Existence is always shared

some thoughts from an overnight hike

Last week when we were in South Australia I received a message from a book-loving Instagram friend Kellie, suggesting a book she thought I’d like: Late Light by Michael Malay. I put the audiobook version on hold via my library app and was able to download it the next day. It just so happened that the next day we were driving from Adelaide back to Melbourne and I had a chunk of time in the car where we all decided to do our own audio thing (as opposed to the communal Harry Potter audiobook we had spent countless hours listening to) allowing me to immerse myself in the book for a while. I love hearing an audiobook read by its author, like this one is, knowing their tone and form is true to the writing.

This book is mesmerising in its gentleness, but the strength of its message is sharp. The book is anchored by four often forgotten creatures under threat from climate change in the UK: eels, moths, mussels and crickets. Malay uses this anchor to braid human issues, migration, politics and even libraries into comparison and discussion in a way that in theory might seem strange, but in practice has been carefully tended to make the writing smooth and contemplative. There are some passages where Malay describes the various colours, patterns and textures of moths and I took a quick intake of breath at the depth and thoughtfulness of his descriptions.

Of crickets Malay says:

‘They are singing for their own reasons. Out of the urgency of their fleeting lives. And yet their songs are also a measure of a landscape’s richness.’

Perhaps we have more in common with these - and other - non-human creatures than we might have thought?

When talking about animals and reciprocity, he says:

‘Nothing has its life alone, because existence is always shared.’

It is through the lens of this phrase that I am reflecting on our time spent deep in the bush last week, along the Grampians Peaks Trail. As I walk I am reminded, existence is always shared. As I hear the magical tinkle of fairy wrens, as I see a soft-furred wallaby going about its morning tasks, as I listen to the sweet and sinister murmurings of the bush. Gariwerd is a majestic but rugged place. Trees have awkwardly plunged their roots between rocks, determined to grow. Great fingers of rock reach out into mid-air, a feat of natural engineering. At this time of year, thryptomene covers the landscape like snow. More than once on quiet stretches of track I thought I saw an opaline figure in the corner of my eye, only to look up and see it disappear.

It is quiet, but loud amongst the craggy rocks. As we drive away and the northern cliffs zoom out to fit within my line of vision, it’s easy to mistake some thick vertical waterlines, markings over time, for drawings of a row of giant people, standing, watchful. Again, I have to look twice.

We ventured on to South Australia for a few days, where it felt like there was more sky than land. Under this snowdome of blue we found small squares of nature conservation reserves, with farmland pressing hard up against their boundaries. It was harder to see here how existence is shared. As we crossed the Murray River it was confronting, as if the river plains had simply been peeled off for convenience, to make way for treeless expanses of farmland and lawn, almost (and sometimes) completely up to the eroding banks of the river itself. The river was tinged a soft green, still flowing, birds still picking about its edges.

I watched my girls moving through these places, their bodies following their own natural rhythms of walking, their faces instinctively turning towards the sky or to the sound of a wallaby or a bird, watching their feet as they decided where to place the next step. It’s so important for them, for their generation, to spend time outside, to be taken away from their screens and their messages and the immense pressure they are under - like the nature conservation zones with farmland pressing into their edges, they too have the modern world pressing up against them during their most vulnerable life stages, pushing and pulling them in so many ways that are unfamiliar to my own childhood and teenage years. With such different life experiences, it can be hard to know how to hold them through it. Taking them outside is one way.

Other things…

• I took Because I’m Not Myself, You See by Ariane Beeston away with me and finished it a couple of nights ago. A weighty topic, mothers and postnatal mental health, but in a very readable format that shines a light on an issue that needs to be more openly discussed.

• If you’re interested in hiking, as a family we love watching these hikers on YouTube for ideas about what to pack and where to go and what to do: Lotsafreshair, Set to Hike and my absolute favourite, Kate Grarock. Have fun!

• I made a basic rosemary and garlic foccaccia on Friday, with rosemary from our front garden, to go with this dinner. It tasted all the better because it was cooked by K, not me! Delicious. Oh, and these vegetarian sausage rolls were on the menu last night. No regrets.

I was surprised when I woke this morning to see the oven clock reading 6.44am but my phone, 7.44am. Here, daylight savings has begun again. Tomorrow the final term for 2024 begins. I won’t ask where the time has gone. I am trying not to pretend it won’t be busy or intense at times, but instead I’m reminding myself to stay present, to get outside as much as possible, and focus on the things that matter. Reading, walking, family, writing, and using my hands to focus my monkey mind (not necessarily in that order). Even last night just three days post-holiday I felt completely annihilated (dramatic?) by the constant list of jobs, will it ever all be done? I think, in fact I’m almost certain the answer is no, but my suspicion is that focussing too heavily on domestic tasks is also not the way to live out these years.

What will your focus be as we sail gently on through to December?

Until next time, travel light,

Lucinda x