This video is a recording of my final presentation for my Watson Fellowship, delivered in-person before the Watson Foundation and conference attendees on August 1st, 2024. To the friends and kindred spirits I met this year – you changed my life, and I think about you and our adventures together every single day.
Pigeon Visions: Challenging the Stigma of Urban Pigeons
(The following essay is a written accompaniment to the body of work I created for my Mellon Fellowship project during the summer of 2020 – an experience that, unbeknownst to me, was laying the foundation for my Watson Fellowship).
“They really like you. It’s like they know you’re photographing them!”
I turned to see a young man stopped on his bike six feet away from me, commenting on the models that had captivated me for the past two hours: a flock of nearly four dozen pigeons taking over the park benches before me. They indulged my focus on them, bobbing their feathered heads and strutting side to side as if intentionally gracing me with their best angles. I had spent the better part of my afternoon following this flock relentlessly up and down a two-hundred-foot stretch of bench-lined paths in Manhattan’s Union Square Park, juggling two cameras plus an extra lens stuffed into the waistband of my shorts.
Over the past two months, I dedicated days like these to birds that city-dwellers often consider “rats with wings,” if they consider them at all. To many, pigeons are dirty, annoying, and poop too much. But to me, they are visually interesting and comically bold. They have piercing red eyes, an amazing range of expressions, and iridescent feathers. They are an undeniable part of New York City’s identity and culture. With roughly four million pigeons, the city’s human-to-pigeon ratio is 2:1. We are co-inhabitants of the city, and urban life is as much theirs as it is our own. We walk the same sidewalks, eat the same food, share the same parks, and yet, humans often fail to recognize how inextricably linked our existences are. Our infrastructure and the by-products of consumerism have not only sustained pigeons but enabled them to thrive, and yet we consider these birds abject and alien from ourselves.
My project aims to redefine pigeons in the public eye. Through a series of forty-five photographs, I illustrate the diversity, personality, and biology that makes these birds unique. Beyond simply challenging the common misperception of pigeons-as-pests, I grapple with beauty-dependent conceptions of value and the imagined division between “civilization” and “wilderness.”
***
The man on the bike introduced himself as Casey. Neither a photographer nor pigeon-lover—the two types of people I had otherwise interacted with during my shoot in New York—Casey was just a guy who had noticed me noticing the pigeons, curious as to what they looked like through my lens. “Can I take a look?” He stopped his bike to watch as I flicked through the recent photos in my camera roll, now filled with over a thousand photos of those chunky birds. “Wow!” He smiled upon seeing my images, waving a friend over to join. “You gotta come look at these!”
This reaction is exactly the goal of my work. When I explain to people that my summer fellowship has been to “de-stigmatize street pigeons through portraiture,” they laugh at first or nod curiously, as if trying to envision what the heck I could possibly be doing. “Wait, did you say, pigeons?” But I discovered that when I show them samples of my photographs, the work speaks for itself. My cousin Charlie’s response seemed to capture this feeling well: “That is NOT what I expected to see.” Where most “expect” pigeons to be the unwanted blemishes you photoshop out of a picture, I present their wholeness in my images.
This project involved a combination of onsite photography, in-person interviews, and thinking like a pigeon. The latter enabled me to find pigeons, locate their roosts, and, most importantly, develop a sensitivity to their moods, expressions, and interactions. For days throughout the summer, I tracked down and photographed pigeons—an activity I dubbed, “pigeoning”—in New Haven, Bridgeport, and New York City. During these photo shoots I observed and recorded pigeon behavior and flight patterns in a handwritten notebook I began to call my “pigeon journal.” My journal includes notes about my experience on the ground and also details my thought process, joys, frustrations, and things I learned along the way. Ultimately, I studied the pigeon as both bird and concept not only through my photographs, but through interviews with New York pigeon feeders that contributed to my own ever-expanding pigeon awakening.
***
I met Joy by chance in Manhattan’s Union Square Park, a woman in a big-beaded necklace and sandals who looked about forty. She leaned her scooter against a park bench and removed four medium bags of Trader Joe’s sunflower seeds from her purse, sprinkling some in a semi-circle around her feet. She fed the ensuing swarm of pigeons with expert calm as dozens began flocking to her lap, handlebars, and sensible bucket hat. “The lighter ones need food and the heavier ones don’t as much,” Joy told me. “I try to make sure everyone gets an equal amount, or at least enough.”
Joy had only been coming to feed the pigeons for about a week. She started out in a park uptown but quickly found that Union Square pigeons were much more docile. “They were really skittish [in the other park]. But here, they’ll eat from the palm of my hand.” Joy offered numerous facts about pigeon biology interspersed with such anecdotes. “They are so smart,” she told me, sharing that pigeons can recognize human expressions, spot food from hundreds of feet in the air, and that each has a distinct personality. “I remember individuals whenever I come. And they remember me.”
Others interacted with pigeons in different ways. Where Joy kept a straight face while feeding them systematically, another woman, Maria, cooed sweet words as she invited them to perch on her outstretched arm. One man did not feed the pigeons at all but sat absorbed in his phone, indifferent, as they perched across his arms and lap.
When I asked Joy why she had begun to feed these pigeons day after day, she told me it was the “hard times” this summer which drew her to the birds. “In light of recent struggles,” she said, referencing the Covid-19 pandemic, “so many people need food. And they need food, too.”
Joy was not the only person I talked to who considered pigeon-feeding an act of philanthropy. Maria, a 76-year-old woman who came to New York City from Romania thirty years ago, described feeding the pigeons as “like giving to a charity.” Formerly a nurse, she donated money to a hospital for years before realizing that it was, in her words, “a crux”—from her tone I infer she meant to say “a hoax”—which is precisely why she turned to giving to the pigeons. To her, they offered a more reliable and tangible outlet for service.
In reality, pigeons are far from “needy.” Formally called rock doves or rock pigeons, the birds’ wild nesting grounds are high, rocky cliffs and seeds their preferred diet, so the granite high-rises and discarded burger buns of our concrete jungles make for the perfect pigeon domain. They breed year-round with only one main predator, the peregrine falcon, so feral pigeon populations are at low risk of decline. If anything, feeding pigeons in large numbers puts them at a greater risk of extermination by irritated residents. As is the case with many animals, the anthropomorphic projections that lead people to feed pigeons prove more in service of the human conscience than the “needs” of the birds themselves.
