Ancestral Whispers

following a writing prompt filled with pink whispers

If you really knew me, you would know my pink world. Where a threadbare talisman holds the power of worlds—interior, elusive, extraordinary. Where fresh pink mums call out to granddaughters toggling between worlds. Where a giant turtle filled with 110 eggs climbs onto the beach under cover of dark and comes so close we can almost feel the beat of her heart beneath the massive green shell. Where galahs leave feathers to be found and hooded crows come for morning yoga. Where seagrass turns the color of coral lips and oceans are so blue that there aren’t enough hues in any paintbox. Where termite stacks line the road for miles and miles and heat turns so hot that steam rises from your pee by the side of the road. Where stars fill the indigo night and a kangaroo turns into a t-rex. Where ladies named Brooke and Kim ooze information about turtles—green, loggerhead, hawkbill—whose tracks look like a motocross trail along the morning beach. Where miles and miles of Australian land and sky and sea stretch before us. Where magic is real and indigenous ancestors whisper stories and songs through the hot breeze.

pink lake courtesy of Bill Hughlett

Ah… To sleep until 7:20 instead of 5:00 a.m. Here now at Ningaloo Reef, Exmouth, WA. We’ve landed in this far off place and decided to stay in one place for a third night. Emus strut across the property. The flies are the most intense we’ve experienced thus far. At breakfast, we drink Red Earth juice. The color reminds me of this land’s ancestral message: Listen, Learn, Respect. There is a story I don’t even know how to write down. Maybe that’s why the aboriginal stories are spoken only. The tales become fixed or stagnant or lose something when written… but still I need to try… to follow the thread even though I don’t know when it began. Perhaps with that 1st collage—the map of Australia, a baby, and the words DREAM the JOURNEY. Almost 20 years ago … or was it before? Has time disappeared like words written in evaporating ink? Yet, here I am. A gecko chirping outside the window. Brian Eno on Spotify. A painting of Uluru next to me. Dream the journey.

I asked Bill to turn the car around and go back to the Denham cemetery. There I said hello to Janie Winder (although I want to call her ‘Wilder’; I think she’d like that). I admire her pink mums, still fresh in the baking sun, say a prayer to the graveyard, admire the childish gnomes blown over by the fierce wind, reach down and right them. Listen. Learn. Respect. This is what the ancestors ask. All of them. From lands far and wide. Listen. Learn. Respect. Lay flowers at their feet, like Janie Winder, 101 years old. A fierce example of life lived.

We leave Denham and drive onward to Carnarvon. The big banana. Stromatolites. The Thong Shack. Shell Beach. We settle into our little cabin and I write a poem: An Ode to Shark Bay Road. I’ve already decided we need to stay in town to visit the Culture Center that won’t open until 9:30 a.m. And there begins the story I haven’t yet written.

Together, Bill and I enter this place that can only be described as holy. Immediately, we are mesmerized by the voices and stories that come to greet us. I weep at white men’s audacity and ignorance. Taking children and sacred objects that don’t belong to them. Belittling culture that goes beyond understanding and words. There is something about this land that tugs me deeper. Ways that I can’t explain. Questions I cannot answer. I pause and learn about the burrowing bees, (glancing at my own bee tattoo). I then move onward to listen to another recorded story. There are five to choose from. Two women. Three men. I click on the first woman. Nope, not this one. I move to the next and press the button. Her name is Betty Fletcher, a resident of Carnarvon and this is where words fail what comes next. This “random” stranger whose story I am “randomly” choosing to read is the granddaughter of yesterday’s Jane Winder who I paid tribute to in poem and deed!!! We are almost 100 miles from that cemetery where dozens and dozens of graves lay. This cultural center has many more exhibits I have chosen not to explore. So, what the heck is happening? Is it coincidence? Serendipity? Magic? My pink thread tugging? From pink mums in Denham to a museum in Carnarvon, these elusive women call to me. I wonder if Betty placed those flowers on her grandmother’s grave? I wonder if we crossed paths. I wonder. I wonder so much. What else can I do, but wonder and choose to live into the questions? Some things have no tangible explanation or answer… But, I believe, if you slow enough to hear the wind, the old ones just might whisper and guide the next step. Listen. Learn. Respect. To know me is to know that this is my highest way. Namaste.