S Sorrensen
Ballina. Sunday, 2.20pm.
There’s a crowd of about 400 people in the park reluctantly forming a circle and holding hands, following directions from a woman near the amphitheatre stage.
An older bloke, with an Akubra and a spherical belly putting a lot of strain on the buttons of his blue shirt, refuses to comply, despite her commands. He shakes his head and says something to the woman beside him, whom I assume is his partner – or, given the pedigree suggested by his attire, more probably his wife.
He walks off leaving his wife to hold hands with a man who believes (judging by the sign he places on the ground so he can extend his hand to her) in not cutting funding for education.
Not everyone likes forming circles and holding hands. I don’t. And I’m pretty spirtual. I reckon the Earth is like a mother to us and nurtures us. That’s spiritual.
I reckon people in trouble should get the help they need. That’s spiritual – almost old-school Christian.
I believe that it’s wrong to destroy habitat and the next generation’s future so that a few fat blokes can make a easy buck. That’s… okay, that’s just sensible. But I think holding hands shouldn’t be mandatory, unless you’re an ice skater or blocking a bulldozer from accessing a forest.
Anyway, that’s just me…
Everyone here is concerned about a government that squawks on about the inhumanity of a group of religious types spawned from our two Iraqi wars, but treats people fleeing such inhumanity with good ol’ Aussie brutality.
These northern rivers folk are concerned about a government that will bravely rescue foreign Christians and domestic coal companies, but condems the coming world to greenhouse poisoning.
You gotta laugh. Ha.
It isn’t a joyous laugh, and it freaks me out to hear it escape my lips. I used to laugh because I was happy.
I watch the people make a circle while the Akubra bloke and a few other handholdaphobes meet by the potato van for a Coke, potato and grumble.
Behind them, a man and a boy stand on the banks of the Richmond, fishing rods in hand, immobile against a lumpy, very mobile river. A salty tang reaches my nose; a magpie’s update reaches my ears.
I slip away to behind the amphitheatre.
There, a skate park is buzzing with young people. Parents and grandparents, obviously not worried about looming war, widening wealth gap or environmental collapse, sit on the neatly-mown grass and watch the young children. These kids are clad head-to-toe in riding armour. They ride their bikes up and down the easy bits, laughing because they’re happy.
The young kids watch the older kids. The older kids in their loose t-shirts and low-slung pants ride their bikes and scooters with teenage nonchalance (no laughing here) going high against the clouds after getting air from the more radical jumps. They high-five each in a casual, cool way after landing a good move.
I don’t like high-fives either.
Yes, as someone said not so long ago, I am a cynical bastard.
I hate that. I don’t want to be cynical. I want to like the circle ceremony. I want to hold hands – actually, no, I don’t, but I wish I did want to…
I want to believe in a life where the children play, the fisherpeople fish, the teenagers pout, the magpie does the news, and where everyone goes home to a meal, The Voice and a warm bed. It’s beautiful, so damn beautiful, all this.
But it’s a bubble. We’re living in a bubble. I just know it.
That makes me cynical, I reckon.
‘Ha.’
For four decades The Echo has printed the stories some people loved, some people hated, and some pretended not to read. If you want us to keep telling the truth, the real truth, not the sugar-coated version. We’ll need your support to keep the presses rolling. 
