Dancing with Wind

with guest contributor Philipa

Toward the end of last year, those who had completed one of the Living Waters programmes were invited to join a new inquiry. This was intended to build on our work with River and take it into a new context – the living presence of where we live, our Dwelling Places. How do we learn to attend and listen, re-enchant, converse with, sacralize, make kin with the Places where we live – the local and bioregional Land? Twenty people joined this inquiry, which formally started in January 2025. We have engaged in eight formal (and many informal) cycles of inquiry, and in the process have become a close community of inquiry right across the planet: ‘I’m glad and grateful for this small community of dwelling enquirers,’ writes Alan.

We now have a huge amount of recorded experience from this: written accounts, transcripts of inquiry groups and the whole community, drawings, photographs, videos. We are faced with the challenge of drawing out the narratives that will speak out to a wider community. The story told below was relatively easy to put together as all the accounts came at the same point in the inquiry; we intend to post further narrative both of specific experiences and of the inquiry journey as a whole in future posts.

This first story is from Philipa. It tells specifically on one event, while at the same time reaching back into childhood. Philipa was understandable cautious about this going public: ‘I was just overwhelmed at the thought of people reading such a private piece.’ I (Peter) believe it is important that such stories of our world as living and responsive are told, that it becomes evident that all sorts of people, in their everyday lives, have direct evidence of the sentient world. We theorize in living cosmos panpsychism, calling these experiences ‘ontopoetic’ As Freya Mathews put it, ontopoetics is ‘…a way of talking about a communicative form of engagement with world… against the backdrop of a view of reality as presence, a presence with a psycho-active dimension of its own and a capacity and inclination to create and share meaning with us’. But the stories themselves carry far more meaning than the theory.

My family’s home lies at the foothills of House Mountain Range in Brisbane, Australia. It is part of the ancestral lands of the Jinibara and Turrbal people, who are the Traditional Owners of this region and have nurtured these lands for tens of thousands of years. This my dwelling place – where I grew up and where my father still lives. Although I now live with my family 30 minutes downriver, I still feel like this place is my home. The connection I have is more than just a sentimental attachment to a childhood place. I am part of the land – deeply enmeshed in it – and I have been listening to it and communicating with it my whole life. So the practices that I describe are ones I've been doing intuitively since childhood.

For me, going back home is a kind of sacred journey. My ritual of return is always the same: I follow the Pine River through the suburbs, crossing the range that opens onto Samford valley, an evergreen landscape nestled beneath densely forested mountains. I greet the land with humility and respect – acutely aware that I am (and have always been) a visitor on this land. “Hello”, I say, “It’s me. I came home.” There is no need to speak my name – this land knows me, has grown me.

I take time to taste the air and lovingly greet old friends – Peach and Bottlebrush; the family of Kookaburras that waits testily on the clothesline for their afternoon feed; the giant Moreton Bay Fig tree where I used to sit and watch the chickens have dirt baths. It saddens me to think that one day I will be the only one who remembers this, but I remind myself that this is a storied land, a place suffused with living memories, and mine is just one story.

I make my way a little further up the hill, beyond the back boundary. Two overlapping fire trails form a clearing, which opens directly onto the forest reserve behind the block. I can’t explain why exactly, but through my practice of attuning to the land – feeling at home, feeling that deep love and connection – I know I am being called to this specific place.

I begin by extending my thoughts outwards – waiting calmly and patiently for anything that feels like a response. Soon enough, a cool breeze strokes my back. Some might consider this a coincidence, but I have been listening to Wind song for a long time and on this hot, still day, this cool breeze is like a loving caress. I watch, enchanted, as the grassy stems around me begin to sway, rippling like currents on a river. Soon, the trees join in and the movement is amplified until the whole forest seems united in a joyous dance. Caught up in the experience, I am startled to feel something brush against my arm. A long seed head bobs gently next to me, reaching out as if to include me in the dance. I am overcome with awe and gratitude.

I feel very vulnerable admitting that I speak to Wind, because it's been almost like a secret practice. I know when Wind is speaking because it can be still, dead still, and when I extend my thoughts out, Wind responds. It’s a living connection. I’ll feel it in my body and what starts as a small exchange will reveal something magical. The best way I can describe it is like being part of a universal mind, part of a universal movement, and feeling myself in synchronicity with that movement.

As I watch, the Wind picks up. A flock of Needletails swoops in, one after the other, to gather on a towering Forest Gum – adding their shrill voices to Wind’s melody. A symphony of aliveness, all congregated in the exact spot that I have been drawn to, where I am standing. You can see this towards the end of the video.

Overjoyed, I watch until the light begins to fade, feeling blessed by this sacred encounter.

Not all experiences are like this. A week later, my husband told me that he had cut a path for me up to the clearing, in case of snakes. And I felt a sinking sense of dread because I knew the place wouldn’t be the same – I could feel it. And that is exactly what happened. I got there and it didn't speak to me: the land did not speak back when I tried. So, it depends on the circumstances and the conditions.