In the beginning there was The Shire. Not so much deluxe in
village green or the well tilled rolling hills of a Middle Earth in neat
tapestry pieces. This land was the landscape of wily bush and an irregular
undergrowth, as bio-diverse as the unmethodical landscape itself. We lived in a
regular house, brown brick, square block, tickety-tock in time to a suburban
uniform. But between that block and a Royal National Park there were no fences
back then. It was the first home I knew. It’s the first place I remember, the
first moments of growing up, the first time to learn about life and love and
what it is to fully explore nature. It was our playground. It was everything I
could have wanted.
We wandered about there, my sister and I on occasion,
sometimes myself and a pal from up the road but more often than not it was
simply just me from the inside to the outside and back again on a wild wooded
bush adventure. Amidst a back drop of curious Picasso like strokes to the wide
eyed wonder of a Daliesque repertoire, the dazzling diversity rendered boredom
unthinkable and possibility winged wide open and ready for take-off.
Along a narrow path, dancing the two step shuffle and
attached to a sword christened twiggy, oh I was brave. I was treacherous. I was
honorable. I was defender off the great goddess Starbright (Flannel Flower)
and sworn enemy to the heaviest venomous snake King Mulga De Vile.
Reinforcements – a vastly elegant and swiftly locomotive troupe of silver cloaked
kangaroos. Here I was the architect, as we all are, those of us the dreamers,
the believers in a magic made perfectly possible by thinking, by trying, by
jumping into an invisible window of real ideas and moving pictures.
I went to my first rock concert here, literally and not. We
were the main attraction. It was a duet with a little girl wearing champagne
coloured hair, cropped closely like a sweet bowl hugging a cherub centred oval
face. Her name was Leah. I had imagined we would always be friends. In those
days, we were left largely unsupervised, roaming til nightfall and on the top
of a colossal row of boulders I recall leaping from one to the other crying out
to the masses of wildflowers in attendance below, heartfelt and histrionic all
at once;
“Til the white rose blooms again” (Nana Mouskouri)
My mother was a great fan of this, the original hipster and
the music of my parents vinyl folk, classical and opera collection was all that
I knew in the beginning. I fell in love with the world in that home, in that
place, a place without rooms or a roof or a single door, no closets, no gadgets
or electrical currents. To this day I
love flowers and especially the flora of a wild Australian landscape. To this
day, if a single wiff of eucalypt
saunters on by to the delicious sensory experience of an odor reception, I
remember that home, I remember breaking a leaf in half and drinking the scent
right on in and through to a little set of asthma challenged lungs.
Around that time, I was given a book, scientific and matter
of fact and yet beautifully littered with botanical pictures in hyper color.
It came as a present from a dear Aunt, packaged together with a wooden flower
press, covered in a labyrinthine of intricate carvings, set like wandering
grooves into an octagonal plane of bold orange paint. To this day I love the
color orange. That book and that gift was a lovely lesson too. I set about
collecting and classifying in quieter moments alone. The beauty of what I found
was more than pirate treasure but every pearl of wisdom Mother Nature had on
offer. The scarlet Red Grevillea,
Purple Flag, The Grey Spider, tea trees, wax
flowers, wattle peas, ferns and the perennial herb known as “The Golden
Clustered Everlasting” but known to me as “ Eggs, sunny side up.”
There was much excitement afoot at the more rare sight of a
red or golden Banksia. With flowered spikes, fruited cones, nectar ripe, bright
and alight, these giant candles stood as the herald to an unspoken
understanding. This was a plant, with a flower head made up of hundreds
(sometimes thousands) of tiny individual flowers, grouped together in pairs and
we inherently learnt not to pick them. My flower press was full of many
specimens, but never the Banksia’s blooms, never the leaves or buds of the Flannel
Flower, soft as sunset’s shadow or any piece of the Gymea Lilly, unquestionably
the crowning glory of all lilies with her 6 M stems and beacon tops in magenta
clusters of budding life.
It was in this home that I learnt about the
preservation and protection of life. I came to know by site a very many
variation on the word flower and I came to realize that there was something
called a protected species. And thus the flower press was full with the yield
of abundant growth where Scarlet Lilly, Starbright and Banksia Light remained
sacrosanct.
The flower press itself became a hobby and a lesson in delayed
gratification. “Oshibana” pressed flowers, requires several time consuming
stages. What I loved most was those moments of gingerly unfastening a series of
tiny bolts to observe the challenges of time. It was a process of unfastening
and fastening many times until the arrangements seemed ready enough. It never
ceased to amaze me how the effects ranged from softened tones to a greater
intensity of vibrant colors. I imagined getting older this way. It was a
comforting concept for me.
The path traveled down, down and down the valley way would
eventually have me spat out into Engadine Creek, dressed in a pair of well worn
dungarees and a tiny pack filled with supplies for the day. I loved that place.
I really did. The bird life was most astounding with a gurgling brook in time
to the call of rainbow’s flight. So much color. Those birds even got to know
me as any living soul will do if giving space and time enough. A family of sulphur crested cockatoos in particular, literally would sit with me on the
muddy banks hoping for a small morsel of bread and butter. Then, the waterways
were loaded with taddies, darting like miniature ink blots on an important
mission. I collected many jars of them, toddling home to watch and wait again.
I released them, the frogs, once fully grown, in a ceremony with minute pieces
of cloth trailing into the water and a little song.
Circumstances had us leave The Shire, eight years old and
headed North. Years later I merely watched on, learning from news reports about
Cronulla Riots and a television show so unlike the memories I held dear it
seemed altogether sad and ironic too. Strange to me because there in that
National Park, on sacred land, on stolen land, what is left are the parts that
were not carved into pieces and fences and borders and driveways but the most
important lesson in what it is to value the differences alive within one
harmonious whole.
Nicla. T. Byrnes
Protect her spirit, bide her well 
