This summer, I visited Mount Buller/Marnong, a place intertwined with my childhood and sense of home. Each drive back to Benalla (Yorta Yorta Country) reveals the mountain rising from the floodplains. With its rivers, waterfalls, and impressive granite boulders like the famous Sentinel Rock formation, Mount Buller/Marnong holds remarkable beauty and grandeur. It was our family's go-to spot for winter snow trips, where I touched snow for the first time and fearlessly skied down its slopes. Summers were filled with hiking, camping, swimming, and fishing. Sadly, little awareness was given to the sacredness of this mountain and its surroundings in my upbringing.
For the Traditional Custodians of this land, the Yowung-illam balug clan of the Taungurong People, Mount Buller was referred to as Marnong, the word used for ‘hand’. According to a Taungurong women quoted in Mount Buller: the story of the mountain, their Elders would take young men on initiatory processes to Marnong, were their creation stories would be shared and the men would be shown the dreaming tracks.
Mount Buller/Marnong's significance deepens with its sacred plant life, notably the Acacia phlebophylla or Mount Buffalo Wattle. This native bush medicine, recognised for psychoactive properties, is esteemed as one of Australia's most sacred entheogens. Indigenous plant wisdom far exceeds our own, so it is probably fair to say that Indigenous Elders would have conducted sacred ceremonies on this mountain with this sacred plant, as a means to converse with the Spirits of the Land and their Ancestors. This plant, just like the traditions practiced on this spectacular mountain, are damaged (but not lost) by the tragedy and horrors of colonisation and industrialisation. The Mount Buffalo Wattle is now considered endangered because of bushfires and illegal harvesting. The landscape that once hosted sacred ceremonies now accommodates activities like biking, hiking, and rock climbing, reflecting a transformed cultural and environmental landscape.
While hiking this mountain, I immersed myself in envisioning its pre-colonial landscape. Despite the contemporary challenges faced by the natural world and its custodians, the enduring magic of this mountain persists. Wildflowers bloom, green shoots emerge in burnt areas, and rivers flow clear. During the hike, we reached a vast granite clifftop, offering a panoramic view of the Buffalo River Valley below. At this granite clifftop were numerous holes carved into the stone full of water, after recent rain (pictured below). I recalled learning about the Indigenous practice of carving holes into rock as a means to capture water for when people would visit that area. These water holes, one in particular, were huge. It was hard to believe that such a large carving was possible. Yet, when I showed this image to a friend who works closely with First Nations people, his response was “well, that’s a multi-generational project spanning many of generations”.
I share this story with you because this comment and my experience on Mount Buffalo/Marnong has made me think – what is our multi-generational project? At a time in our human history when, for the most part, consideration of generations spans only a few, if at all. The modern human bases decisions on the needs and wants of the self and perhaps their children and grandchildren. How many of us today stop to think about how their actions will impact on countless future generations? The prevailing "I'll be gone, not my problem" mindset prevails. In contrast, the most resilient cultures of this planet are those of the pre-industrial world, the First Nations people. Their awareness transcends time, extending to ancestors and generations yet to come. This serves as a reminder to broaden our perspective and act with a consciousness that echoes through the ages.
As someone who has journeyed with breath, nature and plants for over a decade, and have held space or witnessed countless sacred processes, it feels undeniable that our ancestors talk to us. They appear in the most majestic of ways, through our bodies, on the Earth, their voices carried by the wind. I often encourage people to envision ancestors with their hands resting on their back, holding them through their healing and growth journey. Our ancestors hold us because our healing is their healing. Many traumas in our bodies are generational legacies to be resolved over time. A mentor beautifully articulated this as an intergenerational process, wherein each generation digests as much collective trauma as possible, and then passes the remaining experience forward. Perhaps this is the intergenerational project of our times.
The traumas of war, displacement, disconnection, genocide, poverty, racism, industrialisation, empire, colonisation, and ecocide are imprinted in our bodies, as both victims and perpetrators. The enormity of this reality is staggering, and the path toward healing such profound pain may feel insurmountable. Yet, our ancestors beckon us toward wholeness, much like rivers instinctively flow to the ocean. They hold us with their eternal wisdom and unconditional love.
Let each person clear the way for future generations, with intention, love and consideration of both those who have passed and those yet to come. I hope that each of us breathes our final breath, secure in the understanding that we'll be remembered as a good and noble ancestor—one who processed as much trauma as possible, passed on what remains, and then joining those who have passed and extending our hands to future generations, guiding and encouraging them to follow the same path.
