Bundjalung Country.

My sense of place is forever growing and expanding.

Home is a thread that stretches and curls its way to new places, but it never unravels from those places in the past. Now and then I feel the pull of this thread, and places or moments in time that I deemed lost, somehow find their way back to me. This thread, my home, is inextricably linked to people and moments that have gone and passed. All these sentiments of home stem from Bungjalung country- my country, the Midginbil people.

My home is Bundjalung country. It always has been and always will be. I am intrinsically connected to this land, my family, for it is forever linked to my people. When I drive back to this great country, I feel the ease wash over me. I am at home. I am safe. Those of my past are buried and are within this place. I feel them. I yearn for them. I see them here.

Home is the dirt path I walked on with my grandfather, and I can hear the crunching of his feet on the grainy earth.

Home is when I press my fingers into the cool sand and wait for it to engulf my hands slowly.

Home are the rivers, creeks, and estuaries that my father taught me how to fish and explore.

Home is the street where I broke my jaw.

Home is the rock my brother, and I jumped off fearlessly into the ocean.

Home is being shoeless and running fast to a place of safety when the earth was too hot for your feet.

Home is when my mother holds my hand to centre me, just as she did when I was a child.

Home is the children jumping from the bridge into the river.

Home is spearfishing in a small, dingy boat.

This inherent bond to Bungjalung land allows me to feel a deep love for this place, but I also sense the loss of what once was. The beauty of this place has led to the displacement of its people, native or otherwise. Things are faster, more expensive, and the beachside communities have shifted. Consumer culture has settled in and taken root, as have the fake hippies. Things are no longer slow and humble. The streets are overcome with image hungry people who cannot and do not want to see or acknowledge what once was. They carve up their slice of paradise, no matter the price. They chew it all up, only to spit it out. They come in fast and hallow. They do not want to see what lingers underneath the shift here.

Home has become a placed of homelessness.

Home has become gated, privatised, and commercialised.

Home has become cold.

Home has litter in its waterways, streets, and landscapes.

Home has become a place of addiction.

Home has become lost, and far-reaching, for many who have called it home for generations.

Home has become the resting and party place for Hollywood’s elite.

Despite this transformation to my home, I know the truth of Bungjalung country still lingers beneath the changes to its surface. My home waits for its people and calls to us. I hear the song of my land underneath it all. I can hear her. She calls to me, and I refuse to allow her beauty and providence to suffocate beneath the veil of capitalism that has rooted itself here. I will keep humming her melody, and remembering my people, place, and identity are here. I am a Midginbil girl, of Bundjalung land and I love my home, my country.