Hands in the dry dirt, we grew. Two sweet potatoes in the garden. And in each others' childish company we explored the dirt, trees, leaves and mud. We told stories and imagined settings, still so vivid and lucid in my mind. The wonga vines were ropes, trees were buildings and the trampoline (the tramp) was a refuge from any oncoming danger.
The hot, oily pungency of summer Eucalypts and the powdery sweetness of cherry ballart fruits still dwells so strongly in me. We roamed, bare feet snagging on twigs, shimmying up tall trees and singing gaudily in the smarting glare. We squabbled like chickens, of course, but we shared every moment with trust, love and acceptance and without judgement.
Christmas and holidays was often spent in the country at my Grandparents' whitewashed house. The air full of cicadas' ticking and dry grass underfoot. Frying fish and steamed veggies in the stained-glass kitchen, frantic card games on the mahogany tables and the tuneful bounce of a tennis ball. Then, as shell-pink clouds stripe the evening blue, the familiar Corellas make their circadian pilgrimage across the visible patches of sky. I love the too-soft beds, the well-watered grass sponging under bare feet, the native flowers and leaves brushing fragrant sap onto passing legs and the sharp scent of the big peppercorn as swinging feet rub the earth.
At the close of my (just shy of) seven months overseas, I could fairly kiss the parched, grassy ground of my childhood homeland. I have walked over so much new land, finding joy, peace, friendship and independence. I have been gently carried by the earth under my feet, letting change come, seeking, struggling, allowing and growing.
My feet are tired now, and I am ready to feel the dust between my toes, the salt water in my ears and the sounds of ticking cicadas in the balmy evenings.
I'm ready again for familiar.
