Yesterday afternoon I was able to attend what became possibly the most beautiful ritual I’ve ever been a part of (except, perhaps, my handfasting, of course!) I have no photos to share from it, as I turned my phone off the moment we settled into the ritual space, plonked my bag in the tent, and got my toes nice and sandy, surrounded by yellow flowers and fluffy cats tails. I also got to finally meet fellow blogger DragonWyst!

We honoured our ancestors, of Mud, Blood and Wisdom. Images flashed into my head of people I hadn’t realised had had such an effect on me.

The rain was a constant spittle, but to me that connected us all. The rain (sea) came from the sky, and onto the land. Slightly paranoid that the ants nest next to me would decide to visit me, and worried that my drum would get wet, were my only distractions.

It was such a beautiful ritual.

It’s since made me ponder about why I’m feeling withdrawn from my natural landscape, and craving ancestral lands of late. Depending on what side of the family you look at, I range from 2^nd to 8^th generation Australian. There have been at least seven generations grown/growing up in the town that I was raised, yet I cannot find that place home. I love Sydney – I love the energy, the people, the community vibe, and the multiculturalism.

We touched on where we go during meditation. So often when someone says, “You are walking through a forest…” we see ourselves walking through a Northern Hemispheric forest, of old oak and ash, rather than a forest of eucalyptus and she oaks.

I see both at times, or one or the other, but sometimes I feel it’s as if ancestral memories are coming through. I see photos of England, for example, and it feels as if my soul yearns to go home. It yearns to see the canals and ruins, the endless stretches of hills, and the small towns scattered away from the highways.

I know that one day I will get there. One day I will get to stand on the land of Albion, and see places of myth that I have read about since a child for my own eyes. To see Birmingham where my family is from (however much it may now be changed); and the white cliffs of Dover, which I’ve visited many a time in my dreams.

It’s been too long since I spent real time in the bush. A day under the great eucalyptus trees, bark beneath my bum, with the creek slowly moving a stone throw away. The call of the magpie, the screech of the cockatoo, and the timid rustle under bushes of lizards trying to find a safe bit of sun.

Commitments can be a bitch when all you want to do is take time out and just…connect.

The Muggle and I will be heading down to my home town over the holiday break, staying with my mother. I’m hoping for one day, or even an afternoon, to go visit the beach I used to spend every full moon at (for several years).

Maybe that’s the home I’m craving?