July Musings

The big rains of this July have fed my ongoing obsession with petrichor, dampness, rainforests

Yuma,

I once read that in the Wurundjeri traditional seasons, "winter" isn't considered a barren time at all. Rather it's a time of relatively high rainfall. Of fecundity, growth, and abundance.

And I've also noticed, now that I'm living in an urban area after four years living rurally, that rain is nicer in wild places than it is in the city. The sleet feels less cold when it brings out a prism of greens. When the world glistens. The big rains of this July have fed my ongoing obsession with petrichor, dampness, rainforests. The ecotone between water and soil. I hope that the rains are treating you well. I hope you are snug, and loved, and watching the wattles begin to bud.

If you would prefer the audio version, you may listen to me (and Ember's little squeaks) here:

Prescription for brooding: be held by rain

There is a fern in my belly (image: Kassel Hingee)

Diary notes from the pregnancy:
It is absolutely
pouring down, plummeting down.
And I am saturated with relief,
and I am thinking about ferns, fiddleheads.

And I am thinking about how, all my life I have
longed for dry, warm, comforts, but now
there is a frog in my belly, a fern in my belly, and I am wondering,
what it would be,
to be comforted by cold rain,
enthusiastic earthworms.

The end of summer came immediately.
One Monday my summer dress was clinging to the underside of my pregnant breasts, gathering sweat.
The next day, we received a warning for flash flooding.
The last thing on earth I wanted to do was to leave the property on that day, the day all the mushrooms popped up.
I sat in my office with the windows open, imagining fat water droplets pendulous on fern tips.
Back home, I walk up the hill. My senses have changed. I am attuned to scents.
I am bathed in. Rot. Pine. Sweet mulch. Wet clay.
I am broody. Brooding. It is a bad habit of mine right now.

But this rain, light on my arms, unknits.

The last thing on earth I wanted to do was to leave the property on that day, the day all the mushrooms popped up. (Image: Kassel Hingee)

Diary notes from nowish:
Since the beginning of my pregnancy, I've been consumed by an obsession with petrichor.

This obsession came with two big embodied changes. The first change was an almost suffocating need for dampness, wetness. As my body created 50% more blood, pregnancy left me parched, obsessed with getting more moisture in my body. This continues postpartum as my cells transmute into breastmilk. I crave water.

The second big change was a medical edict to avoid soil in all its forms. To avoid touching it, inhaling it, smelling it. Petrichor gave me back both dampness and dirt. The scent and feel of wetness. In the air, in the environment, on my skin. Petrichor gave me a safe place to smell my soil.

Far from being a dirty word, "moist" became a word of desire, rapture.

It's hard to express quite what it did to me: I was consumed. I dreamt of rain, rainforests. Damp roots pulsating into earth. I fantasised about becoming a salamander. A leach. Leaf mould.

What did petrichor do for me, in my body? It opened me. But it was more than that: it expanded me. It was as if the pores of my body, tightened by thirst and the anxiety of pregnancy loosened. In rain it felt as if my lungs grew bigger. It felt as if my organs softened. It activated my parasympathetic nervous system. The harshness of the world temporarily dropped away, I felt able to participate. To re-enter the world, be shaped by it.

Petrichor softened me in a different way to that of soil by itself. Soil always opens me, grounds me. Soil's umami brings me home. But it is a grounding laced with the gravity of decay. The grounding of decomposition. Petrichor felt simpler than soil: it was embodied satiation, greenness, freshness. Viriditas. It was a release.

Petrichor was embodied satiation, greenness, freshness, viriditas.

Always was, always will be (Aboriginal land)

Of course petrichor and geosmin are only the Western scientific names for that green, fresh smell. In Arrernte, the word is "nyimpe". "Panti wiru" in Pitjantjatjara/Yankunytjatjara (Anangu).

This lovely article, "the Smell of Greenness: Cultural Synaesthesia in the Western Desert" by anthropologist Dr. Diana Young explains how Pitjantjatjara/Yankunytjatjara people experience a full body synaesthesia at the green smell of rain. Here's an excerpt:

"The earth in the Western Desert is red but after heavy or prolonged rain, and the immediate germination of opportunistic seeds, the ground begins to turn a brilliant green. As the first raindrops hit the ground a strong smell is released. The more forceful the smell the longer the time that has passed since previous rain. Like all odour it is difficult to describe; eucalyptus with a top note of dust and shit – perhaps dog, camel or human. This is my description; Anangu merely describe it as a good smell – panti wiru, and one that makes it easier to breath. The smell of eucalyptus is an iconic odour for Anangu. The fragrance emitted by blood wood and red river gum trees intensifies during rain as the volatile oils from their leaves are washed from the ground. Anangu link the particular smell of the eucalypt oil washed from the earth as rain falls, and odours they regard as similar, with the transformation of country to green."

While largely about her own creative arts research, this thoughtful piece by Catherine Sarah Young also discusses non-Western knowings of petrichor.

Where you can catch me and my work

Want to play with petrichor? Want to get some mud on your hands? Want to inhale some of that green greenness? Well, put on your best gardening clothes, and mosey on down to one of my Petrichor workshops at You Are Here.

The first workshop is on Sunday August 2 from 2-4pm, and is for over-sixteens.

The second workshop an exciting experiment: open to all adults, but particularly written for parents and their babies. It's on Sunday August 9, from 2-4.30pm.

I would love to see you there.

What I am wild harvesting right now

Dirt, mud, clays, rocks. Smelling their fresh, petrichor scents when I drip water on them.

A spell for thirty-six: show me your bravery

It was my birthday on July 1. As a present, would you please email me with a story of a time that you felt brave? Courageous?

The last few years have asked for more bravery than I had: I depleted the well numerous times. Each of these times, I had to learn to hold myself through the goosebumps, shakes and nightmares after ground has been stood. I learnt to refill my bravery reserves by touching trees, walking outside, holding my partner. I learnt to refill my bravery reserves by asking you to tell me stories of your bravery, your courage.

I suspect that thirty-six will continue to ask for more bravery and integrity from me than I feel I have. Matrescence has been a beautiful, hard shock. I am also trying to find meaningful work in a job market dominated by underemployment and AI slop. I am deeply embedded in community in a materially real day-to-day way, which, of course is beautiful and what we all want. It is also deeply stressful, and a profound test of my ability to have daily hard conversations.

I need to eat your bravery. I need your words and your stories. Please, tell me about a time you've been brave.

I learnt to refill my bravery reserves by touching trees, walking outside...

Mutual aid

When I was [even] young[er] and cool[er], I spent most of my time volunteering at Friends of the Earth, Melbourne. Samantha Castro was the lifeblood of Friends of the Earth in my years there. She is one of the most passionate and compassionate campaigners I have ever met.

Her child recently died. And in a very nasty coincidence, she had just left her job.

Her family needs money. To pay for funeral costs, and to pay for their lives as they pass through this long season of grief.

Please support the Castro family here.

You can also help me! I am struggling to get my house rentable! Lots of packing, moving, cleaning, and maintenance left! If you know me personally, live in the Canberra region, and have time in the next month to lend a hand, please slide into my DMs (/reply to this email).