Wadbilliga, gugenyella, gadu mioroong. Lay down, breathe, for now, let me take you on a journey. Lay down, breathe, for now you rest on a bed of leaves in a sandstone cave on Saltwater Country. Echoes may drum through the usual night. Though especially when the moon swells to this unusual size. Subtle breeze sings through gum leaf canopies and kisses your skin. Lay down, breathe. This dream is about to begin. Rustling above, bark fingers tap to cicadas' symphony. Tonight, moonlight shimmers across the sandstone ceiling, dancing across cave walls in a ceremonial pattern. Blueness glimmers from the ripples of a water well, perfectly circular, made from the hands of ancients. Or perhaps eroded by the simple yet patient pattern of each water drop. A miniscule deeper, each generation. A monotonous lullaby, now your meditation. On a sandy floor, green wattle leaves cradle your body. The warm kiss of wind, a worthy blanket, the smell of incoming rain, a bedside friend. Before long, the echoes come again. During the rain, dreams often speak louder, as if to contest with the clouds and thunder. Drift into this dream now. You're safe to fall ever more heavier, as rain dumps atop your shelter. Underneath the rain, you feel the temperature change. The echoes soon and while transforming a new morning. You sit planted under rock shelter's edge. Your ears gather the affection of songbirds yearning beyond a blanket of mist. Your eyes find a waterfall replacing the usual drops. Across your face, a smile now swells as you ponder the waterfall in all of its power. Plunging into your fresh new well, a blessing from above, a cleansing shower. Contentment grows as your smile arises to the signs of sunrise in the call of I, gugenyella. Fresh water trickles from your forehead, finding the corner of your lips. You can taste the rainforest and all its living things this morning. And as if greeting an old friend, a happy song we choose to sing. Our way of shaking hands with sun rays, as they struggle through the grey haze of rain, mist and living echoes. More of your kin join the ceremony. Content with the bush orchestra, you lean down and take another sip of the water that now surrounds you. Though you pause for a moment, noticing that rain and ripples are only temporary, and you're the only person here. The heaviest of drops now been and gone, you decide it's time to walk. You walk back into your sandstone room until you reach a now dampened, mysterious crevice. Just above your head and half an arm's length deep, you pull from it an assortment of personal keeps. Two uneven sized stems from grasstree and woven bag made from the fibers of stringy bark, which sometimes caused itchiness when worn on days like this. Fastening the bag around your neck, you kneel down beside where sunlight now bounces from puddles onto stone wall. You trace a white stencil of a much smaller hand, sandstone still damp from the morningness under your fingers, but paint feels far from fresh. You fix your eyes on a larger neighbouring stencil and drift for a second into the softer edges than of your own hand, now pressed on top of theirs. Then I, timekeeper, gugenyella, let you know it's time to go. You step gingerly from your cave over a layer of white, silver, and black. Bimbalas, pipis, abalone shells all scattered across the shelter's doorstep. You farewell a tall spotted gum as it stands strong just meters beyond sandstone and shellfish. Acknowledging its guardianship by brushing with both hands the sweat from your armpit, Caressing each nearest fleshy grey blemish, noticing how the tree is like you. Together, we leave behind the sounds of the bush, and two old hands wave us goodbye. You continue on your journey. More budjarns of time pass by, signaling open skies. The sun now shining high as you slow toward mountain's plateau. Following this ridge line helps you admire my voice, my windsong. Dry rib grass here too high, feel its touch against your thighs. Time to heal this Country. You reach into stringy bag, removing a loose handful of dried palm bark. Taking a seat on the grassy path, you align each grasstree arm, according to the coordinates of the journey of the sun. You pause for a moment here, bringing your attention to the wind and your own breath. Rubbing the sweat from your palms onto the dry grassy bed. Clearing your head and staying present. You aim the thin stem vertically above, and perpendicular to its quiet partner. You rub your palms together, spinning one stem into another. Partnering with the tempo of your breath. Slow and easy, in, and out. In, and out. Far from effortless, though seeming too easy, an ember emerges from the grounded stem. A miniature version of the sun itself. You cradle your newborn life in its bed of palm, blowing it with your spirit, giving rise to the right fire. Laying it down, you let me nurture the rest, while manufacturing a torch from a burning grass nest. Gugenyella reminds us to walk. Heat brushes across your face, each time lowering that fire, each time, burning a different side of your path. Each time, we blow our spirit into it again, with love and the affection of the wind. As we go on, your mouth feels drier. Without even thinking, you pull on the stem of lomandra and chew on its fleshy white end. The same taste of life from this morning, mixed with plant this time. You pay mind to the gentle fire as it trickles across the ridge line's spine. Rippling in circles. Smoke rises soft and white. You trace the newborn clouds with your free hand, and acknowledge in delight, the shapes dancing back at you. You find in this moment of peace and smoke, your attention drawn to a flying shadow. An observant white bellied sea eagle. You're drawn away again, now to the smell of salt water, as the sea cliff barrels closer. You take another moment to breathe, and admire Country. As she spills from mountains into the sea. And like white belly, you descend towards this moment of peace. Living echoes closely follow. Your feet reach the beachfront, exfoliating with each sandy step. Dancing in the shallows, you feel a shell bed. Breaching from your feet are pipis, you collect them with one hand, as your other hand rotates a fresh lomandra stem in your mouth. Taking only what you need. Knowing the itch from your stringy bag will grow in intensity, as will its heaviness increase. Your mind wanders the clear skies, dreaming of what the stars may look like tonight. Collecting the universe with just your fingertips and toes, filling your stringy bag with stars of black, white, and silver. They rattle and scrape against one another. As a rocky point slowly draws closer, your excitement grows in the shape of an oyster. You trace with your feet, one ancient sea stone to another. Rock pools swirl and greet you like no stranger. Before reaching into a perfectly circular portal, your eyes catch another. And before long the echoes come again, and you realise you are no longer alone. But with me, my friend. I am their living echoes. I am your Country.