A blazing fire. A story of valour. A story of culture. A story that had been passed on from her wiyanga to her children. It was a story that would be passed on to generations and generations; if her children chose to do so…

Flashbacks of memories crossed the young woman’s mind, as she thought of a story to tell her young ones as they slept and dreamt of their long-lasting culture; one her wiyanga had once told her when she was young too. It was a story of courage, and it passed on wisdom of the ancient ones. She smiled as she thought of a lesson she had learnt long ago, when she was little. She remembered her wiyanga saying that rivers flow on and on, but some choose to stop flowing at a certain point after time. In the same way, sometimes our stories are not passed on, and there will always be a time like this. The young woman knew that her children were ready to be told the story, but it was their choice to either continue it; or let it fall to ashes forever. Knowing this, the woman smiled and began the story:

“As generations passed, and old customs grew old, the ancient past of the First Nations stayed strong, leading the way; through a journey of time, through a journey of courage. Fauna withered, and breezes faded, but the centre of our heritage didn’t. Bonfires and dances, shared with wisdom, burning the midnight oil on the way; feeding connection and learning from Country. If the stars didn’t glow, our culture did. If the sun didn’t rise with a candescent spirit, our culture did. If the tide didn’t rush in with the strong currents, our culture did.” She repeated the phrase with a small smile.

“A living entity, a continuing generation; a forever guide to freedom. This is what Country means. Passed down through times of the past, present and emerging, one thing is for sure: our land of the brave never dies. May the brittle trees break, may the old wind sigh, but our knowledge is a burning light, which still has a long way to go. Country wasn’t just red earth to us, but our identity, family and tapestry of life and existence. Country fed connection to our lands of the brave, and its flowing rivers and berries gave us strength and freedom on the way. This story doesn’t just teach us of our culture, but our true heritages and lands.” She continued to explain with a hint of pride in her voice.

The young woman smiled to herself. Her children had slept, and she too had passed her insight of her past. She knew that the same story would be passed down to others as well, and knowing this, a rush of warmth rushed over her, as it had done on the day her wiyanga had told the same, customary story near the raging bonfire. The bonfire that still held light inside it, waiting to be released once again to emerging descendants. This is what connection to culture truly was: a heritage full of hope. A heritage full of wisdom. A heritage to be shared with others on the way ahead. But then again, it was up to her children if they chose to feed connection once again to their descendants and burn their flame even brighter; unless they chose to let it fall to ashes. But she alone couldn’t tell them to let the fire rage on, she needed to let them make their choice alone; and with time. She had tended to the fire for far too long already, and it was now their turn to learn more about Country, its ways; and its knowledge of passing on stories of their culture. One day it would be time. And one day, they would be ready; once and for all.

The children laughed and pranced. The dirt and soil rumbled while they danced. The children were joyful while they played.

The Country their stage.

The birds entertained them with their song. The plants and grass swayed along.

The Country rumbled while it roared. Sheltering the young from the storm. The Country warmed us when we had no place Like a mother’s warm embrace.

They are the reason we have grown. Oh how we should’ve known.

Now old and fragile.

Protecting the Country is worth the while. The Country’s hands have cleaned and nurtured us for our labour. It is time we return the favour. We must fix our past mistakes. While the Country is at grave stake.

The seeds that have fed us are slowly dying out. The seas and rivers that met our shores, slowly drying out. The horizon corrupts into a dirty brown The clouds slowly turn into smog as they frown.

Plants unrecognisable as the sun and water that fed them are long gone. Unique animals reduced to one. As buildings take over the diverse green. Millions of plants are nowhere to be seen.

Our Country’s diverse flora and fauna is being led to devastation. The animals and plants as we know it is being hunted and stomped on. If this keeps up, the world will surely end in a cold and empty isolation.

The Country is our home, our mother, our father. If we took care of it as it has taken care of us. Is it so much harder?

We must take the hand that held us and hold it. To be able to be alive is a blessing. But is it if the world our eyes sees is lessening?

The plants and animals are our siblings. So, we must learn how to stop doing such harmful things.