But pigeon feeders do have a point; it is true that rock pigeons are an unappreciated quasi-natural feature of the urban landscape. The facts Joy had for me proved just the tip of the iceberg. Pigeons sport great diversity in plumage due to melanin-based coloration, making them everything from black, to white, to red, to speckled and everything in between. They also have special pigments in their eyes called pterins—the same pigment found in butterfly wings—which gives their irises incredible brilliance and tonal variation rarely found in other bird species. Much of my work emphasizes these astounding eyes. Another favorite fact about pigeons is that they are one of the most muscular birds and thus among the most powerful fliers. And after hanging out with the same group of pigeons for multiple hours, I have seen their individuality in action. Some were proud, others deferential, some lumbering and others determined.
People like Joy and Maria see pigeons as birds, not as pests. Their sensitivity illustrates the wonder that follows openness and attention to one’s surroundings—qualities I try to capture in my work. Where Joy was more fact-based in her way of appreciation, Maria said simply, “I love them. I just think they are so beautiful.”
***
Photographing pigeons over the course of this project changed the way I interact with urban areas. In Connecticut cities, where pigeons are much less frequent and more skittish than in New York City, my days shooting became like treasure hunts where each pigeon I found was a clue to unlock their local gathering places. I now point them out when walking around and scan for their nests when driving below previously unremarkable highway bridges. Seeing pigeons interact on windowsills drew my attention to buildings I otherwise may not have noticed; following them down alleyways led to a deeper exploration of places I have lived nearby my whole life.
Pigeon Visions is as much about the sociology of urban life as it is a documentary of fauna. At the top level, to recognize—and more so, to appreciate—pigeons is to move more positively through urban spaces. But the next step is to recognize that the widespread infamy of pigeons has little to do with the birds themselves.
The pigeon-as-pest mentality is a product of “othering.” When humans bulldozed natural spaces to build up cities, they carved out areas for people to escape the so-called untamed wilderness, replacing native organisms with landscape architecture and domesticated pets. This effort furthered the socio- spatial imagining of a boundary between “clean” civilization and “wild” nature. Pigeons threaten that distinction by inhabiting the spaces we partition for ourselves, bursting our bubble of imagined control. Every poop on our benches and flock underfoot confronts us with a basic fact we try so hard to forget; that we are just another animal in an ecosystem beyond our control.
The result of this reminder is scorn for something alive that remains wild, beings we did not choose to plant or buy from a breeder. Creatures that have thrived despite our destruction are not seen as miracles, but as annoyances. We value only the lives we decide are pleasing and pigeons are an emblem of this dynamic.
Often, both art and animals must be considered beautiful or cute to be deemed worthy. I struggled while creating these pigeon portraits, questioning to what extent my images depend on beauty to create meaning. Beauty and rarity should not be the basis upon which we assign value. One should not have to think pigeons are beautiful to respect their existence just as it should not take the threat of imminent extinction for us to protect animal habitats.
My goal is to trigger awareness and more inclusive ways of thinking about urban birds through sharing my process, thinking, and work. Ultimately, I believe that the power in these pictures lies in the spirit that inspired them—the authentic sensitivity of photographer to subject. I have represented pigeons in the way that I experience them, and it is powerful to share that feeling.
Drum Roll Please... my Second Quarterly Report
4 February 2024
New Delhi, India
My last three months have been a time. I had two MRI scans in the last three weeks which pretty much sums up how it’s been going.
What I’ve been doing and what I’ve been feeling are two separate things. Physically I have been exploring India, challenging myself, making good friends, trying new things, and having great experiences. But emotionally I have been on a roller coaster – feeling anxious, confused, and listless. And a moderate injury to my ACL isn’t helping. This quarter has been about recognizing signs from my body that certain old habits aren’t working for me anymore. I am a person with needs that I must tend to not only in order to be healthy, but in order to function. Something needs to change, and I want to understand myself better. I don’t have any answers yet, but I’m beginning to wrestle with these questions.
India is such a rich place. I was reflecting on this today when I was walking back from dinner. In India I don’t have to seek out activities in the same way as I did in Australia, because just being in this country is amazingly engaging. It is a full-on, sensory experience. Everywhere I look there is something happening. There are people walking beside motorcycles between cars honking while cows cross the road and street vendors sell pani puri in the gaps between the storefront and the sidewalk. There’s no being precious about your personal space. You have to watch your step or you might bump into schoolchildren or plant your foot in cow dung or trip on loose pavement or walk into a dangling telephone wire. Being a pedestrian is every man for himself. I learned this the hard way when I stepped (and fell) off a local train while it was still moving because it had no doors. Nothing controls when, where, or how you can go. If your tuk tuk driver needs to merge onto the highway but there are only exit ramps, he’ll simply drive into oncoming traffic, staying as close to the edge of the road as possible. Driving is a free-for-all kind of chaos that somehow has become a shared language among locals. Car honking is loud and constant. Because you don’t use your blinker as a turn signal, you just honk really loudly so the person in front of you knows you’re passing them. The shops lining the street are small, specialized, and human, like the big-box stores haven’t caught up with them yet. If you need a lightbulb, you go to the guy with the lightbulb shop. If you need a notebook, you go to the store with stacks of books bleeding onto the sidewalk. You can buy a powerstrip from the stall next to the coconut stand. Even the city smell is unique – something like chalky smoke. And I love it all.
When I told a tourist that I was staying in Bangalore for a month, he laughed at me. “Bangalore is so boring!” he said. “There’s nothing to do here. Even seven days is too long.” But all I could do was smile to myself, because I could not disagree more. I didn’t want to see big tourist attractions; I wanted to see real life. And the wonder I felt just walking down the street in Bangalore was enough to spend weeks chewing on.
I have so much swirling in my brain about what I’ve seen and what I’ve done since coming to India. But it’s been really hard for me to sit down and sort out my thoughts. I have just been collecting. Like writing thoughts down for later, making notes over my iPhone photos, having Zoom calls, listening to people’s stories, going to interesting places, and jotting down comic ideas. There are so many concepts I want to explore about urban wildlife in India, and there is so much I want to make in terms of blog posts and comics – but I’m struggling to find the motivation to actually write. I’m feeling a lot of inertia. This quarterly report is great, actually, because it’s forcing me to write again, which hopefully will help me reconnect with the making side of my creative self.
