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 Walking up the sunny winding hill path some of us chatted while others—like me—were silent. Smooth hills rolled out in front of us and wore a deep brilliant green. Kauri Pines and Blue Gums dotted the park, stretching high from within the ground. There was a sprinkler that shot out a curtain of spray allowing my eyes to see a small faint rainbow. Cars streamed across the M3 creating a white noise like a restless ocean. It had been right next to the campus this whole time, yet I had never been. 

We were visiting Victoria Park because in two months on May 28th we would be contributing to the Green Heart Fair that it hosts once a year. Our university project was entitled: ‘Finding Barrambin’ named after Victoria Park’s exonym. The primary function of the project were three art installations developed and installed by groups of visual art students. However, this was a multidisciplinary project so other students from other degrees were encouraged to contribute. Like the drama and dance students who composed and choreographed performances that tied into the art installations and the film students who documented all of the behind the scenes. I’m a creative writing student, so walking around the park that day unsure if I was the sole writing student, I was intimidated and afraid that I had made a mistake. Will I have anything to do for the next two months? Should I have even enrolled in this project? How am I going to shoehorn words into these installations?  

Standing around the cordoned off jacaranda tree the class discussed one of the installations. I was standing on the outskirts pulling my shirt collar over the back of my neck to ward off the harsh sun. The jacaranda wasn’t in bloom, so the leaves were green and ferny. The grass at its base was long and had been set swaying by the rolling breeze. At the time I thought the other students all seemed excited and sure of what they were going to be doing. They stood close and seemed to already know each other. It’s only now I realise that they were probably thinking the same as me. If I were an animation or drama or film student, I would have felt just as unsure of my role if not more. If I were one of the artists, I probably would have felt afraid to share the idea for my installation in front of strangers the same way I’m afraid to share my stories.   

Before we left Barrambin we were invited to all stand around silently with our eyes closed—welcome to remove our shoes and socks and put our bare feet on the ground. It was quiet in the park, but my mind remained noisy. The smell of the grass filled my head. The faint chill of the wind reflected off the creek and swept through me. The sounds of cars rushing down the M3 dissipated. The breeze shook music from the leaves and rustled branches before bringing back snatches of distant Noisy Miners. May 28th slipped away. That day — that number — two months from now, but where is now? Now is me writing this early in the morning with my laptop tiredly humming and the air outside my window misty and wet. Now is me knowing that I found plenty of ways to contribute to the project. But now is also me on the day of the Green Heart Fair pointing guests in the right direction.  

Walking back through Barrambin after class I was alone. Barrambin seemed much bigger than before. The hills were longer but not as steep. I followed the way we’d come from and tried to take a shortcut, but it ended up taking longer. I bought some groceries from Woolworths and headed home. On the bus I realised I hadn’t been thinking about what I was going to be doing in the project. I hadn’t thought about what contributions I could make or if I would fail the class or if I’d made some huge mistake. I looked at the sky. One long streak of cloud hung pasted across it. It almost hurt to look at it. The whole way home as the bus bumped and hissed over the road, I watched that cloud and continued thinking of nothing.