Tamara Henderson
Eye in the High

A way of return­ing with­out going backwards

I.

Gum trees flare. The scent of oils hit the light at dusk impreg­nat­ing nascent minds with bright ideas. For a moment the chat­ter recedes, the body opens in agree­ment and hun­gri­ly it feasts upon the sweet nec­tar of a liv­ing moment.

When you give your­self to it, it is an almost unbear­able richness.

The shape of bird­song, deployed by some hid­den small­ness, bounces resound­ing­ly off trees and open air and vibrates along the fine hairs that line your ear canals and describe the edges of your body.

The crisp fragili­ty of a tree’s shed­ding skin as you reach out and fin­ger its edges. The past and future of the thing crunch­ing under­foot as you gaze into the worm-like scrib­blings under­neath. Anoth­er cryp­tic mes­sage to deci­pher: a lan­guage of recess­es and lift­ed edges, and the cur­va­ture of small bod­ies who, like you, con­sume their way forward.

Fed full in a mere moment, you tuck your hair back behind your ear; this new mate­r­i­al packed safe­ly away some place with­in the body. You are begin­ning to under­stand how it feels, the thing that you are mov­ing towards.

II.

Leafy tan­nins leach into fire heat­ed water. Fer­tile soil gives way to dense clay spot­ted with iron deposits. Banana skins rich in phos­pho­rus, cal­ci­um, mag­ne­sium and sodi­um echo a cockatoo’s sul­phur crest. Car­bon trapped in dry grass­es smokes out a rit­u­al beginning.

You’re on the move now.

Embers glis­ten and fade as the moon once again cuts a fine cres­cent against the black sky. Vapours descend and tak­ing on weight, leak drip­ping­ly down to min­gle with what has accu­mu­lat­ed there.

A mus­cu­lar seed wres­tles itself into life, draw­ing nutri­ents from its sur­rounds and feed­ing them to the code car­ried with­in. Writ­ten into it some­where is a dream of explod­ing, of stretch­ing, of strolling under the warm sun, and of lay­ing down at the end, wast­ed and com­plete. These strange notions make lit­tle sense packed dense­ly in the sub­ter­ranean dark­ness — but coiled with­in they dri­ve a hun­gry, itchy rhythm. Puls­ing desirously.

III.

Sway rock body. Breathe in. Breathe out. Feel your­self, all noise and elec­tric hunger. Let it be just as it is. Notice the shad­ow of things, as they come and go. Let your con­cen­tra­tion rest on the spaces in between until all things are sub­sumed there. It is all there is and you in it.

She is with you now. Life, that warm dream, gen­tly nudg­ing at your edges. You only have to move out to meet it. Curl your toes. What you want to live can­not be born from noth­ing. Whis­pers must be heard, held even. Attempts must be made, and fail­ure drunk deeply; its wis­dom recycled. 

It is an act of exca­va­tion, to peer so close­ly into a thing that one’s eyes them­selves quiver. The periph­eries blaze and in a moment there, between frames, a mys­tery emerges.

A flower opens, each petal flu­id with aware­ness as its small­est parts extend and con­tract to effect a gen­tle thick­en­ing curl. A sen­su­al, slow destruc­tion unpicks itself. A fruit­ing body push­es up through a rent in the fab­ric. Name­less yawn­ing gates herald­ing the pos­si­bil­i­ty of change.

~ Julia Dunne, March 2024