I entered India with a bang, going on a steep sunrise hike 48 hours after I landed. I made two Indian friends in my hostel named Umashree and Nisarga, and together we explored Koramangala and played badminton at midnight. They bought me food to try and took me on long auto rides. Even though I felt tired, I was still on the same mental train as I was when I left Australia – pushing through, packing in the activities, and prioritizing social engagements. But then I got sick. I holed up in my private hostel room and spent my second week in Bangalore in bed. Even once I got better, I didn’t want to leave my room. I didn’t want anyone to talk to me. I just wanted to watch YouTube and call my girlfriend. I wondered if this was a sign that I needed to rest, but realized I didn’t totally know how.
Eventually I did go out again, and that’s when I met who would become two of my closest Indian friends at an indoor trampoline park. Their names are Kamal and Ragini, and they’re creative, full of energy, and some of the funniest people I’ve met. I slept on the floor of their apartment on the night we were introduced, and we bonded closely in just one weekend. Ragini picked me up on her bright orange scooter and took me to an art museum, to an ice cream shop, and to her stand up comedy show, and when we went home to the apartment we sat on the floor with Kamal and painted into the night. When I was leaving for Mysore, we made plans to see each other again. Kamal invited me to come to his childhood home in Punjab and Ragini invited me to her best friend’s wedding. I got on the train with a full heart. But then I got gastroenteritis.
After a trip to the hospital and a few days in bed, I met with Lakshman, the co-owner of a vegan hostel called BeAnimal, and his wife, Vanessa, and their six-month-old baby, Battu. Lakshman is from Bangalore and Vanessa is from Germany, and their hostel is special not only because it’s vegan, but because they built it with the hope that intentional hospitality can infuse kinship with non-human animals into the minds of their guests. We had a great conversation, and the three of us became friends. They invited me to stay at their home for the last two nights I was in Mysore, and we swapped stories, ate vegan food, and played with the baby. Lakshman had many interesting thoughts about India and advice to share about personal growth. I told him I was feeling a bit lost and he recommended I stay at a Sivananda ashram in Kerala (stay tuned).
After a hard goodbye, I went back to Bangalore and spent Christmas with Ragini and Kamal, who threw a sleepover party for their friends. They don’t typically celebrate Christmas, so had been on the fence about whether or not they’d host a party. But they told me that my being in Bangalore was the deciding factor. They filled the apartment with handmade decorations like snowflake garlands and paper wreaths, turned their house plant into a Christmas tree, and put on a YouTube fireplace. And when I didn’t have any nice clothes to wear, they dressed me up like an angel. It was my job to make Christmas cookies, but when I went to preheat the oven, I realized they didn’t have one. So it was the first time I’ve ever baked inside a microwave. The cookies were unrecognizable, but they were still a hit.
I also made a good friend named Sasha, who loves rescuing cats from the street and feeding stray dogs. He told me these dogs have their own territories, and that government efforts to relocate them can actually put their lives at risk. He also told me that when his cat injured a pigeon, all the veterinarians he called refused to treat it, viewing the bird’s health as trivial. But then he discovered a hospital called “Kabootar Daana Sewa Samiti” (Pigeon Donation Service Committee) that was dedicated only to pigeons. And so, I visited the hospital and took a tour a few days later, with Ragini there in support and as an impromptu translator. And on my last day in Bangalore, Sasha and I watched his favorite Kannada movie, and he gave me a hug goodbye as I stepped onto the bus.
And as for the last legs of my story to date: I started the new year living at an intensive Sivananda ashram in Kerala, where I chanted in Sanskrit every day, practiced meditation, and learned about the true meaning of yoga. I spent one week in Mumbai where I jumped off a moving train and sprained my ACL. I met with a Zoraostrian priest who told me about the role of animals in his religion and drove me around downtown on a motorcycle. And I joined Remi’s family trip to Thailand.
Now I am back in India, and this week by myself in Delhi is a bonus week of sorts. I got back from Thailand yesterday and was originally supposed to have only one day free before going to Punjab with Kamal and attending Ragini’s friend’s wedding. But our trip was postponed last minute, which means I now have an extra seven days before I see anyone again. And the relief that gave me showed me something.
I realized that in the face of these wonderful activities – and even in moments in Bangalore and in Thailand – instead of feeling present, I was feeling anxious and tired. Before I was even worried about my sprained knee, I was worried about my sprained foot, and I felt anxiety about balancing my social connections with my research. I was worried about how to keep in touch with friends and family back home. My body was screaming for time to just sit still and not think so much. But I didn’t know how I could create that space in my schedule, which made me feel trapped. And I started freaking out.
In a way, my knee injury was the straw that broke the camel’s back, forcing me to take time to rest and prioritize my health. I got a same-day MRI scan which only cost $40, so yesterday I got another one for my foot for good measure. And today I took myself to physical therapy, where the doctor told me to rest in my hotel room every day except for coming in for treatment. And I have begun seeing a therapist for my mental health again.
I think my next chapter is about learning to live vibrantly but sustainably – so that I’m not oscillating between climbing mountains on negative hours of sleep with a sprained foot and being on bedrest, but rather, am doing the activities I love with time to rest mixed in.
One thing I’m grateful for, though, is how my Watson project lends itself so well to this year. It can be done both actively and passively, which gives me a really good foundation no matter what my energy levels are or what location I am in. For example, on my way to get a haircut I stumbled into the largest flock of pigeons I’ve ever seen in my entire life, witnessing Jain people carting in fifty pound bags of birdseed to much avian delight. Even on days when I can’t be bothered, or when I’m feeling anxious and ungrounded, I still see my project everywhere which makes me feel curious and inspired again. Urban wildlife and human-nature relationships are everywhere, not only in pigeon hospitals, but in casual walks down the street, in Hindu scriptures, in everyday conversations, in contemporary art, in ancient temples, in Kannada films, and in environmental research.
The main theme I want to explore further in my work in India is the role of religion in shaping human-animal relationships, namely in Jainism, Hinduism, and Zoraoastrianism. How vegetarianism is weaponized by Hindu politicians against Muslims; how some people believe that street animals suffer due to their bad karma from a past life; how Jain people feed pigeons as a harbinger of peace; how Parsi people believe that all the dogs you pet in your lifetime will welcome you into the gates of heaven; and how feeding animals with faith but without knowledge has destructive effects. It is all insanely fascinating.
Back in October, my stepmom Julie told me that this year is like drinking from a firehose. There is so much information and newness and transition being thrown at me all the time, so it’s impossible to swallow it all at once. So I want to give myself credit, and know that it’s not only okay but also necessary to be slowing down my pace. Because in that time I can actually process what is happening, recuperate, focus on my project, and create as much balance as possible. I am beginning to experience the joy of saying “no,” and the joy of staying in bed, and the joy of a quiet day to myself. I am beginning to be more focused and intentional with my time.
