This is sacred ground

This is sacred ground. This is holy ground.

This place where the light splits and flickers on the stone floor next to the hundred year old carved wooden kneelers. This place where we pray cross legged on the red carpet in front of the altar. This is sacred ground.

The faded chalk runs a little in the heavy rain. A sweet little girl looks eagerly out the window asking “can we go outside yet?” As the sun warms the footpath, i watch her giggle as she hopscotches. This is sacred ground.

They walk hand in hand by the sea. The wind is stronger than she expected. Her head pounds. They explore this beautiful place. They sit together taking in the sea and savouring these moments with each other. She feels the cool of the metal touch the end of her finger. He is so nervous he forgets to ask a question, but instead eagerly looks for an answer. They embrace, aware that the very sky looks a different colour. This is sacred ground.

We sit over coffee in a crowded cafe. Strains of Eva Cassidy play in the background. The coffee machine steams and hisses as the handle clinks against the metal of the machine. We share glimpses, moments of our lives with each other weaving a new story together. Cajoling, encouraging, laughing, consoling. We share these minutes and hours. We talk with the hearts of sisters, wives, mothers, daughters, aunts, friends. We share tears and joy and laughter in the form of words and looks. We notice each other. We love each other. This is sacred ground.

The fog hangs heavy in the valley down below. I roll over and look through the gauzed window feeling the chill of the air through the glass. The verdant paddocks of lucerne drip with dew, and the cattle huddle for warmth under the paperbarks. This is sacred ground.

My land is this land.

My land is this land. The great south land, the land of the southern cross. Of rolling hills, of flat plains as far as the eye can see. Of droughts, of devastating cyclones and flooding rains. Of poets, publicans, politicians, postmasters, of engineers, road trains, and music. The red dust of this land is sprinkled in my veins. That blue, the blue that the sky is here that it is nowhere else reflects in my green eyes. Every view framed by the train carriage window is unique. Yet, they are all this land. This is the land of my people. My mob.

This is sacred ground. This is holy ground.

Photo credit: Anna Blanch. Please do not use my photos without permission.

This post was inspired by {story sessions} – an amazing group of women!

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