Distant Shore

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Finding serenity amidst the bustle

On a recent trip along Victoria's infamous Shipwreck Coast, I found a deep 'sense of place' even whilst surrounded by hundreds of tourists – and a spot of time travel.

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D'you see the water and watch it flow
And float an empty shell,
And you think that I'm hiding from the island.
You've a fault in your senses. Can you feel it now?
— Fotheringay

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I’m at the iconic Twelve Apostles on Victoria’s coastline.

Around me are hundreds of tourists and a car park full of tour buses of various sizes. The last time I was here was a blustery day over twenty years ago. I seem to remember we may have been the only people there. I certainly don’t remember feeling crowded.

It’s 4:30 in the afternoon, and the sun is beginning to give off that golden light. As I walk down to the viewing areas I catch glimpses of the light reflecting on the waters below, the limestone sea-stacks emerging out of the ocean like lonely giants. "What would the local Aboriginal people have thought of these?" I wondered. Had they considered them as ancestral spirits of the Land?

The noise of the tourist bustle begins to annoy me as I strain to drop my awareness into this place. When I am 'on the Land', I like to feel into a 'sense of place', and hear its natural song. I was told by an Aboriginal Medicine-Woman once that the Land sings; you just need to be quiet enough to hear her.

I realise that there is no point fighting what I’m up against. The people who have turned up at this place, at this time - including myself - are now part of the field. We are all entangled together into the landscape in this specific moment. Realising this helps me drop into a different state altogether.

 

"Oceans have no memories"

I’ve learned a number of different techniques, all of which are simply variations on a theme, that bring me into this state. Carlos Castaneda writes about it in his tales about the Yacqui shaman Don Juan. John Grinder, the founder of NLP calls it a 'know-nothing' state. In Taoist Alchemy, it’s referred to as 'unminding'. I call it 'the shaman's attention'.

The state itself is deeply peaceful. It creates a heightened awareness all around me; not in a nervous, fight-or-flight manner, but in a way that opens all the senses and allows maximum input of sensory data.

The first step is to change my breathing so it’s long, slow, and deep into the Lower Dantian (the area behind and below the belly button). I open my peripheral vision, thus not focusing on anything visually. This also opens up my peripheral audio senses. I pay attention to what I’m feeling throughout my whole body: the breeze on my face, the gentle warmth coming from the winter sun, and the smell of the sea.

Even after employing my usual technique, I was having trouble drowning out the noise of dozens of languages and hundreds of conversations. So I focussed on the sea, and the sound of the waves; and then it was as if everything around me synchronised with the rhythm of the ocean.

Have you ever noticed the view when you're looking out the window of a moving train? The background appears to be still, while the foreground moves quickly past your gaze, and the mid-ground moving a little slower than that.

I got the sense that the ocean was like the background, constant and underlying everything else. In the mid-ground were the different bird calls, and the breeze moving the bushes and grasses around. And in the foreground was the quickly shifting sounds of people.

It was then that I noticed my body movements had changed. My pace had slowed, following the rhythm. I was surrounded by a symphony, where nothing did not belong.

And then, like a Zen koan, a thought arose:

“I wonder what it would sound like if I wasn’t here to hear this ...?...”

For a split second, my state deepened into something else entirely. For the briefest moment I was standing on this coastline thousands of years ago. The sun was peeking through cloudy skies, the offshore wind blowing my hair across my face, and the roar of waves against the cliffs.

Down on the beach, I thought I could see several people foraging for shellfish by the rock pools. I thought I could see shapes further out to sea, blowing air up as they surfaced periodically. The familiar landscape felt different... younger. Beyond the cliff-face I could see many more of the limestone seas-stacks rising up out of the water.

Another sound began to emerge along the sound of the waves, and I peered outwards towards the direction it was coming from. A deep rumbling was coming from the sea-stacks. Looking across, the sound became a roar as one of the giant pillars began to crumble and collapse into the sea, and I could see the figures on the beach running, their screams almost being drowned out by the noise of the collapse.

Internally I knew this was a process that had been happening for millions of years; and here I was witnessing the Land undergo its constant change.

Even as I noticed this, I came out of my dream-like reverie and back into a normal state of awareness, back in the here-and-now. Around me were tourists chattering, taking photos of themselves, seemingly oblivious to the wonderful world they were surrounded by.

Bugger!

Disappointed that this moment had gone, I felt satisfied enough taking snapshots of the scenery. However, I mused that nothing could really capture the magic of this Land, and its immense history. I headed back towards my vehicle, content in the knowledge that the Dreaming of this Land was strong and present, and waiting for anyone to come and share it

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Posted from my blog PANDORA'S LOST GIFT with SteemPress : http://metametheus.net/distant-shore/

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