Literatura científica selecionada sobre o tema "Sisters of St. Joseph of the Sacred Heart"

Abstract: In this essay, I focus on examples of controversial early members of communities of women religious in the United States, particularly their founders, whose significance (and, in some case, even existence) was deliberately obscured or removed from “approved” or “authorized” congregational histories. There are numerous such examples; here, I focus on four (though others figure briefly): Theresa Maxis Duchemin (Sisters, Servants of the Immaculate Heart of Mary), St. Andrew Feltin (Sisters of Divine Providence), Margaret Anna Cusack (Sisters of St. Joseph of Peace), and Wilhelmina Bleily (Sisters of St. Mary of Oregon). In recounting and analyzing their stories, I hope to explain why so many founders (or, at least, their significance) were silenced or repudiated, even by sisters themselves, and what their “rediscovery” in the past half century or so tells us about religious renewal in the post-Vatican II era. To what extent do their experiences derive from particularized circumstances and contextual factors? To what extent do their stories collectively inform us about important kyriarchal conditions during this formative period in apostolic women’s religious life? Moreover, despite often aggressive efforts to erase their stories or to deny their contributions, why was their influence never completely eradicated? What does this tell us about “official” and “unofficial” history, particularly for what it reveals about women’s responses to patriarchy? These accounts challenge us to see beyond a prescriptive or hagiographic understanding of women’s religious life and to appreciate the complexity of its reality.

Ancient philosophers attached great importance to the ideals of unity, truth, goodness, and beauty as the path to the greatest good. Beauty expressed through works of art can open the eyes of the mind and heart and direct the human spirit to transcendence. The beauty of art awakens inner emotionality, evokes elation in silence, and leads to “coming out of oneself”. The concept of beauty is inextricably linked to Catholic theology and preaching. Beautiful sacred images were a source of theological messages, intercession, and entry into the transcendental world. Medieval Gothic cathedrals had images on the walls as a basic tool of catechesis. Even in today’s teaching of young people, images play a crucial role. The world of symbols enables Christians to connect everyday life experiences with theological messages. The image of the Virgin Mary is the best example of recognizing personal life situations, with the story of a mother who loved her child, accepted the suffering and death of her own son, and together with St. Joseph formed a holy family, which is the image of an imperfect family in which each person recognizes himself. All these aspects of the life of the Virgin Mary could form the basic concepts of the Christian understanding of beauty. In modern thought, the concept of beauty is understood quite narrowly (we are talking about narrowing the meaning of the concept of beauty). In the first part of this paper, we focus on the philosophical concept of beauty with a brief historical overview, then we point out the difference between transcendental beauty and aesthetic beauty. Beauty appeals to the human being and opens the heart to the transcendent, to God, who is the source and fullness of beauty, beauty itself. The originality of the article is in its presentation of the understanding of the Christian concept of beauty through the figure and image of Mary, the Mother of God. The experience of the beauty of Mary and Mary’s life story enables the believer to have a different perspective on the perception of his own life and thereby opens him to the transcendent, to a personal relationship with God, who is eternal Beauty.

The Congregation of Sisters Carmelites of Baby Jesus was founded on 31 December, 1921 in Cracow by Father Anselm from St. Andrew Corsini OCD (Maciej Józef Gądek 1884–1969) with Janina Kierocinska’s participation (later: Mother Theresa from St. Józef). On the same day when the new community came to Sosnowiec, it started its activity in Christian Charity Organization, at the church Of Sacred Heart of Lord Jesus. The stabilization of the congregation was followed by its settlement in a house at Wiejska 25 in Sosnowiec (14 September, 1925). The religious house in Sosnowiec at Wiejska 25 was the place in which life of the convent was concentrated. The house was a seat of the general management (1925–1967), the noviciate (1925–1969), and also the place where the main directions of the activity of the institute developed. Within the convent which was patronized by St. Theresa from Baby Jesus, the charisma of the convent was shaped. Sisters who lived in the house in Sosnowiec led wide and various apostolic activities: educational-protective, charitable, and catechistic.