WOOSH! Flames burst up around me with other Elders lighting fires around the younger ones of the mob, telling stories under the star-light sky. I walked through the parched grass which tickled my feet with every step I took. I stood next to Uncle and watched as his shriveled but warm hands started to light the fire on the barren land. The heat slapped me in the face and I immediately stood back and hid behind a cabbage tree palm with fear spreading through my body as the fire roared. Chaos reigned in my body. My heartbeat pulsated rapidly, like it was a machine and someone had taken out a clog from it. My mind was telling me not to go any further and I started

to sweat a waterfall. Uncle, however, gazed at the fire with comfort, like an old friend. I was in a state of calamity, until the fire invited me forward with open arms, like a loving grandmother inviting me forward and my mind gave in to its mesmerising feel. I slowly shuffled forward from my secluded, lonely, cabbage tree palm and sat cross-legged next to my Uncle, who was still observing every flicker of the spreading fire.

Every flicker and flame told the ancient stories of my ancestors. How they hunted, how they gathered berries, how they connected using Dreaming Stories… Every segment of every story was more precious than diamonds worth millions of dollars. I closed my eyes and listened. The crackle of the fire, bygone leaves slowly burning, the slow breathing of Mother Earth echoed through my ears like a soft melody. It called my name like a mother caressing her baby in her arms. “Kalina…Kalina…” the voice whispered with a melodious tune. Each orange and yellow hue and tone held the important power of rehabilitation and reproduction. Destructive yet kind, powerful yet gentle. I was immersed with this blessing and realised the fire was not just healing the land, but also healing me from the shards of glass piercing my heart. It slowly melted the shards and made it into a beautiful artwork of kindness and love. Like an angel in disguise. The land seemed to respond by murmuring a little “Thank you,” with its endless winds and branches swaying softly and soundly in peace.

Uncle slowly got up and I realised he must’ve been thinking about the same things as me. His nostalgic memories of his childhood of playing in the bush with his friends and being cradled in his mother’s arms whispering about the old Dreaming Stories of his ancestors and family. “Kalina, time to head back,” he whispered softly. I got up reluctantly, not wanting to leave the warm grasp of the flames. As I walked back on the freshly burnt land, that was already replenishing, I thought about what I learned about my ancestors. Their voices echoed in my head, telling ancient tales about Dreaming, how important and deep the connection is to the land. I soon then remembered this was also going to be a tale to tell to the future generations. Then to the next… and the next…

I dive into the banks of the river and my senses come alive. I look up and breathe in the scent of the canopy, the eucalyptus trees that have nurtured and looked after the river that my ancestors have been bathing and swimming in for thousands of years. I wriggle my toes in the majestic cool waters and dive my body into the memories of the river.

“Nagangbi, Bindi,” I hear a voice salutate me, softer than a whisper, but stronger than a thousand words. A shiver runs down my spine. What was that voice? How did it know my name? I rise above the water, and I see a leaf gently falling into the shining surface of the river. The sound of it falling is like a melody, soft but worth a thousand diamonds. When it lands, the river shines bright, brighter than all of the stars in the galaxy. My big brown eyes widen. It makes me truly believe that our country is so beautiful, a library of stories and memories of the past.

I descend back into the waters and I hear another voice this time, rough as gravel but tender and loving as a father. I hear him usher to me softly, “Bindi, never stop dreaming, your dreams will take you on a journey of happiness, and joy”. I ascend atop the glimmering water, and ponder thoughtfully…. What are these voices? Are they the voices and memories of my ancestors who have come before me? I think about Uncle, with his eyes that twinkled like glass in the morning sun, about how he taught me that each ripple of the river will lead me to the voices of my ancestors and members of my mob from the past.

My body relaxes and I slowly manoeuver it onto my back so I can float in tranquility. Then, I hear so many serene and idyllic voices expressing to me in unison, “Those who lose dreaming are lost.”

“Wow,” I think to myself, fully mesmerised from the magic of the river and its enthralling memories and voices. Finally, I optimistically step out of the water with hope in my heart and my soul full of the love from my ancestors.

Dear Diary,

Last night, I had a strangely peculiar dream I want to talk about.

When I began to shut my eyes, my body felt like it was lifting itself above, into the skies, my thoughts picturing themselves into a special place far away. Then, I realised I had dived deep into the Dreamtime.

I was sitting down on a stout log, in a meeting place. I darted my eyes at every position, observing what this Country truly has to offer. Birds, reptiles, trees, soil, rocks… I was soaking it all in, imagining living in such beauty like this.

Hello! You seem to have come to the Dreamtime! an Elder exclaimed. I swiftly turned my head to that voice, to find one of the wise, local Dharug Elders.

