“Do what you do, do well, girl. Do what you do, do well. Give your love, and all of your heart, and do what you do, do well”.
A simple philosophy in a lullaby that my father sung to me when I was little. Not only did my father sing me this lullaby, but he told me bedtime stories of the ancestors and of our responsibility to the land. To our people. And to our self.
As First Nations people there is a constant comfort in knowing you are not alone in this world. Wherever you go the spirits are there to protect, and to nourish.
It is a contentment that relies on knowing yourself. Winhanga-dili-nya is a Wiradjuri word that loosely translates to “knowing yourself”.
This is a feeling, most deeply felt in connection to Country. Country with a capital C, because it means more than place. It means the intricate interconnected web of culture and spirituality that resides within. A relationship that connects all aspects of life.
Akala Newman as a child with her dad. Source: Supplied
My people are the Wiradjuri people. The people of three rivers, descendants of the great warrior Windradyne. We have a philosophy in our language called yindyamarra which means to go slow, be gentle, be kind, be respect and love. I wish dear reader, that I could help you to understand the beauty of this ontology more deeply.
Perhaps I devoured the words “give your love and all of your heart” too literally in my teenage years. I would give my love away always. Easily fall stupidly head over heels. My first “real” love was this boy, he had hazel eyes and loved me right back. He wanted to give me the moon. He literally bought me a star. You can go to the Sydney Observatory and look for yourself. You must be thinking “oh how sweet”, but I thought, “how bizarre”. I was taught you do not own the land, the world, or the cosmos. These are entities you are made from, and you go back to. Not wanting to hurt his feelings I said, “Thank you”. I wish I had said this: "The stars are not ours. We are the stars."
My second love had blue eyes. He told me I was his Pocahontas. He wanted me to come to England, to live with him, to be lawfully wedded. You must be thinking “how romantic”, but I thought, “how strange”.
Akala Newman. Source: Supplied
Akala Newman watching the sunrise after a swim in the ocean: "My favourite self care routine in the morning." Source: Supplied
I was taught a different story of Pocahontas. A story of a woman whose country was torn apart, whose body was objectified, people slaughtered, and land destroyed. It was a story not of love, but of dispossession. Triggering an intergenerational trauma that exists deep in the cracks of my bones, but not wanting to hurt his feelings I said, “Thank you”, and again, I left. But I wish I said this: "I am not your property. A thing to control. I belong to myself."
But then this third love came along. I didn’t go looking for him. He was First Nations too. He understood me. Finally the ancestors had worked their magic. He knew what it meant to burn Eucalyptus, and why you don’t whistle at night. Why rocks must stay where they are, and why we look past the stars. He saw me, and I saw him. He said he loved me, and I believed it. Claiming himself as a ‘new age’ man, yet he was like fog. Slippery and untouchable. He disappeared leaving the left side of the wardrobe empty, like the left side of my chest. He didn’t love me, or maybe he did? But he was too scared to admit it, afraid his light would be dimmed.
Akala Newman with her parents. Source: Supplied
Time passes, and I am learning to love myself. Not in the cliché romantic notion of bubble baths and daily positive affirmations, but the kind of loving yourself that’s hard.
The one where when you look in the mirror and hate what you see but still kiss the fingers that touch the world you are blessed to live upon, finding your worth in the little things.
Every day I become stronger with each breath I take in knowing who I am. Winhanga-dili-nya is an art form. A practice and a process. Through this process I have learnt to say the things I want, no more “thankyou’s” and no more wishing. I’m popping blisters from the burns, releasing baggage of the past. Finding triggers and acknowledging them. Treating them as old friends and not fearing the dreaded pain.
Akala Newman. Source: Supplied
I say “thank you” instead to myself, to my own body. A vessel of strength. A sacred femininity.
You are worth so much more than you know. Even through all the heartache and frustrations, you are still capable of love, and capable of being loved. Let your light show, let your love grow, and live in yindyamarra.
Akala Newman (she/her) is a Wiradjuri and Gadigal artist and academic. When Akala is not writing or making music like her 2020 hit “Burnt For you”, she is assistant producer for Moogahlin Performing Arts, Artist Educator at Museum of Contemporary Arts, Intimacy Co-coordinator for Intimate Scenes Australia. She has a passion for Blak representation, storytelling, love and wellbeing. You can follow Akala on , , or her .
This article is part of the First Nations Writers’ collection, a specially curated series chosen from the 2020 SBS Emerging Writers’ Competition submissions.
National Reconciliation Week—27 May to 3 June—is a time for all Australians to learn about our shared histories, cultures, and achievements, and to explore how each of us can contribute to achieving reconciliation in Australia. The National Reconciliation Week 2022 theme is “Be Brave. Make Change.” Join the conversation #NRW2022.
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