Healing landscapes

Credits

Rob Law reflects on his shifting relationship to his local creek during COVID lockdowns, and how a strong sense of place can help to anchor feelings in a rapidly changing and uncertain world.

Rob’s notes:

At the start of Endgame I recorded an audio journal at the creek behind my house which ended up in the work  "Close to Home" . It's interesting to listen back to this now as I think about how much has changed in the space of two years.  While climate change itself is far more present and dangerous in ways than it felt back then, I have also found that my own attachment, understanding and appreciation of "my" creek has grown and strengthened .

During lockdowns the creek became an even greater source of solace and nourishment for my family and I. Over time I noticed how much the sounds were different. First, I noticed the absence of car and truck engines. Then it was the lack of aeroplanes flying above us. No leaf blowers. No school bells. No football sirens on weekends.

Maybe at first I felt a kind of sorrow. Like I had lost something familiar and comfortable. Sounds of busyness that suggests I am part of a society progressing towards something. The hum and thrum of other people’s lives that somehow make me feel connected and lonelier at the same time. Sounds that remind me of my childhood or a time when I had the illusion of certainty.

But then I noticed how much louder the birds were. I wondered whether there were more of them or if they had just become more extroverted. Maybe they were singing new songs to fill the frequencies freed up by our enforced quietness? Were they celebrating or mourning our sonic absence? Then I noticed the cicadas, the crickets and the frogs. The frogs. I didn’t know that the creek had that many frogs! 

When my allotted hour of daily exercise was up, I would go back inside. It was so quiet inside, apart from quarrelling kids.  I could hear the fridge humming and the washing machine cycle, and one of the State Premiers giving an update on one of our phones. I opened the windows, although it was cold. I wanted to let the sounds in. Who made these sounds? Who were these creatures in our backyard and street that may or may not have always been here?

I would lie in bed at night and notice how different the sounds were compared to the day. More percussive, more staccato, more rests. I would close my eyes and lock into a rhythmic pattern, circadian or cicadian I couldn’t tell. I would wake to the news cycle and notice my body change. Filling up with the dread, the anxiety, the rage, and the sorrow. For a moment I stopped hearing.

Then a magpie. Then one of the sweetest sounds I had never heard, or at least had never listened to. A rufous whistler singing to its’ reflection in our lounge room window, through vanity or confusion or both. Then the guttural, chainsaw like sound of the red wattlebird as it swoops another, high in the canopy. Then the call of the grey shrike thrush that is becoming our favourite now that I know what it is, and then something more subtle and constant. It could be the silvereyes. I noticed the wind. The way it makes sounds through the leaves and the grass like ocean waves with a little less regularity.

And in the distance I hear the creek. A sound so steady and subtle that I had become desensitised to it. But now it feels like a sirens call, always luring me down to visit and listen to what’s new.  

These are my sonic memories of lockdowns. 

Now the cars are back. The planes overhead seem louder than they used to and more offensive. I hear the reverse signal of trucks. Why are so many trucks reversing everywhere? The birds, frogs and insects are still there. But less celebratory perhaps. 

I hope that we remember the years we were quieter. 

I’m now working on a new project with support from my local council, developing a sound walk along the Campbell’s Creek.

Sound walks have been around for a long time but in recent years new technologies have opened up their possibilities. I like how they help build deeper connections to place by allowing people to access stories and sounds as they move through an area. These can be designed in many different ways, from full immersive soundscapes that move in a continuous stream as you move through a landscape, to discrete stories that are accessed at select points along a trail.

I’m excited to be able to use this project as an excuse to talk to people I know and don’t know about the creek, and why it’s important to them as we move into this shaky uncertain future. 

Credits
Executive Producers Kyla Brettle and Rob Law
Produced by Rob Law
Music by Rob Law

License
CC BY-NC-SA (Attribution NonCommercial-ShareAlike)

Links
Rob’s music

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