We shifted paradigm in a 3 ton truck.
On the road to Wombatistan.
we had seen it once and it grew in our minds and became .. I suppose you would call it a spirit .. whatever.
It possessed us with a message: “Be here”.
And here we are. And we came in a 3 ton truck.
All the baggage of our lives so far, all stuffed like Tetris in a cube of moving.
Let me tell you about Wombatistan.
The wombat spirit asked, and we came.
The night was deepening as we transitioned into this paradigm .. maybe you might say dimension .. it’s very different here.
The shadows make magic hidden by the day, and to drive a 3 ton truck through it is a unique thing .. a cherished thing.
Firstly, the road gets bad .. then it gets worse .. then it becomes a quest.
And so we drove our merry little scared humans down a road that no one where we came from would even recognise as a road.
Firstly there is the washout corner. No vehicle was made to navigate such a thing and yet we did.
Then there’s Black Bunny hollow .. it’s a hollow .. a black bunny lives there, and the road goes in through his backyard. If you go through at certain times it frightens the bunny and he hops away, as if to say - “Crap! There’s a 3 ton truck in my back yard!”
And so there was.
And as we navigated our quest all the night people crossed - the wombat the kangaroos, the wallabies, the bilbies, the potaroos, the great possum in the canopy, the parrots, the owls the mice and the un-documented insects. Welcome to wilder-ness.. aka “Wombatistan”.
And then there’s the speed hump. It’s a “wombat crossing” actually.
The side of the “road” is perfect for a wombat to dig a burrow. And wombats can dig a lot of earth. So the road had a 1-foot high mound of clay across it. Enough to make anyone in a vehicle - 3 ton or less .. or more .. to slow TF down!
So we slowed down and .. damp clay is slippery - and the 3 ton truck did a little sideways slide as the brush and brambles painted liabilities on its side (rented truck).
And then through the gates (there’s cows around here, and cows need gates).
SO stop, unlock, open, drive through, stop, close, lock .. the creed of cow country - leave it how you find it.
And then to the magic winding road to Wombatistan - the road becomes a road .. well .. goats would call it a road. At least it doesn’t have erosion gullies in it.
And then we got here - in Wombatistan.
There are wombats - lots of them.
Near the house .. well .. up the creek a ways .. they have a city.
We call it Wombopolis .. maybe 20 burrows facing the creek with well-trod pathways between the doors. If Tolkien knew wombats he’d have no need for hobbits.
In a dream .. all the universe is known.
IN the dimension of Wombatistan .. things are a bit different. Here it is a living story.
There is the story of the foxes who live in the granite hill to the East.
There is the story of the gardener’s midden to the West. Where insects erupt like smoke of fountains and spiders fly on rainbows.
To the South is the story of the bad human who eats public land and is a cause of cancer.
To the North is the old forest .. the ancient.
The ancient is a mirror .. it is a mirror for all things played and sung.
The ancient forest loves whistles as it loves the hundreds of songbirds.
The ancient taught me some words:
“Play for me- I have been here a million years, and you seem like fun!”.
Great trees a cross-section of the high woods. There are deer in there, inter-lopes 
But there also are the old ones - the wombats and the snakes and the birds, kangaroos and wallabies, quolls and quockas, and other things who’s skat is unfamiliar.
Night and day, it is a place of shifting soundscape.
It also told me things to not share, but this I can:
ON a blue day:
Hold your hand against the blue sky at arm’s length.
Look at the back of that hand:
That is your hand.
Do it - let me know what happens.
(Edited for translation .. Wombatistani is .. a bit different ..)
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