Tag: Blue Mountains Writers' Festival

This Quiet Unfurling

There is an ancient rainforest at the bottom of a gully in Katoomba. To reach the forest floor of the Jamison Valley, I take a cable car that drops 200 metres at a 36 degree incline to attend a special session of the 2025 Blue Mountains Writers’ Festival. As we descend, the vertical sandstone cliff face looks almost close enough to touch. Three hundred million years ago, an expansive sea spread over this area. Over millennia, sediment and sand formed into hardened layers which we now recognise as sandstone. Each layer reveals its geological history through erosion, sedimentation or uplift. This cable car is my TARDIS. It is the closest I come to time travel.

The sandstone is ragged. Tiny ledges mark the layers, and wherever a square centimetre can be found, life takes root tenaciously. Small trees curl their roots around rock and somehow find enough nutrients to stay alive. I am in awe of the miracle of life I am privileged to witness.

My TARDIS docks next to a wooden boardwalk that winds 2.4 kilometres beneath a rainforest canopy. This area is a privately operated tourist attraction that has managed, for the most part, to keep the rainforest pristine. Some added features feel kitsch, like scattered ‘dinosaur’ bones for children, but they are confined to one side of the boardwalk, so I simply look the other way.

I am enchanted by the ancient trees, vines and ferns that surround me. Some ferns are as tall as trees and about two hundred years old. Smaller ferns, unfurling their fronds, show tight spiral shaped leaves, an example of the Fibonacci sequence in nature. Mesmerised, I regard a delicate formation that follows this complex logarithmic pattern. I am not a mathematician, but I have a deep respect for how mathematics explains so much of the natural world. We seek patterns.

After a fifteen minute walk, I reach the Rainforest Room, a yurt like structure without walls that accommodates about one hundred and fifty people. Seats begin to fill. We are here at 7.45 on a Sunday morning to hear three writers talk about their books. Nature is the common element in their writing, though not all are happy to be labelled nature writers. I have come to hear Inga Simpson, whose work I admire. I don’t know the other two writers, Jessica White and Jane Rawson, but I know I will enjoy the session.

We sit in silence, looking out onto the rainforest. I am struck by the Coachwood trees, which have paintbrush wide white splotches. It looks as if someone has wiped their brushes on the trunks. Later I discover these marks are caused by lichen. They look stunning.

I recognise Sassafras, Turpentine and the Blue Mountain Gum among the trees. Then my ear attunes to songbirds tentatively striking up a melody. Within a minute, they are drowned out by the raucous sound of Sulphur Crested Cockatoos. I can’t help but smile at these juvenile delinquents who arrive with their boom boxes, ready to crash any party. Good luck hearing a song underneath all that squawking.

The event starts and I listen to Jane Rawson speak about her latest book Human/Nature, described as a lyrical work of creative nonfiction. I am drawn to her honesty and humour as she talks about establishing a life in the Huon Valley. Inga Simpson speaks about her latest book The Thinning, which I read some time ago. While it wasn’t my favourite of her works, it is interesting to listen to its reception within this group of readers. Jessica White talks about Silence Is My Habitat, her book of ecobiological essays. I am drawn to the title. Silence has always been my friend. I occasionally play music, which I love, but silence is what I long for most. I am listening to a kindred spirit, but her silence has been imposed by deafness, which she acquired at the age of four after pneumococcal meningitis. Her deafness has rendered the world silent, but it has given her the superpower of acute observation, especially of the natural world.

I love listening to these women in conversation. My soul is nourished by their words, their deep respect for one another and their reverence for nature. A tiny, oft ignored voice gently reminds me of a suppressed longing. I want to be a writer. First heard when I was six years old, I have held onto this dream tenaciously, much like the stunted trees clinging to the sandstone ledges. Their roots wrap around the rock the way my fingers furl over the keyboard, finding a letter here then there, forming words and sentences. It may not be much, but I hold on as if my life depended on it.

The Blue Mountains Writers’ Festival

I have wanted to attend the Blue Mountains Writers’ Festival for many years. Each year as the dates approached, I found a ‘reason’ why I couldn’t go.

What about the animals while I am away?

I can’t justify spending the money this year.

I should have gone when I was living in the mountains, now it’s too late.

It will take me at least two and a half hours to get there.

I don’t belong to a writerly crowd.

Who am I to think I can go to an event like this?

When I examined each of these thoughts in turn, I realised that I was shying away from the real reason I never went. I felt awkward attending an event on my own and I didn’t want to face discomfort. It was never about the event per se, but the intervals where people stand with their friends, chatting, laughing and having a good time.

I am not someone who can walk into a room and start a conversation. I usually stand on my own like a shag on a rock staring into a drink or trying to focus on some detail on the wall. I could distract myself with my mobile, and sometimes I do, but I am so appalled by such behaviour in others that I can’t bear resorting to it.

Yet if I have a role, I can be gregarious and helpful. I don’t even mind talking to a crowd of people over a microphone. Speaking to a group of two hundred doesn’t faze me at all, it is small groups that I find terrifying. Give me something to do and I will do it. Consequently, you often find me either at the food table or taking plates around, which legitimately allows me to approach people.

This year I decided to become savvy. The moment I saw a request for volunteers, I put up my hand. I was thrilled to be accepted. It meant I could spend some time wearing an official T-shirt and lanyard which would give me a role and I would also have time to attend events. It’s what Stephen Covey calls a Win/Win.

It turned out to be much better than that. I met wonderful volunteers with whom I could converse easily, I chatted to speakers informally in the Green Room and I contributed to an event that was an important and enriching experience for everyone. The volunteer role enabled me to start conversations and, as my confidence grew, I continued to seek out more opportunities.

The more I let my vulnerabilities show, the more others disclosed their own sensitivities. Our conversations moved from the superficial to the deeply personal and established connections which I hope will continue well past the festival weekend. It made me realise how important it is to find my own ‘tribe.’

Then there were the writers. The ones I heard spoke with honesty, often self-deprecating humour, and they were generous with their time. There were many sessions running concurrently, which meant I inevitably missed some brilliant speakers. It was a sentiment I heard echoed in the hallways wherever I went. So, although I had some trepidation about attending, by the end of the weekend, I felt energised, inspired and comfortable in my own skin.

I am grateful to Varuna for organising such an eminent event and for their staunch support of Australian writers.