St Mary's

From Oodgeroo of the tribe Noonuccal

DAWN WAIL FOR THE DEAD

Dim light of daybreak now
Faintly over the sleeping camp.
Old lubra first to wake remembers:
First thing every dawn
Remember the dead, cry for them
Softly at first her wail begins. One by one as they wake and hear
Join in the cry, and wake the whole camp.
Wails for the dead, the poor dead
Gone from here to the Dark Place:
They are remembered.
Then it is over, life now,
Fires lit, laughter now,
And a new day calling.

Many people from St Marys have had the good fortune of seeing Sam Watson’s play “Oodgeroo” bloodline to country as part of the NAIDOC week celebrations.

A tribute to Oodgeroo of the Noonucal tribe (also known as Aunty Kath Walker).

In this opening poem Oodgeroo highlights the importance to her people of remembering those who have gone before them / her ancestors.
They are still with them in Spirit and they walk close by guiding and whispering softly.

Throughout Sam’s’ play and in every scene is the silent, ever present spirit of the ancestors, dancing and hovering, listening and moving gracefully.
What is also present in every scene is Oodegeroo’s beloved land, North Stradebroke Island, Minjeeribah (Moongalba, her place) and as the play progresses, sand from the Island makes its way to almost every corner of the room. (Much to the chagrin of the stagehands who had to clean it up after each session).
A powerful symbol of how the connection to land permeates every aspect of Aboriginal life.

Oodgeroo keeps returning to the land to re-connect to her spirit, and to other characters in the play she invites them to her land to solve their problems as well. If they can only come to Minjeeribah all will be well for them.
As one historian wrote:
“Aboriginal people so loved and identified themselves with the land, that they could find their rhythm of Dreamtime law in every stone, twig or hill, every colour, or watercourse — in fact in any and everything about them”

I don’t know if many people saw that beautiful program on the ABC on Thursday evening, entitled “Spirit Stones”; where Aboriginal elders told the stories of their dreamtime country.

Stories passed from generation to generation, speaking of the spirit of the land, the spirit of country. The cinematography and the sound-capes were superb. Truly magical. The land spoke to them, it held their dreaming, their very spirits. As I watched I longed for that same connection to land, to country.
I glimpsed once again a spirit of a time long gone, but maybe a spirit we need to return to if we are going to survive as a species on this planet, or if there is going to be a planet at all.
A spirit captured by an Aboriginal man who used to sleep around the church of St Marys for many years (Alan). One night I was locking up the church when I heard this voice from one of the bushes.
“Hey You Father. Come over here”. So I came over into the bushes.
“Sit down, have a drink” he offered a slobbered on, a tallie of beer.
“No thanks Allan”.
“Suit yourself”.
It was a clear full moon night. I sat on Allan’s sleeping bag.
He sat looking up at the moon without saying a word; I sat and watched as well. It was beautiful.
“Can I ask you a question Father?”
“Ah, sure anything.”
“Not being disrespectful Father but why do you people worship God in buildings surrounded by walls?”
“Good question Allan.”
I wonder the same thing myself.
Madness.
Particularly on a night as beautiful as this.”

Somehow the stillness of the moon stills one’s own soul.
The stillness of the trees teaching us to rest in Awareness – going with the flow – being in the moment – they are our teachers.
Far more inspirational than a dated plaster statue of St Patrick.

Maybe if we as Catholics and Christians in general had spent more time worshipping God in nature, we wouldn’t have the environmental problems we are experiencing today.
Maybe we would not have exploited the earth in the way we have and continue to do so today. We would see that we are one with nature, just as the Aboriginal people of this land knew so well.

Allow me to finish with a poem from Herman Hesse for it sums up much of what I want to say.

“Some times, when a bird cries out
Or the wind sweeps through a tree,
Or a dog howls in a far-off farm,
I hold still and listen a long time.

My world turns and goes back to the place
Where, a thousand forgotten years ago,
The bird and the blowing wind
Were like me, and were my brothers and sisters.
My soul turns into a tree,
And an animal, and a cloudbank.
Then changed, and, odd it comes home
And asks me questions.

What should I reply?”