I met with a photographer named Adira during my second week in Bangalore, and during our conversation I shared my creative discontent with her. I felt like I was struggling to keep up with the pictures I was taking; I felt like I was taking too many photos of the wrong things; I felt like I was disorganized and too overwhelmed to carry my camera around; I felt like I didn’t know where to focus. And she said: “Margaret, you can’t be taking photos and editing them all at the same time. You’re in the gathering stage right now. That’s what this year is for – it’s about being present and absorbing everything you can. And when you come back to the US, that’s when you can start editing your photos, because then you’ll see your photographs through fresh eyes. And after all is said and done, you’ll know what is important.”
And I think that is a metaphor for this year at large. My job isn’t to figure anything out; it’s just to be open to what comes. Stressing about if I’m doing enough or if I’m doing the right thing only brings me pain. It takes me out of the moment and shifts my awareness away from my center. And I want to ground myself again. What I need to do is accept myself. All I can do is try my best, pay attention to my feelings, act accordingly, and trust that what is happening now is what is meant to be.
Epilogue: Comic from a Sad Day
I wrote this comic when I first arrived in Bangalore last November. After leaving Australia, I felt lost and unsure how to begin again. Now, nearly four months later, I am in Rome, and with a full heart can say that I had the most magical time in India that I ever could have imagined. But after leaving India, the second country this year that began to feel like home, I’m feeling this entire spectrum of emotions all over again (cue the comic). It’s painful to have begun new friendships, found my rhythm in a new culture, and then said goodbye and started over again countless times now. And while I know that no amount of time will ever be enough with people you love or enough to dive deep into a whole country, I’m grappling with the meaning of depth over breadth and with how I want to spend the final third of my Watson year.
Elephants in the Coffee: A Film Discussion
Note: I have since learned more about mahouts and their tactics of breaking elephants’ spirit to tame them – and have seen firsthand how mahouts can use their knowledge of elephants to exploit them for profit. I don’t negate what I’ve written in this article, but the conclusion should be much more nuanced. Because the full picture is something darker.
When Arjuna, a retired Ambari elephant known for leading the Mysuru Dasara in Karnataka, India, died tragically last Monday, one news clip caught my attention. It was a video of Arjuna’s former caretaker, mahout Vinu, who fainted upon learning about Arjuna’s death. The clip shows him being escorted through a crowd in anguish. Vinu is quoted in The New Indian Express weeping, “Oh God, you should take my life also along with my Arjuna’s... I cannot live without Arjuna.” This quote broke my heart. I have seen caretakers who love their animals, but this struck a different chord. Moved by Vinu’s devotion to Arjuna, I wanted to better understand their bond.
A mahout is anyone who works with, rides, and tends to an elephant. But traditionally, Southern Indian mahouts come from the Jenu Kuruba tribe – an ethnic group from the Nilgiris whose people share an ancient bond with elephants. This deep knowledge of elephant caretaking is passed down through generations, from how to dress their wounds with herbal medicine to how to speak a language only elephants can understand. A mahout will care for the same elephant for its whole life, treating this creature like his own kin.
Not only do mahout-elephant relationships model reciprocity and respect between humans and nonhuman animals, but their work creates safer jungles. Elephants are known to attack humans when they feel threatened, which leads to hundreds of casualties each year. But although India depends on mahouts for elephant management, numbers in the profession are dwindling. Jenu Kuruba mahouts live in poverty at the bottom of the caste system. They are highly underpaid, receiving just $120 a month, and many mahouts are leaving their homelands for cities to find new work. And to make matters worse, urbanization is forcing humans and elephants closer together, creating a greater need for mahouts than ever before. And this is where Elephants in the Coffee comes in.
Elephants in the Coffee: The God that Became a Menace is a brilliant documentary directed by Tom Grant and DK Bhaskar that tells the story of human-elephant conflicts on coffee plantations in Coorg, a hill station near Mysuru. The film discusses how agricultural development has put immense strain on human-elephant relationships with fatal consequences. Exploring the social, political, and environmental factors fueling this fraught dynamic, Elephants in the Coffee raises questions about if and how humans can learn to coexist with elephants.
As humans turn forests into coffee plantations, they are moving onto the native land of elephants. The elephants are then displaced from their homes without knowing it and continue to graze on these new farmlands. Being such enormous animals, they cannot help but crush hundreds of coffee plants on the plantation as they go. Laurel Higginbotham, a researcher featured in Elephants in the Coffee, describes this phenomenon. “This land is being bulldozed… and elephants are being forced out of their natural habitats to find other places to live. We are pushing them out, and by natural will and instinct to live, they are trampling people’s homes and rummaging through farmlands to survive.”
Elephants in the Coffee illustrates plantation owners’ struggles to manage their crops as increasing numbers of wild elephants wreak havoc on their land. Many use tactics like firecrackers and gun shots to scare these animals from their property. But these tactics only put humans at a greater risk, because startling an elephant makes it more likely to charge.
Interestingly enough, elephants were actually welcomed by farmers in previous decades. The film’s subtitle, The God that Became a Menace, refers to Hindu worship of elephants as the God Ganesha, who has the body of a human and the head of an elephant. The presence of elephants on plantations was formerly seen as a sign of Ganesha bringing a bountiful harvest. But as more and more elephants began destroying crops and human lives, locals became vengeful over reverent.
I recently spoke with Tom Grant, one of two directors of Elephants in the Coffee, who explained how these feelings of anger and injustice get in the way of mutual understanding. “Losing crops is a personal thing, and then our emotions start driving the way we handle [elephants],” he said. “And the elephant is then blamed for causing the damage. But they are emotional as well, and can get out of control because of their reactions to us.”
It appears to be a vicious cycle. Humans create a resource deficit for elephants, which then forces the elephants into human civilization, who then accidentally destroy crops and infrastructure, which then infuriates the humans, who then retaliate against the elephants, which then frightens the elephants, who then retaliate against the humans, and the cycle repeats. In this entanglement of trauma and reactivity, what could possibly be the solution?
The film suggests two tangible avenues for change: to give land back to the elephants and to support the work of the mahouts. If mahouts are given more financial support and livable conditions, then more elephants can be sustainably cared for, elevating the status of the mahouts and alleviating human-elephant conflicts. And not only do Mahouts manage the most dangerous elephants in the wild, but they model a reciprocal relationship with nonhuman animals that we can all learn from. As one mahout said in an interview, translated by DK Bhaskar, “It’s a two-way process. [I have] to choose the elephant and the elephant has to choose [me].”
