I’ve just finished reading The Desert Knows Her Name, by Lia Hills. It was published this year, the result of five years of research, a book about reckoning; of the land, of First Nations Peoples and the effects of colonisation. It is a resolution of sorts, a time for the telling of stories that are the foundation of what we call Australian history.

For me it is a story of hope. Of seeds that were planted in the 1970s and 1980s, now come to fruition. The awakening of a generation who knew injustices needed addressing. Of Save the Whale and the Environmental movement. Of Constitutional rights finally given to First Nations People. Of protests that have become woven into the fabric of our everyday life, carrying a residue of the trauma that led to their emancipation. Think Gay Rights, Womens’ Rights, Indigenous Rights. 

When the world can appear to be a downward spiral of hopelessness, I think of these new stories which are emerging, now that the time is ripe for their listening. Stories that have taken twenty five, thirty or more years to compound and mature so that ears can be receptive to the change that is happening.  

It’s not always in the headlines of the media. It’s happening on micro levels in communities and towns, even ‘under the radar’. People coming together to share their backyard vegetables, learn skills and connect. Environmental activists celebrating small but important wins which keep their spirits hopeful. Rural towns and cities embracing Indigenous place names to replace those of the marauding colonists. 

As artists in any genre, we share glimmers of hope in our offerings. We perform our own litmus tests, taking the ‘temperature’ of our surroundings; commenting, reflecting, bearing witness to what we see and feel. Finding ways to bring the personal into the political.

By sharing these offerings, we give ourselves permission to tell of both the bad and the good. To transform pain into humour or beauty. To find hope in the simple pleasures of painting a washing line hung with clothes out in the suburban sun, or a scene from a window that tells a deeper story of history. To connect with the seismic movements of our times, even though we may feel unnoticed, disregarded, or misunderstood.

I believe what we are doing constantly through practicing our art, is keeping hope alive. Being a forerunner for future times. Creating receptive ears to important messages.

In becoming ground breakers, we become receptacles of joy. Reminders of the human spirit and connection to all of what it means to be alive in this time of change. To carry stories of hope ready to nurture into fruition.