A Red Guitar, Three Chords and the Broom

There is something about sitting around a campfire that is pretty special, even better if there’s a song involved. Sitting out front, a few of us grabbed a guitar and started banging away on it, till it bled daylight. Channeling the sentiment of my long-suffering piano teacher who endured years of my musical attempts, a passerby stopped, listened for a moment, and called out, “wow Rev, you’re not S_^t at that!” It was the kind of generous encouragement that somehow felt both like a compliment and a gentle reminder of just how low the bar has been set.

If a time travel device were ever invented, any of our ancestors would look at our lives today and recognise barely any element of it. Around a campfire, sharing stories and song, bantering about which one of us can ‘tell the biggest lies’ would be a rare touchstone with our forebears.

This tradition continues because the stories and songs we share matter. They not only shape our reality, stories act as both architect and blueprint for the lives we lead. Our internal narratives – whether of resilience or defeat, possibility or limitation – don’t merely describe our experience but actively create it, influencing every decision, relationship, and moment of courage or despair we encounter.

Last week we shared time with a Kabi Kabi and Goreng Goreng Elder who has tracked closely with us over many years. He thanked all the people here for being a campfire of compassion for his people, a place of welcome and lasting warmth in what can often be a cold and cruel place.

There’s a man who came to me in dreams last night, floating in alongside ideas about campfires and stories like an old bush ballad.  His was the first funeral where I openly wept, and I still keep his poncho and cowboy hat in my office. Every morning, he’d wait for us to open, take the broom, and sweep our front area until it was spotless. When I thanked him once and asked why he cleaned up messes he hadn’t made, he simply shrugged and smiled.

His gift was a quiet lesson that still echoes: even when we haven’t caused the mess, or perhaps, especially when we have struggled to face it, we can choose to pick up the broom anyway. We can take responsibility for making things better, not because we’re obligated to, but because that’s how healing begins – one sweep at a time.

Thank you for being part of the Inner Circle.