I listen to grandmothers stories,
They are about the dreamtime.
The ancestors guide me as I walk.
I go lots of places.
I sing as I walk, I write songlines.
I follow the way of my ancestors,
they walked the trails of this desert before me, but they walk with me now.
I sing my song, and they sing with me.
I walk their paths and they show me the way.
I follow their path, but at the same time I am making a new path of my own.
I walk with grandfather, we go to the place of the hands.
He puts my hand on the rock, and sprays ‘it with his spirit, and ochre.
Now my print is there with the ancestors prints,
they have come to this place for seasons beyond count.
I do a ritual, but I can’t tell you about that, it is too special.
I am a man now, and I live in the man tribe with the other men who don’t have wives.
Someday I will get married, but I am young now.
That is a different time.
I don’t consider myself an authority on aboriginal culture by any means. But I wrote this story while taking a tribal art class, and thought it was worth a second look. There is so much that is really beautiful about other cultures it is always worth taking a second look, and teaching our children about.