Though the film highlights a controversy surrounding the mahouts’ methods of taming wild elephants – involving a period of initial starvation and the use of chains – it is clear to me that some form of intervention is needed to prevent human deaths from elephant attacks. And Jenu Kuruba mahouts approach the taming process from a place of ancestral knowledge, compassion, and kinship, making them expertly suited to give these elephants a good life.
My takeaway from Elephants in the Coffee is that there must be a mutual understanding cultivated between humans and elephants where, in the words of Swami Vishnumayananda, “each individual is considered a part of the ecosystem.” We must value human and elephant livelihoods on an even playing field where symbiosis is the goal and both species’ needs are considered. Because if we as a population are able – like the mahouts – to shift our approach to land management away from entitlement and conquest and towards understanding and respect, then I believe we can eliminate these conflicts.
I am excited to keep learning about elephants and exploring these relationships while traveling through India in the coming months. I would love to connect with anyone working in a related field, whether elephant-specific or broadly related to the impact of human development on wildlife in India. Thank you!
On Kinship: My First Quarterly Report
Westport, New Zealand
3:56 pm
I’m beginning this letter from the alfresco dining table of two new friends named Lou and Jamie, nestled in the desert of Mpartnwe (Alice Springs). Their house is like an indoor/outdoor compound. The property is set on a sandy patch across a dry riverbed, surrounded by rocky hills and gum trees. The kitchen and bedrooms are separate units made from two cargo containers and an old train carriage. The washing machines are plugged-in outside. Birds nest beside the porch. Extra living room furniture stands in the yard. And the bathroom is a compost toilet. I love this set-up because it blurs the boundary between outside and inside – turning the desert sand into an extension of the floors. The house is the yard is the land is the house. And I feel at home.
I met Lou on my first day in town when I wandered into a bookstore where she happened to be working. I went to the counter and asked if they had a section for queer books, and we had a nice chat. I told her about my Watson project and learned she moved to Alice Springs last November. She recommended me a book of stories and told me where the best coffee shops were. The next day, I attended a free conference called The Desert Knowledge Symposium, and when I looked across the audience, who did I see, but Lou from the bookstore! She had come with her partner, Jamie, and from that day on the three of us became friends. I learned that Lou is a writer and Jamie is an academic. Both are politically active, mystical, and conscientious people. When Lou and I met for lunch later in the week, she invited me to come stay in a spare caravan at their home for the remainder of my time in Alice Springs, saying, “It is important to Jamie and me to share the things we have.”
Lou and Jamie encouraged me to rest and enjoy their home while they worked. They pulled out interesting books for me to read from their library. We shared meals and told stories about our lives. Jamie and I had chats about posthumanism and the politics of knowledge. Lou and I cooked oat bars and apple cake. And the three of us plus their friend named Morgan went on a one-night camping trip to the West MacDonnell Range to climb the summit of Mount Sonder at sunrise. I couldn’t stop thinking that I had been swept up into something beautiful.
I tell this story to illustrate the most meaningful aspect of my journey so far – which is being invited into someone else’s life. Someone who you just met, who knows you will only be there for a short time, but who chooses to invest in you, anyway.
The first person I connected with like this was Remi, who became a pivotal and cherished friend. On the first full day of my Watson journey, I wandered into the Surry Hills Library in Sydney and asked the attendant where they posted their community events. I would later learn this attendant was Remi. He told me where to find the posters, and then added, “We also have a free community breakfast every Friday morning. It’s lovely. You should check that out, too.”
And that’s how, a week later, I showed up at the library again for breakfast. I ran into Remi afterwards and thanked him for the recommendation, saying the scones were delicious. He smiled and we began to chat. He wondered where I was from and why I was in Sydney. I asked what he does for fun in the city. And then there was a lull in the conversation. He paused, then asked, “Have you got any friends yet?” Adrenaline came over me, and I shook my head. “Not yet.”
And right then and there, we agreed to meet that night after his library shift ended. As we walked through the streets together, I marveled at how easy it was to talk to him. Remi shared what it was like to grow up in Sydney and told me more about Australian culture. I told him about my fellowship project and why I was traveling. We sat down at a restaurant in Chinatown. And as we ate, we bonded through our shared interest in each other’s lives. After dinner, we ordered purple rice yogurt drinks and kept walking and talking until it got cold.
Over the next six weeks that I lived in Sydney, Remi and I became close friends. We went on adventures together and visited his family, and he helped me plan the next steps of my travels. Though Remi was a local who already had his own community, he was so open to sharing his life with me. I had found my way to a real friend, halfway across the world.
Friendships with people like Lou, Jamie, and Remi are magic to me. I feel like a little sieve moving through the world, and each day my experiences flow through me. But sometimes, there are people who don’t just keep passing me by, but who slow down and stay there with me. These connections make me feel held, and like I have been found.
There is vulnerability that comes with traveling alone. And it’s not the vulnerability that I expected. I don’t feel unsafe or like a target; I mainly feel impressionable and like my heart is open. My style has been to enter each city without much of a plan, putting myself at the mercy of whatever I find there. And that makes kindness from others and real emotional connection feel like a high.
I am grateful to have shared so much of my journey with others. But that being said, I am also working on saying “no” to invitations when I could really use a day to rest, and carving out intentional alone time to read, reflect, draw, or just be. Because even on days when I plan to be alone, I almost always meet someone – whether I try to or not!
Another thing I have been struggling with is making peace with my decisions after they happen. I often entertain every possibility at crossroads big and small. I try to optimize each situation which makes pulling the trigger feel high stakes and agonizing. And then when I do decide on something, I feel a wave of regret and kick myself about what I let go of. Usually, this torment abates after a few hours, and I end up feeling grateful for what I chose. But I want to break this cycle of overthinking. I want to focus on just making a choice and sticking with it and not entertaining constant “what ifs.” But I also want to keep myself open to spontaneity. Like, for example, open to changing my plans and staying in a place longer when it feels right. But keeping all my options open is what causes me pain. And this is one paradox of the Watson. It is very hard to remain spontaneous while also creating structure. To be adaptable but also to have backbone. I am learning to find this balance between commitments and freedom. When are things truly flexible? And when is it important to stick to my original plan?
