One year ago today, I sunk the first poles of my shelter, this place I would call home for six months.
No power tools, no nails. Just black wattle, string, and blady grass – and a hand saw, mattock and hatchet.
The project felt impossible, and in a sense, it was. I never finished it. It didn’t matter. I bought myself a bigger tarp for my birthday that adequately covered it while it was a work in progress, which it remained until I left in early October.
Part of me longed to be sheltered only by the Earth, without any plastic, but after several months of thatching, I accepted that the amount of time, energy, and blady grass it would take was beyond me. I wasn’t here just to be a builder. My shelter had reached a point where it felt like ‘inside’ – somewhere I could go when I needed energetic holding. Other projects called to me.
But when 400mm of rain arrived in three days, my finished-enough shelter kept me dry. What genuine love and appreciation I felt for these plants! I didn’t need a finished shelter to experience that.
When I look back at my time in the bush, one of my most cherished memories was the state-altering act of harvesting wattle. I would speak to each tree before I cut it, asking if it would like to be a part of my shelter. However scattered or busy my mind, something would clear when I had to slow down and tune in. If it was a no, I would respect that. These conversations with the more-than-human were out of necessity, negotiating our shared use of the space, our respective need for life, shelter, food, water. Being to being.
Coming back into the world it is easy to ignore the more-than-human or objectify it, but out there we were equal parties. This I try to remember and live daily, even in the city. The world is better in relationship. The world is conversational. As David Whyte says, ‘Everything is Waiting for You’.
Gratitude to my mum, whose 4-day visit enabled the frame to be built.
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