstacles? You know how you say, “I’ll deal with it later”?

        When you come to certain places that are still alive, initiation places, sacred places – now is later. Best to work through these things before attempting to cohabit with a living paradise.

   The ten-foot python has temporarily displaced the hand-fed family of possums in the loft. Dozens of solitary goannas roam through the high summer, shedding their skins. Strange black, blue-tongued lizards, dark and glossy as land mullets, share the riverbanks with a myriad of creatures – now including brush-tailed phascogales and bettongs. Bats and possums duel over fruit by night, hiding from the sudden silent swoops of powerful, sooty and mopoke owls while koalas and yellow-bellied gliders call loudly.  My toe passed through burgundy to pink, after kilometres of barefoot walking through rugged country.

      And Goorah’s people are still here.

      - R. Ayana

Image – author’s

images – author’s @ http://farm1.static.flickr.com/48/143558856_f95b1696e8_z.jpg?zz=1

For further enlightenment see –

The Her(m)etic Hermit - http://hermetic.blog.com

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