The other main challenge I face is how hard it is to leave each friend or community I find. It is really sad to move on after building relationships where I feel at home. I put myself through so much with each transition. I was especially torn up when I left Sydney. I was camping with Remi and his family in Barrington Tops National Park, and had already said goodbye to my friends back in the city: to Chris, who I met at a queer panelist event and spent meaningful time with; to Sylvia and Paul, a couple I met at a pancake breakfast who treated me like their daughter; to Karen and Deb, two volunteers from the Pyrmont Ultimo Landcare Group who looked out for me and made me feel celebrated; and to Michael, my girlfriend Olivia’s great uncle, who was the first person to make me feel at home in Sydney. So, when Remi brought me to the train station to send me on my way after our camping trip, that was the final blow. I couldn’t believe that whole chapter was ending. As the train pulled away from the station and he disappeared from sight, I leaned against the window and cried.
It took me a week or so to get back into a flow after that. I drew more comics and wrote in my journal. I learned not to try and replicate the same activities I did in Sydney, but to go to different events and explore new areas of my project that I hadn’t before. This helped me feel oriented and like I was gaining traction.
In Sydney, I mainly focused on photographing urban wildlife (so many bin-chickens and cockatoos) and talking to Australians about how these animals affect their lives. But since leaving the city, I have been actively learning about the Aboriginal First Nations with each Country I travel to – including Ngambugka (Nambucca), Cavanbah (Byron Bay), Meanjin (Brisbane), Gimuy (Cairns), Uluru, and Mparntwe (Alice Springs). Although First Nations culture is diverse and many, there is one fundamental belief system that is present in each that I’ve learned about: the inextricable oneness of all living beings with each other, and with the land, the sea, and the sky.
There is no word in any First Nations language separating humans from the land, unlike in English where we distinguish nature from civilization. First Nations people instead see all things as connected, using solely the word Country to encompass every being and landform on their territory, including even creation stories, ancestors, and songs. Each feature of the landscape has a story, or a songline, attached to it, which links its formation to a specific ancestor. Through these songlines, the past, present, and future are all connected, weaving a deep web of kinship among everything within Country.
And with this kinship comes reciprocity. As Juan, my Kuku Yalanji guide in Gimuy, told our tour group, “We look after Country, and Country looks after us.” There is a symbiotic relationship here, where each being is responsible for keeping the others healthy. Rather than being separate from the environment, humans are an intimate part of it.
Learning about Aboriginal Country has moved me a lot. It resonates with my desire to break down the imagined division between humans and nature through photographing urban animals. These learnings have begun showing me what reciprocal relationships among more-than-human beings can look like. And learning about Country makes me feel like the language I use to describe my project is limited. I think “urban animals” is something I need to expand. I want to reflect on what my goal is and on what aspect of this project is the most meaningful to me.
And my big question is: how can I, as a non-Indigenous person, share the Aboriginal ideologies of a reciprocal connection to Country while knowing my place and respecting culture? What is my place, as a non-indigenous person who cares?
While in Meanjin (Brisbane), I did a walking tour of outdoor art installations created by local Aboriginal artists. I connected well with my tour guide, Dean, and at the end of our time together, I asked him this question. And what he said captivated me.
“Margaret; the words ‘Aboriginal’ and ‘Indigenous’ and ‘native’ are all made-up words in English to divide and label people, forgetting that we are all human. In my language, there is no word for ‘Aboriginal.’ We just have a word that means ‘man,’ or ‘human,’ or ‘person.’ These are not ‘Aboriginal’ beliefs, they are human beliefs. You don’t have to do our dances or attend our ceremonies, but you can share our ideology.”
And a lot of things connected for me then. It was the settlers who labeled and “othered” First Nations people as “Aboriginal” through the English language. And so, this is an arbitrary category. We have been trained to see difference, to think of “settler” and “Indigenous” cultures as two different worlds, and that it’s “complicated” or “nuanced” to bridge them together. But that is not true, because we are all human. The problem is not that there are barriers to understanding each other because some of us are “Indigenous” and some are not. The problem is racism, and disrespect of non-Western cultures. The problem is that white Europeans have created arbitrary divisions among people based on skin color that dehumanize Black and Brown people and idolize white skin and Western civilization. These settlers have trained their descendants to think of various groups of people as fundamentally different from one another. And that affects the way we connect to each other, to the non-human beings around us, to our greater purpose, and to the land.
I now think my project is about more than just urban animals and people: it is about relationships. It is about the self versus the other. Non-human animals that live in urban areas are a great entry point into this conversation for Western folks like myself – because through recognizing our kinship with these animals, I believe we can develop a more reciprocal relationship with the environment at large – but I am learning that relationships among humans are also an important and fundamental part of my inquiry.
Many, many non-Indigenous people I have met on my journey so far have met me with the core elements of connecting with Country, which are kinship, reciprocity, and a wide definition of family. I have been taken in by virtual strangers and we together created a network of care. Take Remi, Lou, and Jamie, for example, who invited me into their worlds and looked after me during my short time in their cities. And take the Landcare Group I became part of in Sydney, whose members, through restoring native bush to industrial areas, also cultivate companionship with each other. And, most recently, take Chris, a grandmother I met on my flight to New Zealand, who, when she learned I was planning a road trip alone, brought me to stay at her house where she and her friend helped plan my route and get me the supplies I needed.
To me, these are visceral examples of the humanness that connects us all, and shows how the principles of kinship, reciprocity, and transcendental responsibility are within each of us.
But many of us in the Western world have limited language to understand and feel and describe this deep connection when it comes to Country, or to even conceptualize Country in the way Indigenous people do. We are taught to use words like “beautiful” and “tranquil” and “dirty” and “loud” and “cute” to describe the natural world, but our connection stops there. This language does not teach us that we are in relationship with the land, but that we are above it.
To expand and deepen our connection to Country is to stretch beyond the confines of the English language and into Indigenous ideology. We must stop seeing through the lens of difference and instead view ourselves as interconnected with all the people and non-human beings we share life with. I want to explore how I can cultivate and share this worldview through photographing urban non-human animals, using images to challenge the concept of civilization as separate from wilderness. Because in reality, we are all connected, and even developed land is sacred.
This is not a straightforward year, but it is an adventurous one. I feel grateful for the ways I am learning and living so far. I am actively facing my fears and growing. I feel grateful to be at the hands of magic, figuring out what I believe in.
Comic from a Sad Day
I wrote this comic on September 27th during my first week in Brisbane – my first big move after Sydney.
