This land speaks the language of itself.

Does not speak English, Maori or Irish. Takes it’s cues from it’s many creatures and from its ancient lineage of rock, water, fire and sun. We are mere visitors - mere littlings.

Though we have minds, though aposable thumnbs we are fucked up and fucking up her ability to care for us. Almost like killing off your parents - though we might survive without them - we will not without this jewel of a maternal holder.

Rob McGowan spoke of how we don’t know how to listen to the land - do not notice that the many hungry tiwaiwaka are flitting so vigorously around us because they are hungrier than usual - insects are low and that is a warning sign. No insects, no pollinators - no pollinators, no food.

Food is my heartland - the place from which I extend much love - starts in the soil and ideally my own garden where I am following the maramataka for this unique place - not just the cycle of moon and sun but the slower idiosyncrasies of this place: the water, wind, light and shadow.

I am no shaman - but this is the place they learnt their trade - the forrest at the edge of the village was the seat of all their powers and magic.