Tomorrow, husband, Bruce and I are headed south from Queensland to a little known area of the mid-north coast of New South Wales. We’ll be staying just outside a little village that goes by the name of Willawarrin, on 124 acres of bushland, with kangaroos, wallabies, koalas, snakes, dingoes and the occasional marauding cow for neighbors. Every day we’ll be deafened by the trill of millions of cicadas and I’ll see more spiders than I care to acknowledge, but it’s going to be great because this is my mum’s home, therefore it is also the home of my heart. I’m travelling to spend time with my family, to go bush and to reconnect with Pacha Mama (Mother Earth), if only for a short while. I’m also going to bury my baby there, beneath a silky oak – a tree Bruce has chosen to commemorate the very brief, but meaningful life of our little one who died in August. This is the act of passing from one journey into another. Journey’s don’t end, they evolve and develop into new ones. In a way I feel as if I am passing my baby into the keeping of this virgin wilderness, and its caretakers, my parents. It is entirely symbolic, but motivated by a mother’s love.
I will attempt to log on once or twice during the act of going bush, but I can’t guarantee it will have any effect – Willawarrin is remote and often incommunicado. This for me is a boon – no sales people, no worry about bills, no telemarketers, lawn mowers, trucks or shouting neighbors – just a million trilling cicadas and the occasional marauding cow.