The Congregation of Sisters Carmelites of Baby Jesus was founded on 31 December, 1921 in Cracow by Father Anselm from St. Andrew Corsini OCD (Maciej Józef Gądek 1884–1969) with Janina Kierocinska’s participation (later: Mother Theresa from St. Józef). On the same day when the new community came to Sosnowiec, it started its activity in Christian Charity Organization, at the church Of Sacred Heart of Lord Jesus. The stabilization of the congregation was followed by its settlement in a house at Wiejska 25 in Sosnowiec (14 September, 1925). The religious house in Sosnowiec at Wiejska 25 was the place in which life of the convent was concentrated. The house was a seat of the general management (1925–1967), the noviciate (1925–1969), and also the place where the main directions of the activity of the institute developed. Within the convent which was patronized by St. Theresa from Baby Jesus, the charisma of the convent was shaped. Sisters who lived in the house in Sosnowiec led wide and various apostolic activities: educational-protective, charitable, and catechistic.

In the 1980's, I was privileged to attend the profession ceremony of my sister into the Catholic Sisters of St. Joseph (SSJ). She entered the convent in the fall after her high school graduation and, ten years later, had decided that she was ready to make her final vows and commit her life to the work of God on earth and to this particular apostolic community. Though I was happy that my sister was following her calling in life, I worried that she was committing herself to an unnecessarily harsh life, ruled by the long-standing patriarchy of the Catholic Church. I didn't have much faith that the Church, in its tradition and dogma, could accommodate my sister's spirit of activism and desire to bring about social justice. However, this ceremony, designed and enacted by the SSJ, changed my mind about the possibilities. They demonstrated how "sisterhood" and life in community would position my sister to affect change in the community and allow her to participate in the creation of a kinder, more inclusive version of the Catholic religion. The profession ceremony and the accompanying mass, though they reflected the new directions in the Church, were unlike any other Catholic ceremonies that I had ever experienced. In a break from the usual service, the Sisters performed the majority of the activities of the mass. A priest (male, of course) was present only to carry out the consecration of the host for communion services and to give the blessing. The taking of such freedom in the mass by the Sisters was something that was unheard of in earlier days in the Church. In the Catholicism that I knew, the strictly ordered rituals of the mass were to be enacted by the priest and observed by the congregation. The enactment of mass also served as a subliminal vehicle for hierarchically ordering the congregation: from God to priests, to nuns, and finally to the people. The positioning of priests and nuns and their respective roles in the church has been an ongoing struggle for nuns since Vatican II, a series of councils created in 1962 by Pope John XXIII to update the workings and interactions of the Church (http://www.rcchurch/vatican2/). Religious orders were given much more autonomy over their lives and lifestyles, but little had changed in regard to the hierarchy. In 1979 when the Pope visited the U.S., women religious urged him to allow greater recognition and participation for nuns. Theresa Kane, president of the Leadership Conference of Women Religious (LCWR) asked the Pope on behalf of all nuns to "respond by providing the possibility of women as persons being included in all ministries of the church" (Kane, in McNamara, 1996, p.663). Their request went unheeded. Even now, with the turn of a new century, Catholic women religious are still denied the privilege of becoming priests or moving into positions of power within the Church. It has been a great disappointment for many nuns, but they have persevered and created new ways of operating. They changed into contemporary dress, moved beyond just teaching and nursing positions and took up social activism in earnest (Rogers, 1996). They have been bolstered by their desire to make a difference in the church and society, and are determined to find alternative ways to have their voices heard in their work of serving the people. My sister's commitment ceremony also broke from Catholic tradition and reflected the new directions of the SSJ. She based her personal statement of commitment on the Shakertown Pledge, making a connection to another monastic community, the Shakers, who live simply in the service of God and community (http://www.nypl.org). Among others, she made promises of becoming a world citizen, leading an ecologically sound life, living a life of creative simplicity, sharing of her personal wealth with the poor, renewing herself through prayer, meditation, and study, and responsibly participating in a community of faith. This personal statement was followed by her formal commitment to the Sisters of St. Joseph. To the President of the SSJ, (no longer a Mother Superior), my sister vowed to unite her life to the Community, bring the Gospel to the people and seek union of neighbor with neighbor through commitments to poverty, celibacy and obedience. She received a plain gold wedding band, not as a "bride