By Jane Ormonde
I swung open the double doors to the back deck and there he was – just right there! It was an entirely unexpected but certainly not unwelcome visit – so I promptly put a chair out for him.
The timing of his visit seemed auspicious, and very encouraging in a gently mystical kind of way. Here I was, deep in the final stages of my Master’s thesis; laptop on knees, attempting to articulate (to myself at least) how modern Western people might learn how to connect more deeply to land and place – how we might open up the pathways back into an ancient remembering of earlier times, when we felt close to the Earth and its creatures – rather than “buffered”, as philosopher Charles Taylor names it.
And here was a new friend at my back door – dragging me away from the screen and inviting me to engage, maybe to play. The encouraging words of John Kavanagh, an elder from near Mparntwe (Alice Springs) came floating back into my memory: “You gotta talk to the land! – Say hello!”
And so I did just that. “Hello. Please come in if you’d like to,” I said, out loud. Literally.
As I stood there in front of this magnificently attired green and red King Parrot, I felt like an awkward teenager. Ok, what do I do here? I don’t remember a King Parrot having appeared on our deck like this before – in 18 years here.
I left the wooden dining chair half way in, half way out of the doorway, and assumed my position back on the couch and waited – trembling with anticipation. In moments he flew from the deck railing onto the chair and chatted enthusiastically in my direction. Soon a more muted coloured (female) King Parrot also arrived on the deck railing.
By now, any initial shyness disappeared from the male as he boldly started a tour of our lounge room – winging his way from one piece of furniture to the next – exploring lounge fabrics and table tops with his beak, and commentating as he went. I did my very best to answer him each time, staying engaged and encouraging — very still — and from a safe distance.
The softer coloured female eventually came inside too – but hugged the space near the open door, perched on an Ikea Poang chair. She chatted to me too. But her brightly coloured friend, with his red breast, was all curiosity. It felt like 10 or 15 minutes passed in the company of these two lovelies. But really, who knows because time stood still.
Suddenly, I became aware of a little adrenaline surge as my male friend arrived on the last leg of his tour of the room and landed gently on the low coffee table at my feet. This was bold indeed. No respecting personal space here.
Cocking his head to one side, he looked down into my tea cup, looked up at me, made a comment, and then promptly hopped up onto my knee. As I recall this moment again, my eyes fill with tears of connection and wonder. It was a great life moment.
As he sat perched on my grey tracksuited leg, he looked directly at me and I at him. He chatted, I answered. I feel like he was as surprised as I was! And he stayed. And eventually, he and his female friend exchanged words, and suddenly they were off, out through the open doorway, back into the bush.
I sat there, stunned and delighted, for a long, long time. As one would. And it occurred to me that my personal and academic enquiry of the past few years seemed to coalesce magically in that little encounter. Thankfully this wasn’t the only time they came.
Feeling more connected with the natural world was something I had been working with quite consciously for a while. Like lots of people, I had always loved nature – walking in the mountains, camping by rivers and pottering in the garden – but felt a barrier, an obstacle to a deeper connection that left me feeling confused, confounded and perhaps lonely, at a deep level. I was always looking AT something, rather than feeling part of it. I knew others were expressing similar feelings. Spending time with First Nations people inspired me to understand more about what is possible for human beings in terms of an interdependent relationship with other-than-human beings.
And so began a deeper search through Masters (of Spirituality) study to bring some space to these questions that were bubbling up inside me. Reading Miriam Rose Ungunmerr-Baumann’s description of Dadirri (deep inner listening and quiet still awareness) led me to workshops with her, and other First Nations teachers.
Spending time among First Nations people, it was immediately obvious that the connection to Land they experienced, and how they described it, was so immediately different to what I knew. Weekends of learning from Miriam Rose Ungunmerr-Baumann offered pointers. But as she says, I can’t teach you Dadirri – you have to experience, or ‘catch’ it.
I came back to Melbourne and — inspired by all of this and Miriam Rose’s Dadirri reflection — I developed my own version of a daily practice of developing relationship with the piece of land where we live, back in Melbourne. I got up at dawn every morning for two months.
I just sat, practising something between meditation and mindfulness (but not quite either) — essentially an opening up to the land – through my senses. Turning down the thinking mind and opening my awareness through my body. Sitting in contemplation of the land – feeling, watching, sensing, listening.
And I did this every day, in June and July, whatever the weather. I donned my woollies, and I just sat, and brought my attention to my inner world, and to what was around me. I tried to quieten my mind, like one might in meditation, and I tried to soften my being and open myself up to another way of being. It was a kind of nature contemplation. And I journaled about my moods and the changes in me that I observed.
A kind of Mary Oliver approach: “Attention is the beginning of devotion,” she tells us.
Very slowly, bit by bit, over the days and weeks, I began to notice shifts in myself.
I began to notice things I had never seen - galahs living in a hole in one of the Eucalypts at the bottom of the garden, Kookaburras bookending the day with their calls.
I also began to notice shapes and flying styles of different bird species, and began to tune into layers of sound – low humming frogs in the marshes, tiny wrens in low grasses, lorikeets chattering in the low branches and raucous cockies screeching unselfconsciously as they wheeled around the tree-tops, carving their way through openings.
I watched insects, bees and ants – how they moved and where they went – and plant shapes and colours. My eyes were opening to the sheer diversity and utter gloriousness of it all.
And slowly, home started to feel more homely, and I felt less isolated. When I got home from work or shopping, I wanted to go and check on everyone. How were the galahs? Had the kookaburras made their final call of the night? I felt excited. Eighteen years of living here. Naturally, there was grief in this realization. And gratitude, and hopeful possibilities.
The king parrots came back sometimes, and then they disappeared for what felt like a long time. I stopped expecting them. And then one day, they arrived back on the deck – not just as a couple any more but with their newborn – still colouring up, stumpy little tail and an awkward gait. We were as thrilled as a new set of grandparents. They had brought their baby to meet us. And life goes on.
And there are more stories to both tell and to hear.
Jane Ormonde is a speaker, writer, spiritual companion and soul care counsellor. She lives in a rural part of Melbourne, Australia, and enjoys encouraging others to notice and talk about nature connections in their own lives, through eco-spiritual companioning and running groups in nature connection practices. See: https://www.soulcare.life