Would you like to stand up and walk with me? I followed his orders. We ventured out of the meeting place, to where he began to chat with me. He talked to me about the ways of people connecting with each other and learning from their Country. His words weighed upon me as I soaked in the fascinating surroundings, wishing one day I could permanently live here.

I saw familiar faces, that even I knew, having conversations with the Dharug people and learning from their culture and language, like a sense of reconciliation. Even the animals here looked happy and content as well, living in such a perfect and peaceful place.

We arrived at another empty meeting place at the opposite end, as he told me to sit down on any log. He began to tell me the importance of Country, how it holds the Dharug stories, it being alive with spirits that guide us with our everyday lives, and how we can learn from it. I looked down at the deep soil and felt a subtle connection to it, reminding me of a close relative, always there for you, and always there to learn more from.

As the sky grew darker, I was invited to join a sweeping ceremony nearby, which I accepted. People from all ages surrounded a meeting place, and one by one we were cleansed from our negative energy. The children next to me were talking to me about the history of their Country, their stories and knowledge that passes on, and how we all still need to recognise and act upon the reconciliation and unity between Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal people.

Before I left, the same Elder came up to me and handed me a totem, with a dolphin carved onto it. His final message was, I thank you for learning from us, and our Country, and connecting to us. Here is a gift to remind you to embrace your inner strength, and to enjoy life. Goodbye, mittigar.

I woke up, in my bed, questioning myself about what just happened. I seemed to have remembered everything, and I really began to have more of an open mind to the hard-working Dharug people, their ways of connection, language, reconciliation, and even a more open mind to Country.

My parents are definitely going to get a huge lecture from me!

In the garden of time Ancient grains stand tall like Elders. They whisper through the wind One bite, one story. Each leaf holds a date, Imprinted in its veins Like a secret code of ancestry.

History grows inside of him. The past blossoms beside the present, Like a time lapse in slow motion. The soil remembers. It holds footprints of ancestors, And the roots stretch deep into memory.

The time of Earth is sacred. Hands hold seeds, And seeds hold stories. With all those around, We share, we learn, we listen. Country teaches us through flavour, Through texture, Through biodiversity.

Moving swiftly across the land, Turning left or right Which one to choose? Different years, different times, Divergent flavours. Each one a lesson In ecology and culture.

He picks up the Illawarra plum, Dark as midnight, Glossy like a polished stone. He tastes the air of centuries. His spirit is transported To realms of consciousness and kinship. Different plums, different feelings, Different times coming alive.

He chews slowly. The taste lingers strong Scarcely sweet, but full of meaning. It’s not just food. It’s a connection. It’s photosynthesis turned into memory.

Returning to the garden of cadence, He sees lakes of lima beans, Rivers of riberries, Mountains of muntries. Each one a native treasure A gift from Country. Resolving the taste One bite, one aspiration.

His mouth holds a lingering flavour Like a song stuck in your head. Different items, different savour, Different pulses coming vigorously. Transported to the garden of time once more, He feels vibrant, aware, proficient.

He continues to eat, Discovering modern herbs anew Lemon myrtle, wattleseed, bush tomato. Each one a teacher. They speak in flavour, in texture, in scent. They teach him about resilience, About adaptation, About the ecosystem he belongs to.

He learns from Country Not just with his brain But with his tongue, his nose, his fingertips. He learns through taste, Through touch, Through curiosity.

Feeding connection is more than eating. It’s understanding. It’s respect. It’s knowing that every plant, Every berry, every grain has a role, A story, a purpose. He is a part of this cycle. He is not above it. He is within it. Country feeds him, And he feeds it back With care, with learning, with gratitude.

In the garden of time, I grow too. Not just taller, but wiser. Because when I eat from Country, I don’t just fill my stomach, I fill my spirit.

The soil beneath my feet, is the same soil the Elders once stood upon. The wind echoes their whispers, telling their stories, dancing their dances, and exploring the land they still called home.

This soil isn’t just what lies beneath my feet, this soil lives, breathes, and follows the years of traditions alongside the Elders.

These same Elders once taught, learnt, and shared on this soil beneath my feet. The soil we use now to share their stories, remember their bravery, and uphold the legacies they built while learning their way of life.

The sophisticated agriculture systems working in their natural rhythms to form the land and shape this country.

This soil, once Terra Nullius, unrightfully claimed, now bringing people together and sharing the battles fought by those who came before us, bringing stewardship upon this soil.

Through the spirit of these Elders we unite on Dharug Country.