Angophora

Tucked away in one of the valleys where we live stands this old, magnificent Angophora Floribunda. She’s been here for hundreds of years — long before any of us —being a quiet witness.

We call this spot the Grandmother Valley. It’s the place where the idea of Deep Time stopped being an idea for me. Standing there, it’s hard to ignore. You feel it. You see the choices of past generations right in front of you.

This used to be a gathering place for First Nations people. You can still see the signs — rock markings, carvings, hollows. People lived here for thousands of years, in rhythm with the land, knowing how to care for it.

So what happened to this place over the last hundred-odd years?

Somewhere along the way, this valley — this peaceful, sacred-feeling spot — became a dumping ground for old cars. About a dozen of them. Scattered under the branches of this ancient tree. Rusting slowly into the soil.

This place makes it impossible to avoid the truth: our choices leave marks. Sometimes small, sometimes huge. But they always leave something behind.

And it’s not just here. We’re shaping what comes next all the time — often in ways we won’t see until years later. Deep Time helps with that. It widens the frame. It asks a simple question: what story am I adding to — and what do I want to leave behind, for those before me, and those who’ll come after?

One day we’ll get those wrecks out. We’ve tried a few times — it’s not simple, you need proper machinery.
And I do wonder what the old tree would say once they’re finally gone.

Maybe this story needed to be told before that happens.