Photo by Eleanor Campbell.

Sometimes as I walk around Melbourne, I remember the old stories of the world being sung into being…

I wonder about the songs sung long ago by the Aboriginal people who walked this land, and I wonder whether the same songs could be sung about it as it is now, covered in concrete and steel and bitumen. People have come from all over the world to live in this city. Many of them choose to settle down here. What songs did they bring with them? How have they changed this land?

My ancestors have lived in or around Melbourne for at least three generations. It is where my parents met and fell in love, but we moved to North East Victoria when I was four. The land is different there. Where I grew up it is flat, and populated mostly by cows. You can see the mountains in the distance. Cathedral-like River Red Gums have been standing there since before the European colonization of Australia, drinking in deep when it floods, and becoming more gnarled and strangely dignified with every season. When two of them grow close together, it looks as though they are dancing to music that played long ago.

One autumn day, when I was about nine, I was watching the clouds, and I gradually noticed that the sky was full of floating silver strands…

They were travelling on wind currents much higher than I could stretch my arms, so I climbed my favourite tree. From this vantage point I could identify them as spider webs, but I still couldn’t reach them. I was told later that spider webs are stronger than steel, and they attained a certain symbolic significance in my mind. When the light shines in a certain way, and the breeze carries a certain scent, I look hopefully to the sky, but I have not seen so much gossamer since that day. I like to take the memory out sometimes and look at it.

In spite of the theatre offered by ancient trees and uninterrupted sky, cities pull young people in, and I am no exception. I feel as though Melbourne is a city with a very definite character, even though it’s relatively young. It never seems more itself than in autumn. The footy begins then, of course, and you could be excused for thinking that sport is the religion of this city, with its massive sport stadiums, and by the way people flock to the MCG as if to worship at some strange temple.

But that would be to forget about the gardens…

These lovingly planned and cared for oases seem to be around every second corner, breathing calm and beauty into the air. When you’re inside them, the sound of traffic fades to a hum and you can hear your own footsteps again. When strangers cross paths here, they often slow down and smile at one another kindly and distractedly before returning to their contemplation. In autumn the rich smell of damp earth rises, and the leaves turn hundreds of warm shades and catch the last light as they drift to the earth. Cool breezes blow off the darkening sea. People return home to the suburbs, to the faint smell of wood smoke and the prospect of soup.

Cities are more than amalgamations of roads and houses. The history held by places is puffed up under the passing shoes of pedestrians as they make their way through invisible webs of community. Sometimes it seems that the World Wide Web with its buzzing neon strands is distracting our attention from these old webs too much. It flashes through our minds and engages our intellect, and we walk through the old webs on our way home and might not even register their presence. I think that the community web is stronger, though. We spin it in our hearts and it flows out through our hands. If you stay in one place for long enough, you may find yourself caught, and trailing gossamer. There are five hundred-odd people in the town where I grew up, and millions of people here in the city. I like to think of the webs we might spin together.

If you were to follow your feet to Box Hill, you might find a place where the webs grow denser…

Strange statues signal the presence of the community centre. Spinners and weavers meet here, and potters, and gardeners, and many others. On Monday nights, voices join in harmony and breathe new life into old songs. Music written hundreds of years ago and half a world away can be passed along the webs of community and brought to life by a choir in Box Hill, Melbourne, and performed in Federation Square. In this manner, music echoes through the ages.

When left to their own devices, trees seem to grow in spirals, reaching out toward the stars. I remember the Red Gums, and I think that maybe they can hear something we’re moving too quickly to notice. Humans alter the landscape wherever we go, and we do this very quickly. Cities are noisy places, but they offer opportunities for us to meet and build something together. I walk through the city and I wonder about the world being sung into being.

I wonder if with all our songs we try to echo an ancient music, passing it along through the webs we weave and offering it to the sky.

Photo 1 courtesy of Box Hill Chorale

Photo 2 courtesy of Urbanlight Photography