SOLITUDE
“ … just sit there quietly and become part of its spirit …”
With our Central Australian weather cooling from bloody hot to reasonably warm, I took a German artist for a three hour hike through the valley of the Ilparpa ranges, heading towards the loftier MacDonnell Ranges in the north.
Spinifex and buffel grasses knee high in places and everywhere that wonderful pervading peace that nourishes my spirit so quickly.
I took the artist up one of those “foot hills” which, in itself, is quite high and difficult to climb, to the crest where there are to be found ancient limestone rocks jutting from the peak; on them are weird “writings”, or so they seem, but which are, in reality, just a natural characteristic of those particular stones.
They look as though some ancient people scribbled on them in an indecipherable script thousands of years ago and left them to solidify from soft clay into hard rock.
The artist was fascinated by them, these “ancient writings”, as I jokingly call them.
She set about to do a rubbing of them on large sheets of paper, using materials she carried in her backpack.
These transferred impressions are then taken by her into her studio where she incorporates them into mysterious art works from the Central Australian outback: things to puzzle, bewilder and intrigue people from other cultures who never in their lives have the opportunity to see such images with their own eyes.
As she worked over her rocks, I settled down on the crest and looked out over that magnificent landscape that seemed to reach away in all directions to infinity.
An extended panorama of rocky ranges and misty distant hills, grassy plains, evaporated billabongs, long valleys – an ancient land, old when man himself was young, and it was all mine.
Look at it long enough, and quietly enough, and you somehow lose your sense of self and blend with its spirit, as though we share a common pulse, a vibrant energy of life that extends beyond the flesh and rocks and timber, one that has for ever been and will for ever be.
In such places you acquire an instinctive sense of being only a visitor, a very temporary inhabitant, who, too, will ultimately disintegrate into the dust of the land to become part of its eternity.
The sights and feelings, the warm emotions of relationships, are only an insight, a certain perception that illuminates and darkens in mortal understanding.
Here we experience the intense sun and heat of summer, with beautiful, subtle, and sensual sunrises over distant pink mountain ranges, and the first breaths of breezes that cool the body as they drift by, and sudden rain storms that grow out of nowhere and wet us; we don’t run, we relish its coolness and moisture, the new sensation on our skin and the sudden relief which seems such a blessing.
Crowds can be very lonely places. Away from people, cities, the noise and restless energies, you can achieve quite another state, a sense of relationship with nature, of your own origins, and even of your own mortality. The landscape itself is so inherently powerful and energised, so pregnant with life and nurturing, so overwhelming. You can only look at it in wonder, maybe feel something of its very old pulse suddenly in rhythm with your own, and sense the brevity of our human lives. Often when I’m out riding my horse through this wilderness country I have to stop and just exist, not move, hardly breathe, just sit there silently and become a part of its spirit; let it seep into my soul, mind and body, and feel myself become part of its all, which I am, which you are, and which we all are. But not all of us can sense and acknowledge it, or even allow ourselves to experience our natural relationship with the earth, the sky, the universe. Sometimes, too, when I’m out exploring, I just sit on a rock, or under the shade of a tree, or lie naked in a rockhole of water, and stay still. Then you can see the animals and birds coming out of their hiding places to join you because they can sense you are not an enemy, not someone to fear, but are part of them, too, and they seem to instinctively understand you, although human, are never a threat to them or their kind. I’ve had wild kangaroos and dingoes (wild native dogs) come within touching distance, totally unafraid, accepting. A lovely experience!
I have lived in some of the most densely populated cities in the world. In such places, in the privacy of my own heart, I have known the isolation of such living, its unnerving foreignness, its loneliness and even terror. I have seen human beings living in fear of each other behind locked doors, enforcing themselves into an isolation that ensures their survival but starves their spirits.
Students of the earth – geologists, they call themselves – have estimated these Central Australian rocks as being in the vicinity of 500 million years old, an age my poor little brain has difficulty in realising.
In such moments we come to understand, too, that the land is never owned, it is only leased or rented, or used, and the ownership money that changes hands between people is an illusionary token that has more to do with exploitation than realities.
None of us “own” this land. We occupy it. It harbours us. It nourishes us. We build on its surface, till its soil for food, fence it, dam it, harvest its produce, admire it, ignore it and sometimes degrade it.
But the land is an entity unto itself, ultimately indestructable and self-healing, and men are its parasites, its burden.
Our egos, our vanity and our greed perish with us.
But the land is eternal.
Sometimes, as the world sleeps, I see the sun rise over this vast landscape of incredible beauty.
At “piccaninny daylight,” as we call it, the pre-dawn, if there are clouds lying low over the eastern ranges, they begin to reflect a soft pinkish hue that is of the most subtle colour imagineable. This only lasts for a minute or so then, in fairly rapid succession, others colours are added: orange, yellow, ochre reds, all wild Namatjira colours, the colours disbelieved by the unknowing.
At first the sun is a brilliant, blinding disc of pure light that illuminates the peaks of the ranges and gradually it slides down into the gullies and gorges, giving birth to a new day.
In the waters of the billabongs, if any, that wondrous sky is mirrored in intricate detail, if no breeze touches its surface,
When the land is flooded with light, the MacDonnell Ranges lie bare and exposed, millions of years old, and their ragged gorges look as though they were haphazardly raked with the angry claws of a giant animal.
At day’s end, the sun can become a crimson ball of fire that throbs passionately over the western hills. Sometimes, it seems, to suicide on the lofty rugged heights and its dying blood gradually stains the landscape in a ruddy glow.
It is almost theatrical in its natural brilliance, a sort of crescendo of colour and light and mood, one that can affect the observer markedly, as though having in some strange fashion witnessed a death of something that will never again be repeated on this earth for the eyes of men.
Wandering down a dry creek bed, idle and alone, I suddenly saw ahead of me a dingo mother with her pup, frollicking together in the warm sand.
At first the mother dog had not detected my presence, so intent was she on the frenzied antics of her offspring.
The gingery little pup, not yet aware that I was a member of the enemy race, turned towards me and started awkwardly running, falling over its own feet as it advanced. Behind, the mother whimpered a warning, instinctively starting forwards, but halting hesitantly, completely unsure of what she should do in this totally unexpected predicament.
As always with dogs, wild and domesticated, I crouched down and rested on a heel. This position always seems to lessen the threat of human presence.
I did not whistle for the pup or beckon it closer. I crouched motionless, simply watching the mother dingo’s dilemma.
Hearing the maternal growl, deep in the throat, the pup paused and flopped down on its haunches, cocking its head curiously to one side, its tail wagging with blatant excitement.
To appease the mother’s anxiety, I slowly stood upright, turned and retraced my steps along the creek bed, looked back once over my shoulder, then slowly walked away.
As I retreated, the mother raced forward to her puppy, grabbed it by the scruff of the neck and ambled away, up the creek bank and finally disappearing into the dense spinifex grass at the base of the MacDonnell Ranges, where they have lived for centuries.
© J.S.
I have always wanted to see Alice Springs, but I have just been there and can still feel the quiet and see the beauty through my soul. Thank you for taking me there.
— MerriEllen · 8 March 2009 · #