An altered state of consciousness

some notes on time in nature

I took the photo above on a camping trip last weekend at a place that always offers me a deep sense of connection and grounding: the Prom. This fortnight I wanted to share a piece I wrote about the Prom a few years ago. My girls are older now than they were when I wrote it, and the issues more compacted within a few short years, but my feelings remain the same. I am dedicated to sharing wild places with my daughters, pulling them out of our domestic lives as often as we can to explore the natural world in ways that are accessible to us, to give them the time and the space to know it in a way that makes sense for them. To give them the chance to come to the conclusion that - though we may have forgotten - we are of that world, even more so than the one of bricks and mortar (and screens) that we know so well.

In amongst the political warfare, the petitions, the scientific reports, this is where I often find myself, profoundly lonely with my fears, which in the light of day and the throes of domestic life (netball, swimming lessons, spag bol, school pick ups and play dates) can seem completely unreal. It is easy to get lost in domesticity, to see the natural world as something separate to myself, and forget how we all play a part.

This fortnight I listened to part of this interview about the importance of sleep, and whilst the aspects of sleep it discusses are profoundly interesting, it got me thinking about the term ‘altered state of consciousness’. In the context of the interview, this term is referring to the state of sleep, but I wanted to use it to refer to the feeling of being immersed in nature. I find this state can come both whilst in the wild, or, in the days or weeks following time spent in the wild, brought on simply with the visceral memory of it. Perhaps this is awe¹?

Once my kids are tucked into their sleeping bags, their dark summer skin rough with sand and glowing against their pillows, I stand outside. There are still people awake; I can hear quiet chatter and the crunch and flash of people walking to the bathrooms with their toothbrushes and head torches. I know that somewhere fossil fuels burn, icecaps melt, old growth habitat is logged, and species are swiftly disappearing. But it feels a far cry from here. I tilt my head back and watch the sky breathe stars to life, and I feel small, and happy, because of my ultimate tiny-ness, reprieved of my sins, of my part to play in all that is unfolding².

At the end of last year we purchased my Mum’s Jacyo camper trailer and recently, after months of searching, we have finally picked up a car suitable to tow it³ and we are ready to ditch our tents and hit the road. We’ve camped all through pre-baby life, pregnancies, babies, toddlers, small children, and it’s truly a joy now to camp with our tween/teens and see them melt into the outdoors, reading their books, going walking, and tuning out. I feel proud to - at the very least - have taught them that small skill, in this crazy world we live in.

In a few weeks we will head off again over the school holidays. After a brief dip away last weekend, my body is aching for the bush.

It is unadulterated joy that I feel, in the supernatural beauty of the Prom. In the end, this is what I can offer my children: beauty in its changing landscapes. I can embed in them a love of nature and place, and share with them our collective memories and stories. I’ll tell them how their great-grandfather used to hold their warm hands in his as we walked the Loo-Errn, and how their grandmother complained on the trek up to Mount Oberon as a teen. We’ll continue to repeat the story of the wallaby that chewed my eldest daughter’s pants, and the wombat that tore through our tent when we accidentally left the esky out overnight. I will tell them the names of the few plants and birds I can identify and teach them how to string up a tarp. Small but important wonders. I may not be a climate scientist or an activist, but I can use our love of the Prom to teach them to care, and this important human trait is surely where profound and significant action begins.

If you would like to read the full piece, you can access it here⁴.

Where are your favourite / grounding / meaningful places?

Other things…

• I’ve been enjoying reading The Echoes by Evie Wyld, and working on #booksinourhands February (here’s January’s edition).

• I loved reading this stunning piece by

  Kate Bown
  . I related deeply to this sentiment - that moment when shit suddenly feels real on your imagined adventure (despite Kate’s being a little more adventurous than my own!)⁵: ‘But now, 3 days in, on a tricky and mostly trackless traverse of the Du Cane Range, I am beginning to wonder if this was really what I wanted? My dreams and reality having merged and now stuff is getting real and my life is on the edge. Even the alpine daisies are worried — drawing their golden petals upwards to take shelter from the elements.’

• I’ve barely been scratching together enough time lately to listen to a podcast episode (librarianship study is back and I’m in the throes of it), but I’m part way through this one and hope to finish it this week.

And that’s quite enough for now.

Until next time, travel light.

And if you do decide to head out into the wild - even if that is simply your garden or the reserve down the road - tread carefully, go gently, leave no trace.

1. There is a great book by Julia Baird on this topic, called Phosphorescence: On Awe, Wonder and Things That Sustain You When the World Goes Dark.

2. On one trip, I took a midnight loo trip and saw Elon Musk’s Starlink tracking across the sky. Having not yet heard of it at the time, I was convinced it was a UFO.

3. I’ve never been so acutely aware of every car we pass on the road - being that person that goes up to the wrong car in the carpark and thinks it is theirs, and in fact, I did this just last week and tried to open a car door of a similar car to my own at school pick up, until my nine year old said ‘Mum! That isn’t our car!’

4. There are also a number of other pieces inspired by nature and the Gippsland region of Victoria which you can read here.

5. This year will be our third taking our girls out for an overnight hike. I always imagine it with rose coloured glasses, but then start to experience anxiety as it gets closer - what if there’s a snake, what if we get lost, what if we run out of water? On our first overnight hike a couple of years ago at the Prom, I lay in a tiny tent with two of my girls in the middle of no where, and listened to a storm come in from the south during the middle of the night. I had no idea how we would get back to our car the next day, and questioned how responsible it was to be out there. I felt fear and worry. Will that branch above our tent fall on top of us? Will there be lightning? In the end, it was all fine, just a bit wet. Laying there in that tent, hearing the storm blowing in from across the water is now one of my most treasured memories.