My Year Without Matches

by Claire Dunn

  And, as surely as my wander started, so does it finish. I walked a figure eight over the land, looping west to east and back again to this bellybutton in the middle, the bulging billabong where I float under the crown of thorns of a currawong’s nest.

  Above me, the clouds are like hands dancing, reminding me that I never dance alone, that the Earth is constantly extending an invitation, beckoning me to join it in conscious creation, the one happening right now in the millions of ways to move and be moved. It’s my call whether I resist the dance, or allow myself to flow with it, like wings over a valley.

  6.

  A fresh rain shower blows in sideways, and I hop on the spot to warm up. It’s been wild weather lately – the wettest spring in history, I’m told. I’ve been re-enacting The Wind in the Willows by the creek, just “messing about in boats” like Ratty: stream floating, sunbaking, playing across logs, pottering along the edge. It’s the anticipation of floods that magnetises me down here. I mark out the rise and fall of the current with a planted stick, keep tabs on the muddy water line on hanging branches. I love a good flood. As a kid, a flood didn’t just mean a holiday from school, it meant a general strike for the whole workaday family world. Out would come the tiddlywinks, the cake tins and the rock ’n’ roll vinyl. For a few wonderful days, we were pirates on our own island. Now, with the ground saturated and the rain continuing, we are being flooded in with glorious regularity.

  This morning the current has slowed enough for a group exercise. I’m struggling to convince myself it’s a good thing. I wait until the last possible moment before I strip to underwear and tie a blindfold around my forehead.

  “Why do we do this again?” Dan asks, shivering next to me.

  It’s the swimming rule, I remind myself. I never regret it.

  “Ask me again at the end,” I say, as I pull my blindfold down.

  The four of us chain up, each placing a hand on the shoulder in front. Dan takes the first turn to be our collective eyes. Stepping out, I immediately crash into Ryan, Nikki’s toenail taking the skin off my heel.

  “Ouch,” I exclaim and am hushed to silence.

  We stand and sway until our hips move in alignment, before trying again, our legs and arms gradually falling into centipede coordination down the main trail. At the water’s edge, we wait to hear the sound of Kate beating a drum at the bridge before we separate.

  Within minutes, the comforting sound of other footsteps fade in the inevitable blind scatter. Without a tether, I slowly begin to step across the dampened leaf litter, focusing on the placement of each foot, the inwards roll of its ball when it confirms safe ground. I’m glad of my recent blindfold practice, my body now familiar enough with sight restriction for my awareness to drop quickly from head to foot, the surface of my skin assuming responsibility for movement.

  Soon, even my awareness of the rain disappears in my concentration on the next step, in the touch of spiderweb, fern, tree root. The intermittent drumbeat is a welcome marker. I know the creek is close when the feathery brush of bracken fern gives way to clumps of lomandra, then sand, and then finally water, ice cubes running all over me. I gasp, swimming out blindly in a breaststroke. I bounce between the creek banks like a tenpin bowling ball. Imagining the bridge at the end throws off my focus, and I lunge out too quickly, bumping my head on a branch. I centre myself with some deep breaths before entering the creek again, my right hand periodically scanning at head height for obstacles. Beginnings and endings blur as, step by step, stroke by stroke, I search for the path of least resistance.

  The drum sounds again, reminding me to find the others. I squeal as an arm grabs mine. It’s Nikki’s. Huddled like sardines, we wait at the choke of the creek until the other two bump up against us, shrieking with laughter as we pull one another’s blindfolds free. It’s only then that my shivers resume, and I’m amazed to find that an hour has passed with scarcely a thought to the cold.

  “You gonna help paint some signs this arvo?” Nikki asks, as we walk back. “There’s some food prep needs doing too.”

  I tense. The “open weekend” is less than a week away, an invitation to friends, family and neighbours to check out just what kind of rock we’ve been hiding under. The word’s out and I’m slightly concerned about locals turning up with eskies full of beer. I’m already feeling protective of my shelter, picturing kids swinging off the beams and jumping into the hearth. I left my invites until last week, hoping it would be too late for most of my mob. Ryan’s braver than me – his whole family are flying in from Colorado.

