This Place

‘ Mythology is not a lie, it is poetry, it is metaphorical. It is the penultimate truth - penultimate because the ultimate cannot be put into words ‘. Quote by Joseph Campbell. …………….. There are no signposts here, or a ray of light descending from the heavens to mark this place much less a fence to restrict entry to a privileged few. Just a small patch of grass, a clump of eucalyptus trees on slightly elevated ground, a freshly painted bench seat on which I can sit to take in the view. The river content within its wide banks, the bay glistening under a bright morning sun, seagulls on graceful wings and way off in the distance, anchored ships dozing in a drowsy calm. There are many such places where you can stop for awhile and with reverence, close your eyes and sense the sacred beneath your feet, feel its ancient breath rise up out of its sleep and gently brush your mind. These are the well holes of regions modernity has tried to claim, clear of meaning and put under the heel of commerce - territories that were once occupied by myth, creations fertile womb out of which we were born and came into being. This place still murmurs that past, the songs of making still beckon the storyteller, the artisan and the poet to give it voice once again, a home in the rooms of our humble art and speak its sacred name.