19/02/2026
On boodjar (Country), a Noongar man walks slowly, following the old bidi / djooroot (tracks).
These tracks are not just on the ground — they are the marks of his life: grief, loss, anger, and the heavy weight of drugs that once pulled him away from himself, his family, and his spirit.
For a long time, his koorliny (walking) was restless.
His djen, djin (feet) carried pain.
His spirit felt scattered, like smoke drifting without a fire.
One evening, he stops at a karla (campfire).
The fire speaks softly — not in words, but in warmth.
Fire does not judge what it burns; it transforms it.
He sits, nyinning, and listens.
Around him are the signs of life:
the moort (family tracks) of those who walked before him,
the gentle curves of kep (water) reminding him that healing flows, not all at once, but steadily.
The wind, maar, carries old songs across the land.
He begins to work with his hands.
From boorn (wood) and boya (stone), he starts carving.
A boomerang. A spear. A shield.
Each cut is careful.
Each mark is a memory released.
As he carves, his breathing slows.
The noise inside his head quiets.
The artefacts are not just tools — they are stories.
They hold pain, but they also hold survival.
The act of creating reconnects him to Noongar ways —
to the old knowledge that says:
You are not broken. You are becoming.
His tracks change.
Where once there were jagged lines of chaos,
now the bidi becomes clearer.
The symbols of his life begin to join:
fire for strength,
water for cleansing,
people sitting together around the karla — moort returning.
He is still healing.
Healing is not a straight path.
But every day, he walks with more purpose.
On Country, under the same sky his ancestors watched,
a Noongar man stands strong —
not defined by his trauma or addiction,
but by his courage to heal,
his hands that create,
and his spirit that remembers who he is.