of Christ", but as a symbol of her commitment to God, the community of the SSJ, and the world community. In their simplicity and sincerity, the vows touched my heart. My sister had moved from our nuclear family into a new family of the SSJ and the world. Her work and the world in which she moved would certainly be different than the one we had envisioned throughout our childhood together. According to Schneiders (2000), it is much more difficult today to "locate" and "situate" women religious. Unlike nuns of the earlier part of the century, my sister would not be secluded in a convent, away from people and identifiable only by a flowing black habit and service in an insular community. The world was open to her to find her ministry. In these times, many religious orders find and create their own ministries, like a "bricolage", pieceworking solutions to individually fit the myriad of life situations. Schneiders (2000, p. xxvii) describes the phenomenon in this way: "The unity of the final product and its utility result not from a preordained plan correctly followed but from the inner directedness of the one creating." More than likely, the possibility of continually being involved in creative change was the lure of the SSJ for my sister. For the SSJ, the ever-changing, creative nature of their work allows them the freedom to work in places where ministries are most needed. The Sisters of St. Joseph use their marginalized position in the Church and society as a position for change. At the profession ceremony, the Sisters had found an alternative way to reach the people and serve their congregation. They knowingly pushed the limits of tradition in the church as they expanded their participation in the ceremony and the mass. Then and in the present time, the SSJ, like bell hooks, choose to live on the margins of society for a reason; the margins are "a site one stays in, clings to even, because it nourishes one's capacity to react. It offers to one the possibility of a radical perspective from which to see and create, to imagine alternative-new worlds (1990, pp. 149-50)." At the ceremony, members of the SSJ made statements of ongoing commitment to service and their ministries. They spoke in support of poor people, disabled people, those labeled as criminals, and for all those who were not getting their fair share of life. The SSJ profoundly believe in God "who is the origin of all that is", and they seek "the union of ourselves and all people with God and with one another in and through Christ Jesus" (1987, Constitution of the Sisters of St. Joseph, p. 3; http://www.nd.edu/~csjus/home.html). For the SSJ, this charism means becoming prophets of the Church. Like their founding order, the Sisters of St. Joseph of Le Puy, France in the seventeenth century, they continually seek out those people and organizations that are in need and create solutions with them. Once programs are established and integrated into the community, they move on to the next area of need. Similarly, they see their formation as Sisters of St. Joseph as a "lifelong process" (SSJ Constitution, p. 18). After the seriousness of the vows and statements, the profession ceremony became a celebration. Happiness and energy filled the chapel as people smiled widely and enthusiastically joined in the singing of hymns. The final song, an old Black spiritual, "Oh, Happy Day", nearly brought the house down. It was the most emotional group expression I had ever seen in a Catholic service. A special experience had been co-created and shared by all of us, even the many long-time traditional Catholics who all responded enthusiastically. With the staid protocol of the mass was cast aside, the spirit of the people took over. Pearce and Cronen (1980) would propose that we, the nuns and laity, in our conjoint action, had reached a moment of liberation; we were able to create a new way of being in the Catholic Church. In their work, the SSJ accept and circumvent the worldly struggles they face with the Catholic Church by acting in a spirit of connection with the people and the community. In their ongoing ministries, the SSJ give witness to their "love of God and neighbor by living simply and working for a more just society" (SSJ Constitution, p. 12). They often struggle with the most difficult of situations and work with the most unfortunate members of society. With their love of God and service, they encourage community members to work with them to change not only the daily conditions of life, but also, the way the Church and others in the community understand and accept all people. The Catholic religion in this form is reachable; the Creator, positioned as God, works through and is simultaneously created in the actions and words of the people. In a circular fashion, God is connected with people, and people are connected neighbor to neighbor, as they connect with the spirit and word of God. In this way, the SSJ continually work toward and create their goal "that all may be one." At the profession ceremony, the people took this gift of spirit with them and, hopefully, were inspired to begin connecting in new ways with the people and chosen God/spirit of their own lives. When my sister first entered the convent, I used to wonder why nuns thanked each other after sharing a religious service. After participating in the profession ceremony, I knew. Thank you, Teresa.

