Saplings,

During my semester break, my love and I decided to be spontaneous and make the split-second decision to go to our first bush doof in Walpole; what a decision to make. Walpole is the home of the giant, ancient tingle trees. It's that bridge where the bush starts to get darker, where more ferns grow, where the air feels a little damper and the trees begin to stretch higher and higher as you head further inward.

The doof went over three days. There were markets and yoga in the mornings, colourful tapestries strung up between bamboo poles, countless vans and little camps tucked into the bush. There was music from 7am until 6am the next morning, stopping only for an hour, and around 30 different artists and DJs. After a while the bass stopped feeling like music and became something physical, something that lived in the ground and travelled through your body. It synced with you until it felt as ever-present as your heartbeat.

The property we were on was 100 acres, and we were blessed to be able to explore all of it. There were green, steep hills with rescue horses grazing upon them, looking like little unicorns with their long white coats and small bodies. We would wander up the hills again and again, dipping our fingers into the dam, splashing water onto our faces and wetting our hands, leaping over the small running stream, and dipping under fence wires.

There were trails through the bush that turned out to have a puddle-lake blocking them, so we switched to following the kangaroos' paths instead. They led us past ochre clay reserves and a rusty, old, blue tractor. There were paths surrounded by bracken as tall as you, so thick that we had to fall our way through them, gently bending and laying the fronds down so we could pass.

Those moments, of walking with my love through the trees, dancing around ant nests, kissing behind the bracken, carrying walking sticks and wands, those moments are pure serenity. His gentle hands painting my face with ochre. Being swooped up into his arms so I could be carried over the puddles. Pretending to be the Princess of the Pine while he collected pinecones for me, filling his jacket with them to bring back to me and trade for kisses.

His love is regenerative. It honours our childhoods and lets us live in nostalgia.

There were pumpkin pancakes in the mornings, sweet and warm while the air was still cold and dewy. We took turns sipping each other's rich, spicy chai and cocoa, letting the warmth spread from our throats down into our bodies.There was a fellow who sat by the giant log bonfire all night with a tube of marshmallows, plopping them onto sticks one after another and then straight into his mouth. I don't think I ever saw him leave his post; I wonder how many tubes of marshmallows he brought with him.

There was a group, the Sacred Official. They invited us into their tent, ladled scoops of chia into cups, asking again and again if we wanted more; we did. I got a Ganesha reading; my card was Innocence. Priesh reminded me to surrender, surrender, surrender into myself, my thoughts; surrender into my world. He saw the anxiety held tight in my chest, let go of my ego causing me to worry, to be gentle and calm, and to get rid of cynicism and my critical nature. Priesh guided me to approach things with a childlike curiosity to rekindle my contact with the innocence of my heart. We sat, talking intently, deeply, with soul-deep eye contact. Their generosity overflowed into our cups, gifting us with incense to burn for Ganesha, maintaining a space for us while others came and went, returning back to our conversations with love and a beautiful presence.

Even though our swag mattresses got damp (considerably more and more each night) and the inside of our tent began to rain condensation onto our sleeping selves, and the thumping of ceaseless music made its way into our dreams, it was the raddest, most unique, foot stomping, weekend. It felt like the end of winter, like a winter solstice dancing away the cold, and calling out for the sun to come back out to us. The fire twirlers summoning the sun's fire to reignite. I found that my favourite doof music was Goa trance. I loved the incense, the dancing around me, the mantras, the voices praising deities. There was something different about the energy of it compared to other doof music. It was uplifting and praising, manifesting a positivity in the space, calling my hands to move through the air and to close my eyes.

And then, somehow, there was a little bit of magic waiting for me at the end of it all.

Without knowing that there was a raffle, or even that there was a prize, I came back from a transient yoga session and heard my name being called out. The girl with pink hair drawing the ticket was someone I had spoken to earlier, when I had told her there were horses at the top of the hill that she should go and see, who excitedly told her whole group and rushed up.

She pulled out my name!

I walked up in such shock, a bit out of it, that it barely registered what was happening. I had won a big speaker, something to carry the doof home with me, so that the music could continue after the weekend was over. And then, as if that wasn't strange enough, I pulled out another raffle ticket.

The name on it was my mum's best friend, who was also there with us.

It felt a little bit too coincidental. Like the universe had its little fingers in the raffle box.

Energy is divine.

Love The Princess of the Pine