I share this post by way of introduction... I want to introduce the lands I am on, and I want to introduce my longing.

I live and write on the lands of the Darkinjung, Guringai, and Wanangini peoples, here on the Central Coast of Australia. I acknowledge these lineages and any others that have been displaced, erased, or forgotten due to colonisation. Sovereignty was never ceded here. It lives on in human and more-than-human kin: in ancestors, spirit, waters, animals, plants, and land.

I bow my head in gratitude for my life here.

The poem I share below was written in response to the prompt What am I yearning for? during FIELDWORK with Indigenous teacher and leader Leah Manaema Avene.

Of course, it’s a process this poem, this self-introduction, this reweaving. But for now, I offer myself to you through the portal of my yearning.

May we walk with care, for each other, and the earth.

With love,
Lit

I am yearning.
For land, for sea, for stars, for sky.
For birds, for plants, for animals, for us.
For our homes and communities and planet.

I am yearning for bone-deep wisdom.
For embodied knowing.
For the integration of information into feeling, sensing, revelation of care.

To be singing in the morning, silly songs and grief songs, from a web place.
Longing for each other.
Longing for the net.

A net that holds and distributes, rather than restricts, extracts, or binds.
Not a net of guilt or codependent grip.

I yearn for a culture with the intelligence to cultivate or recode intricate interconnected systems.
To grow the tall grass.
To share water with ease.
To bring in the animal for the sacred kill, not with dominance, but with balance.

I yearn for whenua — the great placenta of life that gives all we need.

I am yearning for less performative, less masked, less heart-guarded versions of myself
to play out, to dance with, to try on.

I yearn for simple curiosity
where it is ok to make mistakes.
To get it wrong.
To be in the mess and half-baked wonder.

I yearn for a net used wisely and skillfully; to bring what is needed, to let the rest go.

A net that homes and hones,
that does not ensnare or exhaust,
but holds us, sees us, sings us into connection.

I yearn for easy calls. No need for appointment.
We gather by the fire and simply ask: what have you found?

I don't want to schedule time.

I want to embody non-linear time,
to trust the coming and going of clouds, of tides, of seasons, of stars —
not use them to protect me from my own uncertainty,
but to remind me how to be.

I yearn for my heart to be dislodged from its position of standing down, standing back.
Hypervigilant. Overplanning. Never quite living.

I am yearning for a rite of passage. An initiation.
A threshold crossing to guide me through this next stage of life as I prepare for parenthood.

And I am longing for a culture that honours this.
That makes space for sacred transitions.
That creates containers for grief and becoming.
That says: come as you are.
Don't heal alone in a corner.
Don't wear your reinvigorated mask until the next breakdown pulls you under again.

I want a culture that affirms the sacred.
That doesn't just cope, but remembers.

Because even those who care deeply are stretched thin.
Under stress. Under duress. Trying their best.
Caught in the net.

We are all frayed. All disoriented.
All trying to make our way home
to ourselves,
to each other,
to the land.

Thanks for reading Space Whale 3.0.

This piece was originally published on Substack during NAIDOC Week, a time to honour and celebrate the enduring strength, wisdom, and cultures of First Nations peoples across these unceded lands known as Australia.

If this resonated with you, you’re warmly invited to support the work through the new Coins feature here on Paragraph. Every gesture of support helps nourish this evolving creative space.

I share this post by way of introduction... I want to introduce the lands I am on, and I want to introduce my longing.

I live and write on the lands of the Darkinjung, Guringai, and Wanangini peoples, here on the Central Coast of Australia. I acknowledge these lineages and any others that have been displaced, erased, or forgotten due to colonisation. Sovereignty was never ceded here. It lives on in human and more-than-human kin: in ancestors, spirit, waters, animals, plants, and land.

I bow my head in gratitude for my life here.

The poem I share below was written in response to the prompt What am I yearning for? during FIELDWORK with Indigenous teacher and leader Leah Manaema Avene.

Of course, it’s a process this poem, this self-introduction, this reweaving. But for now, I offer myself to you through the portal of my yearning.

May we walk with care, for each other, and the earth.

With love,
Lit

I am yearning.
For land, for sea, for stars, for sky.
For birds, for plants, for animals, for us.
For our homes and communities and planet.

I am yearning for bone-deep wisdom.
For embodied knowing.
For the integration of information into feeling, sensing, revelation of care.

To be singing in the morning, silly songs and grief songs, from a web place.
Longing for each other.
Longing for the net.

A net that holds and distributes, rather than restricts, extracts, or binds.
Not a net of guilt or codependent grip.

I yearn for a culture with the intelligence to cultivate or recode intricate interconnected systems.
To grow the tall grass.
To share water with ease.
To bring in the animal for the sacred kill, not with dominance, but with balance.

I yearn for whenua — the great placenta of life that gives all we need.

I am yearning for less performative, less masked, less heart-guarded versions of myself
to play out, to dance with, to try on.

I yearn for simple curiosity
where it is ok to make mistakes.
To get it wrong.
To be in the mess and half-baked wonder.

I yearn for a net used wisely and skillfully; to bring what is needed, to let the rest go.

A net that homes and hones,
that does not ensnare or exhaust,
but holds us, sees us, sings us into connection.

I yearn for easy calls. No need for appointment.
We gather by the fire and simply ask: what have you found?

I don't want to schedule time.

I want to embody non-linear time,
to trust the coming and going of clouds, of tides, of seasons, of stars —
not use them to protect me from my own uncertainty,
but to remind me how to be.

I yearn for my heart to be dislodged from its position of standing down, standing back.
Hypervigilant. Overplanning. Never quite living.

I am yearning for a rite of passage. An initiation.
A threshold crossing to guide me through this next stage of life as I prepare for parenthood.

And I am longing for a culture that honours this.
That makes space for sacred transitions.
That creates containers for grief and becoming.
That says: come as you are.
Don't heal alone in a corner.
Don't wear your reinvigorated mask until the next breakdown pulls you under again.

I want a culture that affirms the sacred.
That doesn't just cope, but remembers.

Because even those who care deeply are stretched thin.
Under stress. Under duress. Trying their best.
Caught in the net.

We are all frayed. All disoriented.
All trying to make our way home
to ourselves,
to each other,
to the land.

Thanks for reading Space Whale 3.0.

This piece was originally published on Substack during NAIDOC Week, a time to honour and celebrate the enduring strength, wisdom, and cultures of First Nations peoples across these unceded lands known as Australia.

If this resonated with you, you’re warmly invited to support the work through the new Coins feature here on Paragraph. Every gesture of support helps nourish this evolving creative space.