Fig. 1: A Start. I could write or I could weave.I could write or I could weave…Write, weave. Weave.Then a colleague and friend says to me: why do you weave?I weave to put myself back together again.I weave the pieces of me that are shattered and broken.I weave because the rhythm, flow, feel, pattern and solidity comforts me.I weave because my body tells me to.I weave to breathe more slowly, more deeply.I weave because the threads that create the strands of my life need a language.… This article reflects on my relationship with weaving and what it offers to the remaining threads of my life. Weaving is embodied, procedural and experiential: it is personal, cultural, and spiritual for me. It is a language that allows me sacred time and space, whether by myself (although I’m really never alone) or with other people. It is an extension of my breath, from my body, in co-creation with earth and sky that manifests as a solid object in my hands. It was when my colleague suggested I write about why I weave that I realised such reflection could help me tap into knowledge. Nithikul Nimkulrat says that knowledge is generated from within the researcher-practitioner’s artistic experience. The procedural and experiential knowledge thus becomes explicit as a written text and/or as visual representations. … With the slow pace of a craft-making process, the practitioner-researcher is able to generate ‘reflection-in-action’ and document the process. (1) For me, knowledge becomes an embodied state of being while I’m weaving: while my hands move, my body grounds, my heart calms, my mind detaches from thoughts, letting one flow to the next, as I watch one stitch lead / follow the next. Until the row becomes the spiral becomes the base becomes the basket. Each stitch documenting my reflections in the process of weaving the whole. The regenerative aspect of this process has been powerful and impactful for me because of my relationship with time and space, my relationship with my Country, my relationship with people, my relationship with sovereignty. I don’t have the words to describe how weaving allows me to embody a relationship with that tiny little spark of creativity in me, so I weave it instead. I see that spiral fractal in everything around me. Weaving, for me, has become a way to listen to them speak. The spiral centre of each round woven basket is my favourite part. I love spirals. Fibonacci sequence. Golden Ratio. Fractals. I’ve heard stories about how some people can look at a specific symbol or drawing and immediately transform their reality from reading the immense wisdom it held. I can only imagine what that must mean and feel like, but when I look at a spiral, anywhere, in anything, I can see through space and time differently. I imagine that must be what our DNA looks like. I feel an immense sense of connectedness when I see that smallest spiral circle core. Reflection in action. I believe we carry our Ancestors in our DNA, or maybe they carry us. I believe this ancient beautiful land we are on was carved out by the Ancestors. Human, non-human, and more-than-human: I see one now. As I write this. On my Country. In my nest. I live in a nest amidst the hills. And so, when I weave, I weave myself into that nest. Freja Carmichael writes: “whether old or new forms, First Nations fibre practices are grounded in histories and knowledges that run deep and interconnect across the lands and waters. Our many nations inherit specific fibre traditions relative to Ancestral, spiritual, environmental and historical contexts all of which are interconnected with culture” (44). While I weave nests, baskets, bags, mats, to my west sits an ancient volcano. An ancient creation ancestor. She called to me in my dreams although I did not know why. Fig. 2: An Aerial Shot. When I weave with my bare feet resting on earth, I feel the pulse of electromagnetic energy, while the warmth of the sun renourishes my face and skin. I feel my heart rate slow, my breathing deepens and my body relaxes. Andrea Hinch-Bourns writes: wherever we are, we can sit down upon the earth, let the dirt run through our fingers, take off our shoes and squish the dirt through our toes, and if we listen carefully, we will hear our ancestors talk to us in the language of our people. This knowledge is contained in all of us, through what is referred to as, ‘blood memory’ … and ‘molecular or cellular memory’ … . This intuition is carried within all of us regardless of whether we are connected to our culture, speak our language, or live somewhere other than our communities. It is something innate, powerful, which draws us together as a collective people. (20) I gather a few individual raffia strands and press them closely together, wrap them with another thread, and reshape them from single strands into a firm spiral base, like the spiral energy at the base of my spine. Grief