We are elemental beings, moved by primal forces

What a glorious Sunday it is. Blue sky, nothing but blue sky. A warm, dry breeze blowing from the North West. I just got out of the creek, which is still beautifully brimming and rushing, but far gentler than it has been. I took a tyre down (woops, must return those borrowed tyres to the neighbours!) and tied it to some rope my son has strung across the creek. Then I lay back and closed my eyes and let the current sway me to and fro, to and fro … ahhhhhh … magic, the contrast of heat of sun on my thighs and belly with cool of dancing water on my back and swirling around my toes. Ahhhh … there is such rightness when all the elements are present and alive to the senses. Fire of sun, water of creek, earth of black basalt rocks beneath and before me, blowing breath of air tossing the leaves above and brushing over my skin.

Last night was elemental, too. We had a fundraiser gig at our lovely little local hall of Whian Whian and we totally rocked out. Sweat poured down faces and backs as we wildly stomped and swayed to the thumping power of harmonica, drum and cigar-box guitar (that looks and sounds like some wild, bush-version of a sitar). The hall shook with our collective joy. Smiling faces all around, a sharing and raising of spirit and good old fashioned country-style FUN. Earth, wind, fire, water: old wooden hall, music, hot bodies, sweat. Smoke from the barbecue and the forty-gallon drum firepit, and the occasional joint being passed around. Cider and samosas and cake. Gossip and life lessons shared over the sink and in quiet corners. Goddess, I love my community! So much heart, so little pretense.

And in the great pounding urge of life, in the midst of this post-flood boom-time abundance of seed and fruit and tadpoles and nests and all the rest … there is the reminder of death. There is the bush-rat the dogs hunted and fatally wounded, whose bright black eyes looked up at me in innocence and shock as its little life ebbed away. There is the black bantam I found lying dead in the chookpen this morning, head and neck damp and slick with carpet-snake saliva – a wasteful death indeed. And then there is the death of the brief-lived CSG industry in our region, too, a death to be celebrated (and it was! last night!) as the company suspends operations in the face of huge, organised, empowered community opposition. All this life, all this death, all this glory!

We are indeed elemental beings, moved by primal forces. Never forget it.

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