The world is outside. I’m inside. I’m under the trees, running along familiar tracks.
There are no restrictions and rules. The birds don’t yell, “Back away! Remember: 1.5 metres apart!” There’s no coronavirus here in the bush. Problems can’t reach me. They can’t thrust their way beneath the trees. I’m safe.
But then I think: how ironic it is that my refuge is a place that not so long ago was a threat to my life.
Week after week, we were on alert. Would an approaching fire consume our homes? What about us? Would we survive?
There was a plan: a protecting backburn fire was lit around our village. It leapt towards the threatening flames.
The fire burned and then was gone, and we headed into the bush to assess the damage. All that was left were blackened trees standing naked in a sea of ash.
Over the past few weeks, I’ve been observing the bush. Each morning, as I run, I watch out for new surprises. A sapling shooting from a bulldozed tree stump . Clumps of grass pushing their way up from the ash. A banksia that missed the flames. Gum trees with leaves sprouting along the length of their branches, Christmas tinsel that’s making them fatter and fatter. Soon the trees will rub shoulders again. They’ll no longer be standing alone, 1.5 metres apart.
The bush is regenerating, coming back stronger than ever.
The bush. A fire. The recovery. The bush.
Different seasons of the same life: all necessary and good.
When we first saw the burnt bush it looked stark and black. Devastated. Dead. But it wasn’t. It was already preparing to spring back to life. Hope was concealed within the ash.
I run out from beneath the trees. The world comes to greet me. Stark and black.
But I see hope.