Uluru at 3:00pm
More on Photography
On Photography
During my walking tour around Uluru, a sandstone monolith sacred to the Anangu people, we walked through sections where we were not allowed to take photos because we were visiting particularly sacred sites. It made me reflect on photography, on tourism, and on “capturing” and “documenting” the moment. Here is a quote I wrote down from a sign posting:
Warayuki is an Anangu men’s site and is sacred under Tjukurpa. The rock details and features are equivalent to a sacred scripture; they describe culturally important information and must be viewed in their original location. It is inappropriate for images of this site to be viewed elsewhere. In an oral culture, stories are family inheritance. Under Tjukurpa, cultural knowledge is earned and with it comes great cultural responsibility. Please do not photograph or film this site. Thank you.
Why do we have the impulse to photograph? Are we trying to capture subjects as our own, or to freeze a moment forever, or to create beautiful art? The fact that videotaping and photographing has become our impulse in special moments instead of just looking, listening, and being present with our five senses is fascinating.
And that is why I have been recalibrating my relationship with photography recently. Because as a little kid, I was taking pictures because I felt moved to do so by a moment or an occurrence, and that was that. But now that photography has become my “thing,” I feel more pressure and my sensitivities have changed. Now I feel like I need to be ready to take photos, and to take a lot of them, because otherwise I’ll “miss” the moment that could turn into an iconic shot. It is an obligation almost, driven by the insecurity that comes with identifying as a photographer or as an artist; because I now have a reputation to uphold.
Especially these days, on my Watson journey, I have let my fear of missing the shot trump the more subtle and deliberate voice of instinct. And ironically, that makes my photographs more diluted. I want to get back to intuition again. To trust myself that I have all the shots I need, that even if I’m not documenting or making art frequently that’s okay and could actually be a good thing. Because photography is most potent when driven by sensitivity and the heart, not by fear.
And that line of thinking, coupled with the fact that photography is physically banned in places around Uluru, made me want to challenge myself to not take any photographs around the rock, even though it’s technically allowed in some areas. Because the whole point of being anywhere, really, is to experience it and take it in. And I think for me, using my phone or camera for the sake of documentation can be a barrier to immersing myself with my senses. It shifts the priority from being present to getting a good shot.
And that is a slippery slope. Because when getting the shot becomes the priority, photography can also start taking precedent over respect. And I hate that. James the Anangu ranger said on our tour today that some tourists come in and start photographing the sacred sites where it’s clearly marked as forbidden. And, when told to stop, they push back against the rangers, saying “I paid all this money to come here, so I deserve to take this photograph.” As if shooting and capturing is what they are owed.
In this way, photographs are a colonial tool. Taking a photograph of someone turns their being into someone else’s possession. Another good example is the Pitzer kid’s dad who gave a presentation at the Hive talking about his experience as a photojournalist at the Tiananmen Square riots in 1989. He proudly told a story about almost being beaten over taking a photograph, because two local men had told him not to document a certain Chinese official, but he did it anyway. I was appalled at this story and shocked by his pride. This man felt that having a camera and being a photographer made him entitled to steamroll what is sacred to someone else and to capture its interpretation for himself.
And what does that say? We are so conditioned in Western culture to see the world through the lens of ownership that we feel the need to possess what moves us. And that goes for being moved by both desire and by fear. Because without a baseline respect for all beings, our impulse to “capture” turns fear and desire into violence. And photography has historically been used as a means to that end – as a way to dehumanize, to fetishize, and to classify others, therefore “justifying” violence against them.
Photography provides a vehicle to project our biases and call them objectivity. As someone with a camera, I think it is beyond important to acknowledge this un-earned power – so that I can help create a more reciprocal form of image-making that prioritizes respect. The fact that photography is banned in Uluru says something. And I want to be respectful of the land that I am on, and to challenge my own impulses to “capture” the moment at someone else’s expense. I want to focus on feeling, connecting, and being.
Another thing James said on our tour said is that the settlers, immigrants, and tourists in this Country are all babies on the land. Meanwhile, the Anangu people have been here for over 60,000 years. And we need to acknowledge and respect that. Because knowledge comes with time, and with knowledge comes responsibility. We must respect those Elders who hold the knowledge of how to care for this place and understand that our role as newcomers is to just listen.
We can’t just show up, plant a flag – or take a photo – and say, “I own this.” Which is exactly what colonization is. It is showing up fresh on the scene and feeling entitled to who and what was already there. It is saying, because I signed a paper, or paid my money, this belongs to me. That might work at the grocery store, but it turns to horror when it comes to other people and to Country. And imperial regimes around the world have just spent the last 600 years into the present trying to pretend otherwise, through racism and murder and legislation.
It’s high time for that to change. And I’m figuring out what role I can play. And how I can use photography to defy the history that predates it.
A Trip to Newcastle
Where Margaret and Remi travel north to visit Anne Davy, Remi’s grandmother.
Country with a capital “C”
I woke up this morning and got ready for coffee with Sarah Wright, one of the members of the Bawaka Collective. I left my Airbnb a mess to pack up later. Little did I know what was in store for me.
Sarah and I met at Hyde Café and began talking about the Aboriginal understanding of Country (with a capital “C”) – a term that explodes the Western understanding of humans as separate from the land or non-human beings. Country encompasses homeland, nation, human and more-than-human belonging, dreams, time and space, and spiritual connections to ancestors. Sarah told me that Country is often misunderstood by non-aboriginal Australians as referring only to the outback or to remote bushland. But in reality, the city, and everywhere, is Country.
Sarah taught me the phrase “urban Country,” where the word “urban” describes a place of dense relationships. “Country,” in her words, is “an emergent place, always being expressed in different ways.”
She told me that although there is a general appreciation for urban animals in Australian cities, there is still a hierarchy among those deemed “acceptable” or “unacceptable.” As in, animals like cockatoos are considered beautiful and Aussie, whereas the white ibis, derogatorily called the “bin chicken,” is considered a dirty pest. Judgement and human approval dictate these relationships.
Years ago, as a recent graduate, Sarah told me that she volunteered with multiple community gardens in Sydney that provided food for people in need. These groups worked with pollinators and friendly insects as agents in food production. Sarah continued this work abroad in multiple countries, namely working with organic farmers in the Philippines. And then, back in Australia, she did anti-mining work alongside indigenous people, which was the beginning of her learnings in Aboriginal ideology and being.
Sarah said that many of the people who joined her community gardens weren’t necessarily seeking out a connection to Country. But in nurturing the garden, they fostered a deeper sense of collective stewardship. “In a place as eclectic as a community garden, you have to release your concept of full human agency,” she said. “There’s no way around it.”