  “Yeah, a bit later,” I say evasively. The blindfold walk has me all dreamy and spacious and I’m itching to get out for a wander.

  I head to the paddocks, wanting to be where big sky meets big trees. The breeze caresses me like the creek currents, the clouds breaking up enough to allow handfuls of warm sun to rest on my back. These days are like a continuous game of hopscotch, each square a different element that I jump between on whim. I’m getting better at knowing which one I need in any moment: the warmth of fire, the fluidity of water, the freedom of air on my limbs as I walk, or the stillness of lying on the earth. My emotions rock-hop a similar elemental pattern, sometimes fiery and passionate, other times sad, reflective or high-spirited, ever-changing and seasonal.

  Two wedge-tailed eagles flush out the top of a flooded gum and make overlapping circles above. A pair of white-naped honeyeaters squawk, as they launch from a shrub and descend in spirals around each other. Two lizards play ring-a-ring o’ roses around a tree. Two red ants are in mock battle, two dollarbirds gossiping on a branch. It’s a veritable Noah’s Ark. I just don’t buy the science that says animals only ever expend energy for survival purposes. From my observations, there are most definitely frivolous, rambunctious and playful antics on display.

  Skipping into the clearing, I wend my way through blady grass, rolling against trees rubbed smooth by cattle, pulling back weeds to uncover wildflowers and sticky sundews. In the middle of a stand of pines, a circle of field mushrooms has sprouted, their gills pink and fleshy. I fill my bangalow-palm backpack with enough for dinner. A wallaby feeds close by. He watches me for a while then lowers his head to the grass. I inch towards him with eyes downcast, pretending to be absorbed in mushroom picking. His tail is not three metres from me before he makes a few lazy hops in the other direction. My smile turns into a muffled yawn, tiredness from my late-night date with Bob Kull.

  His glacier mission was a success! I’m so glad. After months of torment, on one unusually calm morning, he packed supplies and extra petrol, gave Cat an especially tender pat, and before he could change his mind, turned his rudder east. The fear was real. Any mistake – a map blown overboard, the engine spluttering to a halt – could be fatal. He gave up trying to remember the maze of icy corridors his passage took. The way back was not now. He just needed to get there. And get there he did, just in time to witness a numinous blue light emanating from a mountainous frozen waterfall. Bathed in the luminescence, time slowed to a glacial stillness. He wondered whether he had unwittingly steered himself into a dream: so beautiful, so hypnotic, the light lured him closer. Just as I was beginning to worry that he would be seduced by the blue, his face frozen in awe for eternity, he shook himself free of the trance, remembered that this was not a place to stay overnight, and started the motor for home.

  Still swimming in the afterglow of the light, as his little boat chugged back through the waters towards the island he would soon be leaving, Bob looked back at the months of worry. They were worth it for one glimpse of the glacier. Heeding the call of the wild had gifted him a glimpse of the light that would always be with him. His fears had to be met, resistances confronted, emotions navigated. The endless questioning and self-judgment were a ridiculous waste of time and yet also provided the energetic tension that propelled him out there. But there also would have been no great failure if he had not gone. There was
no right or wrong, just one decision or another, both with their lessons. Must he have reached the glacier to finally find contentment? Perhaps the adventurer needed space before the homebody and monk could visit. Or perhaps he felt like he had finally earnt his right to just enjoy himself. Still, I’m relieved that he went, and relieved that he returned. It’s lovely to read about his finally being relaxed, petting Cat playfully, puttering around in his boat, watching the light change as summer beckons. He doesn’t fight the wind now but lets it shapeshift him, indoors and out.

