between the rocks and a safe place
a possum, a seed, epic boulders, and a vision of a forest
Last month, we found a baby possum on the side of the road. I saw the little grey ball curled up in the gutter and pulled over - we had to check if it was alive.
It was. As we approached, it hobbled slowly away from us - injured, alone, bleeding, out in the daytime when it should have been sleeping somewhere safe, tucked away in a tree or the nook of someone’s roof. It was a little ringtail, the size of a kitten.
“We can’t leave him,” I said. “He’ll get hit by a car.”
We know we shouldn’t touch wild animals - both for our sake and theirs. In the moment, I ran through the options in my head: I could drive home to get a box, or throw my scarf around it. Then I remembered: serendipitously, I had a cardboard box of studio materials in the boot of my car. I tipped them out and brought the box over, still wondering how we would get the possum inside without touching it.
I needn’t have worried. As soon as I laid the box down on its side, the little possum climbed in, all the way to the bottom. I felt the relief pour through him - finally, a burrow.
We took him home, calling Wildlife Victoria, who arranged for a local volunteer to pick him up and take him to the vet. We were going out and couldn’t stay, so we left him in a safe spot under the carport with fresh water. While we were out, we received a text message update. When we came home, the box was empty.
I’ve been thinking about that little possum ever since. A part of me knows, but doesn’t want to know, that he was so injured and so young that he might not have survived, even with help. I know, but don’t want to know, that the chances they put him down that night are quite high. A part of me questions calling the authorities, knowing this. But what else could we have done? I have to trust that they would do the most humane thing, and I do. You don’t volunteer to rescue wildlife if you don’t care.
There is also the part of me that is grateful we found him. Whatever happened - whether it was a cat, or a magpie, or he simply fell out of the tree and couldn’t climb back up - that terrified baby curled up in the gutter was given a safe place, and spoken to softly, and loved, in the only way two untrained humans knew how.
On our walk this morning, Nala and I passed a tree and I saw a cicada shell stuck to it. An entire, perfect exoskeleton, as intricately beautiful as it makes me feel squeamish. I haven’t seen one of these for actual decades. I feel like they used to be a common sight when I was a kid - but like Christmas beetles, slater bugs, monarch butterflies, and spitfires - I’ve gone long stretches without seeing them much at all. Is it that they are no longer around? That I have moved away from them and back again? That I simply no longer look as much as I used to? Perhaps all of the above.
And then the other day, Nala came bounding back to me after exploring the bushes at the edge of the park, where she has run around in many times before. But this time, she came back covered in some kind of seed. I still don’t know what it was - but they looked like pom-poms, each one as big as a raspberry, covered in red spines and stuck in her fur, right up to the skin, clinging like velcro. I couldn’t pull them out in one piece. I had to pull them apart, revealing their lime green interior. Each ‘ball’ was made up of dozens of small seeds that could slide out of her fur but only one by one. We spent the next hour trying to get them out. A brush didn’t make it any easier.
I got that same unsettling feeling - like a parasite had tried to cling to my dog and take her over. In a way, that’s exactly what happened. I think about how nature is beautiful and wondrous but also so much smarter than us, in ways. Whatever that plant is, it’s brilliant. What a way to spread and survive. I hate it and I’m in awe of it. I never want to see it again, and I respect it just the same.
On Friday, I went to Hanging Rock with a good friend. It’s a nostalgic place for me now - somewhere the memories of friends are everywhere. Parkour friends from our years training together, other close friends from different chapters of my life. I see them all here still, in the paths we walked and the rocks we climbed and jumped across together. The memories are all good ones: talking while navigating rocky paths, the delicate balance of playful exploration and fear, sitting at a high point eating a picnic lunch, looking over green vistas, groups of kangaroos bounding across the land below.
It’s not a big hike by any means - just a few kilometres. But the rocks are so epic they are almost spiritual. No, they are spiritual. I feel alive amongst them. Spending the day carefully moving through their angles and edges, gripping them with my hands, recharges me with an energy - something ancient that comes from deep within the earth, up the mountain, pulsing outward through the rock.
It felt profoundly good for my soul - being in nature, phones away (except for a few photos), with a good friend. More than that, it reminded me that I don’t do this enough. I’m going to work more of this into my year. A little nature immersion each day, yes - the fresh air, the spacious backyard, the view of big trees and mountains we’re lucky enough to have. But also full nature immersion days, or weekends, regularly throughout the year. Alone, and with company. When I meet with friends, this is what I’d like to do. More picnics, less cafés. More walking and exploring, less sitting. More chai tea in flasks to share. More time with people who fill my cup. More fully off days - not working, or writing, or catching up on messages. Not building community, not running errands, not ticking things off the to-do list.
In a way, this is doing all of those things still. But on a soul level. In a way that is resting all the parts of me that work so hard and carry so much, every other day.
Next week, I’m graduating from the MBE (Mastery of Business & Empathy) - a masters-level course I have been studying intensely throughout the year. All year, I have been holding this metaphor of Words of a Feather as a forest. I don’t know how exactly it looks in practice yet, but this is the business structure I want to work with. It has capacity for light and shade. It is an ecosystem, not a garden.
For my end-of-year presentation, I plan to speak through all the layers of a forest and how, like nature, we keep trying and growing. Even if we fail, it’s okay. The worst that can happen is that soft compost cushions our fall, we learn a lesson, and our light moves upwards again through branch-tips, finger-tips, wing-tips - emerging anew.
We’re all just here, finding our way to exist in this forest, aren’t we?
From between these rocks, finding safe places,
Amy x
Some news:
My short story A Little Tree in the Desert was published in the latest, and final, Melbourne Circle anthology. Also, I got to share lunch with an icon of Australian literature when we collected our copies at the same time!
Another short story of mine, The Spirit Mender, appears in EVOLVE - a Words of a Feather x The Provocative Inklings anthology featuring local and international writers in our communities. We are having a launch party on December 6 - you are invited!
My memoir about the Camino, A Field of Stars, is in its final stages and due for publication in early 2026 - stay tuned!
There’s a secret ghostwriting project I worked on this year that I’m excited about. The proof copy should arrive in the post any day now, and I can’t wait to tell you more about it next year.
I’m hosting a Writing Day in January, and I’d love for you to write with me if you’re also craving dedicated time and space to just write. Think of it as a mini writing retreat - focused work on your own project, in supportive community.
So beautiful 💚
Amy, you are such a marvellous writer---such warmth, empathy, humanism and depth! Your talent is really impressive! I can't ever compare with you. Your story reminds me of an incident some 11 years ago. I was having my morning walk around my home and while passing through a patch of grass under a tree found a little bird struggling there. I ceased my walking and lifted the bird gently and walked quickly home with it, making sure I was not squeezing it. My wife drove me to the RSPCA some 15 minutes and I handed it to the staff there. I was assured that the bird would be taken good care of. I wonder now: has it recovered? Has it been released? Has it found its way home to its mother? I have no doubt animals of any sort do feel pain in some way. We should be kind, both in regard to our fellow-beings and animals--this defines our humanity. Amy, I am sure you have a kind heart. I am glad to be a friend of yours. Warm wishes, Peter, humanist