August: Dead and Alive

Reconnecting with my ancestors on sacred land, seeking guidance through transformation

In the foothills of the Snowy Mountains, at the end of a winding gravel road, in the last farmhouse in the valley, a baby boy joins his five siblings for a life of adventure and struggle in the Australian alpine wilderness.

She is exhausted and resigned, not from the anguish of childbirth in the ‘60s, but from over a decade of raising a family while largely self-sufficient and isolated from society. As the depression deepens, devotion to her family keeps her moving forward… another harrowing winter, another gruelling summer, another hour-long drive to the nearest outpost for basic supplies.

No one is to blame for this predicament. My grandparents sought an idyllic life in a pretty valley to raise their family. And it was perfect, at least to begin with. I undoubtedly walk in their footsteps, yet I heed their experiences and approach with caution. To escape society completely, to rely primarily on one’s spouse and offspring for social connection, work, education and food production puts immense pressure on the family unit.

They were dreamers. And lovers.

My grandfather lost the love of his life to injuries sustained in a car accident along that winding gravel road. My father, the youngest of six, was just twelve years old and left to grow up overnight, facing the real world with the street smarts of a bush kid who grew up shooting rabbits for dinner and taming brumbies for fun.

I knew my grandpa as a jolly, social, community-centred veteran with the lungs of an opera singer, who could bring any room to tears with his bellowing rendition of “Hallelujah”. If he was pained, grieving, or regretful about the way his life played out, I was none the wiser. He passed away when I was a teen.

Where blood meets water

It’s a crisp winter day in a little country village in eastern Victoria. The kids tuck some flowers into an old vase left on the headstone of their great-grandparents’ shared grave. Not quite grasping the concept of dead and alive, but trying their hardest to honour the moment, my six-year-old can’t help but feel excited at the prospect of old bones (like dinosaur fossils!) underfoot. It felt symbolic and respectful to visit my relatives here, yet unemotional, disconnected somehow.

As we weave our way deeper into the valley, interspersed with eucalypt forest and green rolling farmland, I notice a distinct shift in the energy. I realise that this pilgrimage we are on has led me here, to the banks of this river.

I rise at sunrise, passing wombat burrows as I make my way down to the riverbank. The water is icy, melted snow that’s taken the short journey from the nearby mountains to my increasingly numbing hand. I fold my mat in half and settle into a loose cross-legged position, facing where I expect the sun to appear. The steady flow of water creates a soothing rhythm, and my thoughts begin to slow.

Their stories are held tenderly by the river. Water never forgets, you see. It transforms, moves across the land, and through the atmosphere, yet keeps memories. So I listen and feel, the old gum trees adding their quiet observations. But no one truly knows what lies beneath another’s skin. We can know stories—but how can we ever truly know them?

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I didn’t know her, yet I feel the anxious excitement as she sets off on an unknown voyage across the Earth. How her English skin never quite adapted to the harsh Australian landscape. How isolated it would be to raise children in harsh mountain country while in mental health survival mode. Was this the kind of adventure she signed up for? Did she expect to fall in love with a Victorian farmer? She was a trailblazer, both literally and figuratively. Did she know this? The inspiration she would become to sixteen grandchildren decades later?

I am left with more questions than answers, which makes me feel anxious and at a loss. I slow down and begin again. I reconnect to my breath, slowly, intentionally, in and out. I feel warmth as the sun crests the ridgeline. The rhythm of the water overtakes my senses, and we become one.

A strong sensation of deep presence and warmth washes over me.

I feel a hand on each shoulder. My grandparents’ spirit is grounded and supportive, a pure expression of love cultivated when their blood in my body meets the pristine waters they created life with all those years ago.

Their guidance and encouragement manifest as a wave of sunlight, as they whisper:

Follow the call.

Work patiently toward your vision.

But heed the warning of the martyr.

Maybe their wisdom has been inside me all along. I’ve noticed their presence at seemingly random moments throughout my life. Perhaps I crave so deeply to know them that this experience is entirely a figment of my imagination. Nevertheless, I’m left feeling calmer and more connected, grasping my vision with both hands as I move forward. Their blood still flows within me, their bodies one with the Earth, and their wisdom lives in the water. Onwards.

I’d love to hear about your experiences connecting with your bloodline. Is it random, or can you cultivate this connection?

Stay curious and kind,
Simone

Ps. Stay tuned next month, as we flow towards our vision and into the next phase of our adventure—we’re embarking on the Spirit of Tasmania ferry tomorrow!

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