  I sink against a tree trunk, watching weebills twitter in the wattle, and the rise of the escarpment in the distance. The wallaby swishes its tail, as native bees murmur among the sweet gum blossoms. Mosquitoes halo my head but don’t land, granting me grace enough to stretch out long. Ah, this glorious moment, when there is nowhere I am trying to get to, nothing I should be doing. I’m just here. Sounds and smells heighten and vibrate. The whole idea of getting up and launching myself towards some imagined future, clambering to be something other than just one of many beings enjoying this spring day, suddenly strikes me as ludicrous. There really is only this moment, tumbling into the next and the next. Is anything worth rushing for? I doubt it. If it had taken me all year to build my shelter with this awareness, it would have been time well spent. Poor old rushing, it only ever wants to taste more of life, but by its very nature, misses it.

  A few days ago, I found a note from Terri under a rock at my shelter trailhead. Claire, I kept meaning to say to you, after your overnight wander you came back really honest, with a joy shining through. As though you have complete trust and no fear of your truth – how awesome.

  In this moment she’s right – it is awesome. Of course beingness isn’t what I feared. Life hasn’t ground to a stagnant halt. I haven’t dissolved into a puddle of apathy. Rather than a vacuum, not-doing is a state of being that exists within everything, the centre of stillness in any action. Just like the roos in the paddock – eating when hungry, resting when hot – vision unfolds from moment to moment. It’s the motivation that shifts, from the fear of not being enough to one of fullness overflowing.

  A piece of blue sky flutters down to land on a tuft of whiskey grass, clinging to it as it sways. I remember this one: it was a sweltering summer morning and I was waiting in the preschool carpark for Mum. As she fiddled to unstrap my baby sister, a butterfly as blue as my dress flew down to land on my arm. I didn’t flinch or make a noise, only my eyes widening in surprise. So blue, and scalloped like curtains at the edges. No-one else saw it and I didn’t tell. It was for me. A gift, a secret. I held it close to me all day, that feeling of butterfly on my skin. And now it visits again, for a few seconds, letting go on the updraft and soon swallowed again by the sky.

  *

  I jog back to my shelter as the clouds burst open again. From a distance I probably look naked, the top made of deer hide almost as tanned as my own, and just as smoky. I’m acutely aware of it against me as I run, that and the whiskey grass drying on my chest.

  The hand-drill offers me a welcome coal. The bundle is taking a bit more encouragement, moisture pouring out in plumes of smoke. I squat to nurture it. A green branch lies close to the door of my shelter, snapped in two like a broken bone. The eucalyptus oil is pungent in my nose. I can smell more rain coming too. It won’t be long, ten minutes perhaps. And it won’t be too much longer before the summer rains wash me out of here for good. I won’t get to see the branch wither and dry, becoming kindling. The wind gusts in and I cradle the bundle to me, lavishing it with a deep breath. The coal draws more of the tinder to it, glowing fat and full.

  Cupping the bundle with both hands, I tip my head back and pull it back and forth near my lips, my strong breaths spreading heat fast. The flames are timid in the humidity and I keep blowing until the kindling catches.

  I sit back to watch it grow.

  Stay, fire coos. We have such little time left together, stay here and let me warm you today.

  Another rainy afternoon in my shelter. There can’t be many left. I wonder if I would tire of them. I move my hand over the fire, as if wanting to stroke it. I remember back to when I first arrived, feeling like I was intruding on the land, apologetic for my presence. Now I think the land might miss me when I’m gone. Who else is going to appreciate the efforts of the latest pea to flower, to gape in awe at the intricacy of a nest? Who else is going to offer up a fire in thanks?

  Settling into my couch, I pick up my latest project – a bag for my firesticks made from the hide of the wallaby. I smooth the leather out over my knee. It’s only half as thick as the deer’s, and yet unbreakably strong. Despite the smoking, it only stained to a weak tea-coloured tan. The bag looks a bit like a medieval boot, folded over at the top and fastened with a leather drawstring. It’s all that’s left of the wallaby now, except for what lives on in me. Drawing the sinew through my mouth, I thread the needle and begin looping it over a small bone, the drawstring fastener. I’m really going to look the part soon, cave-woman top and wallaby firestick bag.

  Hanging the finished bag on my hat hook, I pull the string that holds a bundle of letters together, responses from my wise women, postmarked from around the world. I shuffle them like cards, enjoying the feel of the paper, the knowledge of the words they contain.