Sarah believes we must teach Aboriginal understandings of Country widely in order to change Western societal norms. “We need to erase the dichotomies created by settler colonialism,” she said, referring to the false separation we create between humans and non-human beings, between past and present, and between cities and nature.
Because in reality, there is no “between.” Our being is continuous.
Sarah told me about a sculpture that Gumbaynggir Elders created in Nambucca Heads, a town over from Bellingen. The sculpture pays homage to Country – honoring the legacy of Uncle Benjie Buchanan who speared fish in the Nambucca River. She said she was driving in that direction later that afternoon and offered to take me there, as long as I could be ready to go in thirty minutes. She even offered to drop me off at the train station afterwards. With an enthusiastic yes, I sprinted back to my Airbnb to pack.
And what followed was a string of serendipitous connections.
Sarah picked me up thirty minutes later in her white SUV, and we drove down lush country roads to Nambucca. She told me she was driving four hours south to take Uncle Bud, another Gumbaynggir Elder, to get new hearing aids. So, we stopped by his home to pick him up.
When Uncle Bud opened the door, he was wearing a baseball cap, a t-shirt, a plaid vest, and Hawaiian shorts. “This is Margaret,” Sarah said. “She’s doing a project about humans and animals.” Uncle Bud smiled and showed me a children’s book on the table he had helped write about caring for whales. He said he wanted me to have it, and gave it to me. And then, he showed us an instrument he whittled from a digeridoo, and a bag of fresh oysters from the river that he planned to have for dinner with Sarah.
And the three of us drove to visit the sculpture – Uncle Bud in the front with Sarah, and me in the back with the oysters. When we got out of the car, I saw a tall metal spear extending from the ground. Pierced at the top was a wooden fish with shells for eyes, and protruding from the middle was the outline of a human profile. Three wavy metal lines flowed down beneath the face, symbolizing the river. “There are actually two faces in that profile,” Sarah said. “The outer one is Uncle Benjie, the Elder. And the smaller one is Uncle Bud as a boy. The two heads symbolize intergenerational knowledge.”
Uncle Bud explained that he used to hunt mullets with Uncle Benjie when he was young. And that the lagoon we were looking at used to be cleaner, with a free-flowing current and abundant fish – back before coastal residences clogged the waterways. He gestured to a plaque beside the sculpture. “Here, read our story.”
The land, sea, sky, and river are all connected here on Gumbaynggirr Country. / In the 1950s Uncle Benjie and many Elders could often be seen spear fishing around the V-wall, in the river and in the lagoon. / Old people could read the clouds and the birds. They could talk with the spirits; they knew the stories and they knew the seasons. / The sculpture design centers on the symbolic significance of the spear. / The spear acts as Uncle Benjie’s spine as if to say, culture kept Uncle Benjie upright and forward facing. / The sculpture shows the hairy grubs, the butterflies and the flowers of the wattle that would tell when the mullet were running. There are seasons for everything.
There is a section of the spear, right at the bend in the river, called the figure’s heart. Here viewers are invited to touch the sculpture, to become part of it. “Hold it right at the heart.” Uncle Bud told me. “Stand on this stone right here. And imagine you’re a little girl. A brave little girl going out for the hunt with Uncle Benjie. Facing the wind.”
I took his place on the rock and reached out my hand. Holding onto the heart of the spear, I tried to imagine what it was like to be young Uncle Bud. But inside, I was overwhelmed with feeling. There was so much meaning here, so much depth and ancestry, that I couldn’t grasp properly; that I didn’t know how to honor. It was emotional to stand in that place, next to Uncle Bud, the Elder who designed this sculpture from his memories. I couldn’t believe that Sarah had brought us there. I didn’t have the right words. I didn’t know how to say thank you.
As we got back in the car, Sarah told me we would stop by Muurrbay, an Aboriginal language and culture cooperative, to meet another Elder before they hit the road. From the way she talked about it, I assumed we would walk in, say hello to a person or two, and then continue on. But as I walked into a community center full of Elders, and Uncle Bud began introducing me to every person in the room, and as I spotted a big buffet table on the back porch, I knew we would be staying for a while.
As it turns out, we had arrived at a gathering to celebrate the Gumbaynggirr Elders in Nambucca. The celebration normally happens earlier in the year, but because many people were traveling, it had been moved to today. The one day I had arranged to meet Sarah for coffee; the one day she was driving to Newcastle with Uncle Bud; and the one day I had left in Bellingen. The people at the gathering welcomed me with open arms. They did not question why I was there. Uncle Bud’s introduction was enough to bring me into the community in that moment.
I spent my time at Muurrbay mostly talking and eating with two Elders named Lisa and Bomber. They were curious about my ethnicity and about why I was traveling. When I told them I was doing a project studying the relationship between humans and non-human animals, Lisa asked, “You mean like our totems?” She told me that each person in her culture is aligned with an animal as a child – their totem – that becomes part of their identity. These animals reflect each person’s unique personality. Her granddaughters were an owl and a dragonfly, respectively, because one was book smart while the other was energetic. Lisa’s totem was the white ibis, that notorious bird in the cities of New South Wales. But unlike pessimistic city dwellers, Lisa loves these birds. “If you were here longer,” she said. “You could photograph these animals and what they mean to us.”
Lisa also is an artist and does beautiful, colorful paintings. Many of which tell stories of her family members through depicting their totems. She showed me a painting she made of her mother as a cormorant, fishing beside a river with trees. She also told me that she and Bomber are members of the Dingo Tribe. Their people were meant to look after the dingoes in Nambucca, but couldn’t anymore, because the wild dogs were pushed out due to development. We also talked about their families, about turning sixty, and about where I was traveling to next. They wished me well and offered advice as I prepare for India.
My time with Lisa, Bomber, Uncle Bud, Sarah, and the other Gumbaynggirr Elders was like magic. I felt as I had when I held the heart of Uncle Benjie’s spear. A deep tenderness took over me. And as I spoke to each one of them, I was overwhelmed by a significance I could feel but couldn’t fully understand. I kept saying how grateful I was to be there and to have met them all. I told them I didn’t want to leave.
Right before we got back in the car, Sarah pulled me aside.
“I want you to know that these kinds of connections. . . they don’t happen often. You’re really lucky. It’s because of you; because of being in the right place at the right time. It’s some kind of a sign. That this was meant to be.”
A Comic on Connection
It is officially week two of my Watson, and I’ve already felt a lot, made a few meaningful connections, and learned some things along the way. Here’s a comic I drew to process some of that.
