A calling to the E. regnans forest

From the trees or perhaps from a lyrebird. And on the trickiness of being aware right now.

One thing I’ve noticed since immersing myself in Substack and also re-starting my instant messaging life on BlueSky, is that bad news has hooks.

What I mean by that, is that bad news seems to catch attention, to catch outrage, to catch anger, resentment, envy, frustration, hopelessness. The hooks are many and the hooks are effective.

Opinion pieces sprout, messages are shared, liked, resent. Avalanches of opinion race along. All of which affects my mood.

I am exposed to enough challenging information in the course of my paid part-time employment as a public servant. And I am very aware that my mood can be swayed by exposure to challenging information. That is why I need to actively manage to which things I am exposed.

Social media is full of conflict. Its business model relies upon conflict. And the many awful things happening in our world, nation, community, are ripe for opinions. Injustice and inaction. Conflict.

I could nominate issues. I could. Maybe another time.

There are weighty matters afoot and these are important for our shared future. But I cannot spend much time thinking about them. Quickly, I feel overwhelmed and I feel angry and powerless and sad. My own mental health demands that I steer out of those waters.

(So what then? What if someone who is educated and has studied can no longer spend time talking about them? Where does that leave us? I do wonder about that).

What I have learned is that the best thing I can do is to look after myself.
With that in mind, I seek to remain present in my world.

To remain present and open to whatever is happening around me.
I have found that to be very helpful not only to me, but to people in my life.
And it was in this spirit of openness, that I noticed what can only have been a calling on Thursday night.
And that is what I chose to relate here, in the form of this letter:

==

Dear Lyrebird,

Did you call me?
Was that you who called last Thursday night?
It might have been.
I guess it might have been.
The message I received seemed to come from the trees.
On Thursday evening, I felt a calling from the Eucalyptus regnans forest.
The mountain ash.
The swamp gum.
I felt as if they had called me.
And maybe they did.
Though with your gift for mimicry, perhaps it WAS YOU all along.

==

Friday morning.

I’ve been called. I wake up and I know that I’ve been called by the trees of the Dandenong Ranges. These are the Eucalyptus regnans after which I scored a pseudonym all those years ago. A.K.A. Mountain Ash. A.K.A. (my favourite!) Swamp Gum. The tallest flowering plants on Earth.

The trees have called and I know that I need to see them today. You don’t argue with such a calling.

At home I pack a picnic lunch and a water bottle, a beanie and my boots, and I’m off. Off to the Dandenong Ranges – about 40 km east of Melbourne. I choose a route without tolls, as life is expensive enough just now without paying to drive on somebody else’s private road.

I’m on the (public) eastern freeway when I see a strange shape on a slim metal bridge that spans the multi-lane freeway. Four lanes head east, with emergency lanes either side, and a generous grassy median strip. And then four lanes that head west, with emergency lanes left and right. This is a very wide thoroughfare. And just up ahead, the thoroughfare carves straight through a hill. On each side of the freeway, exposed sedimentary layers hint at the very distant past. And here, where a metal bridge spans the freeway between two exposed rock faces, a strange organic shape is silhouetted against the sky. I can’t make it out. I’m a little concerned.

As I drive nearer, the shape resolves.

The shape looks nothing like its sharp, stark surroundings. The shape seems to “pop” from the background of industry and straight lines; multi-lane freeway, exposed rock and metal bridge railings. And now this strange, organic shape resolves. The shape is a couple, two people, who stand alongside one another, locked in a strong embrace.

A kind of magic is upon this day.

From here, it’s suburban freeway into suburban grid into winding hill country, until I arrive. And I’m here. One of only two cars in this decent car park of crunchy wet gravel. All around the ping of bell miners. The chill of midwinter air. At the edge of the carpark, a trail begins.

Today I have no time pressure.

And I am here alone.

With the luxuries of my senses and a good few hours of daylight to spend on the hill, I set off into the Swamp Gum forest.

Around each corner a new view astounds. The sky above is patchy with cloud. Intermittent streams of sunlight dapple the shifting scene of man ferns and tree ferns, slope and gully. The track is wet. Gravelly high ground, muddy low ground. There are puddles. I follow a path to the falls.

Light and shade.

Bark and fern.

Squelch of mud.

Awed, I stand in this cathedral that predates not only human philosophy and all the great religions, but predates all of human evolution by a yawning amount. This cathedral is thought to date from the Eocene; a geological epoch that lasted from about 56 to 33.9 million years ago. (“A product of around 40 million years of evolution the Mountain Ash Forests are complex and fragile ecosystems that are now critically endangered.” https://www.greatforestnationalpark.com.au/attraction/monda-giants/)

It is commonly thought that humans first arrived in Australia around 65,000 years ago. That would mean that the Mountain Ash forests have been here 615 times longer than humans. And 200,000 times longer than British and European colonisers.

Fingers of cold run down by back. I step along the track.

Magic and sorrow, wonder and sadness cartwheel through me as I stop to read dedication plaques on a trackside bench seat. For there is my name, listed among the dead. R.I.P. David Wilson, founding member of the Friends or Sherbrooke Forest group.

A kind of magic is upon this day.

I take a break.

I take many breaks.

I stand, I watch, I listen.

And each time I pause along the track, birds begin to flit about.

Yellow-faced honeyeaters and crimson rosellas say hello. I see what might have been a European greenfinch. I hear what sounds exactly like a kookaburra.

After much time and much being in the forest, I hear a scratch in the undergrowth and I look up. And there you are on the edge of the path. A superb lyrebird. Perhaps 20 metres ahead. You are busy. You forage through leaf litter and through the soil surface for food. Big legs, big feet working hard. Your magnificent tail sways behind.

Immediately, I am thrilled to know that you are the superb lyrebird (Menura novaehollandiae), an Australian songbird, one of the world's largest songbirds, renowned for your elaborate tail and courtship displays. Renowned for your excellent mimicry. I know that your image appears on the Australian 10 cent piece. I know that your species is endemic to forests of southeast Australia. And I know that Sir David Attenborough said that you display one of the most sophisticated voice skills within the animal kingdom— “the most elaborate, the most complex, and the most beautiful”.

There is magic upon this day.

For yes, to walk amongst this ancient, towering forest has felt like a blessing. But to have met you, a wandering and secretive high officer of this cathedral, has lifted the experience to a new plane. Lyrebird, you could be anywhere. You could be doing anything. And yet, here you are. Right here, right now.

Dear lyrebird, I watch in your cathedral as you scratch away fallen leaves, you pick up a stick and you move it. Swamp Gums that must be tens, dozens, hundreds of years old reach to the sky all around. Bell miners ping. Tree ferns stand as if caught in a photo frame; their fronds unfurl towards another hopeful day.

A nondescript Friday here in this little pocket of Earth has become a day of meaning and place, a day of wonder and delight.

Dear Eucalyptus regnans, dear lyrebird — thanks for your call. It was lovely to meet you. I feel very lucky, indeed.

Love, Swampy.

==

I hope you enjoyed that. That was Sproutings #87. If this is your first Sproutings, consider heading back to read an earlier issue, to acquaint yourself with this part of the e-world. This is a reader-supported effort. If you enjoy reading these stories, please consider subscribing. These posts will always be freely available. If you are willing and able to pay for a subscription that would shout me the equivalent of a pot or a coffee once a month, that would be excellent. If not, no problem. Others are doing that. So everyone gets the Sproutings. Enjoy.

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