  Guru Janey Pops has some difficult spiritual tasks for you, writes my friend Jane from Broken Hill.

  Your presence is soon required in the pizza parlour – someone in the shop will be affected by your energy, and it will make them question their life.

  Your presence is soon required in the cinema. The inspiration from the film will set you thinking about new ideas relevant to your work in the world. Get my drift? Jane quips in mock sternness. I giggle, imagining her wagging one finger at me.

  Keep honouring the deep feminine voice within, Terry writes, having just returned from a week-long solo walk in the Snowy Mountains. Bring her flowers, take her to the movies, let her lounge around in her jammies all morning, take her to galleries, to cafes, let her play and be joyful.

  Ruth’s letter is typed in small font from a cafe in Sweden, where she has been studying bodywork. Do not trust your mind when critical self-doubt is in the driving seat! she implores. We are seeking to bring the end of suffering, and this we can only do with kindness. This need not dumb us down or promote procrastination or complacency. On the contrary, loving acceptance helps us work with whatever is present so we can liberate ourselves more easily from what holds us back in life. Enclosed is the Buddha’s Eightfold Path for further reading.

  I was surprised to receive the next letter, assuming that my friend Colleen was still in South America studying plants but she must have returned. It’s early here. I’ve been up since 2.30am baking cakes for a group of pollination ecologists, she writes in a loosely looping print. My journey has led me to understand that our whole life is the quest. Whether making biscuits, fasting, picking up kindling – all is sacred.

  It is our attitude that determines whether our life is full of suffering or happiness. If our quest in life is to be centred, clear and aligned to a purpose greater than self, then with conscious awareness we can bring the divine into mindful daily practices, however great or small. With this embodiment of spirit, all of life can become a prayer, full of life and love.

  I unfold the next letter carefully, worried the handmade Indian paper that Emma wrote on, at the end of her three months in a Burmese Buddhist monastery, might tear.

  You’re right – it’s been all about learning to “do” nothing! I struggled with that so much, coming to see just how strongly the habitually conditioned ego wants to “do”. I constantly felt like I needed to push myself and that nothing I could do would be enough – which I discovered completely inhibits the possibility of really being in the moment. The most amazing thing about retreat for me was uncovering the layers of striving. Even when I thought I had l
earnt to see them and let go, they would appear on a more subtle level, sometimes requiring Sayadaw to point them out to me quite bluntly. One thing I have learnt more deeply this year is that the path is the goal. I still have many doubts and fears, but trying to get to a point where all my problems are solved is really missing the point – there is no destination – just life giving us more grist for the mill, more opportunities to practise acceptance and awareness, and let go of expectations of how things should be.

  A Rumi poem falls out and onto the dust. Tonight it seems even more poignant. I pin it up on the runner next to Wild Woman.

  Very little grows on jagged rock.

  Be ground. Be crumbled.

  So wild flowers will come up

  Where you are.

  You have been stony for too many years.

  Try something different. Surrender.

  7.

  “How’dya do that?” I ask through clenched teeth, desperately trying to inch my way up the slippery stem of a bangalow. Nikki clambers up the palm next door as if her fingers were claws, resting in a squat just shy of the fronds.

  “If you need a break, press the soles of your feet into the trunk and sit back on your ankles,” she calls down.

  I look up at her incredulously.

  Rest? Every muscle is screaming just to maintain my hard-won two metres.

  “Wrap your hands around the back of the trunk, straighten your arms, and use the tension to just kind of walk up.”

  “Easier said than done, spiderwoman,” I say, moments before gravity wins out and I plop back into the mud. So much for the bush ninja. I think I’ll stick to trees with branches.

  Pulling the machete from her belt, Nikki begins to chop just below the first leaf sheath, our sacrificial palm struggling to survive amidst more dominant neighbours. I can’t believe she can do that and stay up there. The leaf eventually falls with a whoosh. I move in for the groundwork, straddling it to machete off the head and separate the two-foot length of palm heart. Nik slides down next to me, graceful as Batman down his bat pole.