and love curl themselves through my body and into my hands. I exhale the emotions out and inhale the scent and sounds of my Country, imbuing the threads in my hands with the gratitude that tracks up my back, along meridian points, like the movement of those Seven Sisters embedded in the landscape of my body. I sit straighter, breathe and remember. Weaving can shift my consciousness into a different state of being, allowing me to imagine even more. Such a place, a state of mind, seems to be filled with the potential to transform. In recent years I have, at times, physically, mentally, and emotionally been unable to speak. I don’t like talking, but the act of weaving feels like a conversation, one in which I am involved, wholeheartedly. A conversation that holds potential to transform. Whatever that might look like. The image below of 12 baskets speaks of a three-month conversation I experienced with a group of people, who individually and as a whole grounded me with reciprocity. Fig. 3: 12 Gifts. Aboriginal peoples in Australia have been weaving since the beginning. Please don’t make me attach a linear number of years to that, it’s just not going to align with the spiral base of my basket. In their research exploration of the insider-outsider experience in research spaces, Radley, Ryan, and Dowse “describe weaving as method and cultural process as our individual strands weave together with collective ways of knowing, being and doing openly and freely” (414). They extend the work of Chew, and articulate how the metaphor of weaving as a cultural practice conveys “a model for planning and decision-making that acknowledges ancestral wisdom”; it is, for them, “an intangible knowledge process, narrative, belonging and knowledge transference” (414). They emphasise that the Western notion of “metaphor” does not necessarily convey this conceptual, and I would add embodied, framework. In trying to articulate what weaving is and does, means for me, I have to access my whole being – cognitive, experiential and embodied. At the spiral centre of it, I have to be creative, and creativity is a direct connection to the divine. Country is a physical and metaphysical manifestation of divine source. Tapping into my creativity taps me into my Country and my Ancestors. When I’m tapped in, I listen better, and when I listen better, I recognise other connections and communities around me. The different strands of each community, human, non-human, more-than-human, at first seem unconnected and separate, but these more-than-metaphor threads co-create a basket or nest with me. The final physical object I can touch, feel, and hold in my hands is my cognitive unconsciousness manifested in a more-than-metaphor object. Shay Welch states that cognitive embodied metaphor theory posits that how we conceive the world is a function of our embodied interaction with the world and, as such, most of our depictions, linguistic representations, imaginative operations, and abstract thought are metaphorical with respect to our spatial-locomotive-sensory activities and experiences. That is, most Western theorists reject the idea that metaphors are embodied, that they have meaning and are meaningful. (28) When I hold the threads of raffia, when I shape them, bend them, bind them, and strengthen them, I am in co-creation with the world around me and in me. My internal and external landscapes manifest the nest that holds and nurtures me and I, in return, love hard on it. Gregory Cajete, a Tewa man, states that the metaphoric mind is the oldest mind: connected to the creative center of nature, the metaphoric mind has none of the limiting conditioning of the cultural order. It perceives itself as part of the natural order, a part of the Earth mind. Its processing is natural and instinctive. It is inclusive and expansive in its processing of experience and knowledge … . Because its processes are tied to creativity, perception, image, physical senses and intuition, the metaphoric mind reveals itself through abstract symbols, visual/spatial reasoning, sound, kinesthetic expression, and various forms of ecological and integrative thinking. (51) Weaving has taught me to calm my mind and body, reconnect with my heart, and centre peace in my soul. While most of my weaving has been done without other humans around, any sense of loneliness and isolation is eased by my Country: by the galahs, the magpies, the cockatoos, the crows, the wrens, the clouds, the winds, the sounds, the stars, the air, and the earth. I no longer ever feel lonely, even when I am alone. In co-creating the nest in my hands with the nest I am nestled in, I weave myself back together. Māori researcher Linda Tuhiwai Smith writes: the project of creating is not just about the artistic endeavours of individuals but about the spirit of creating which Indigenous communities have exercised over thousands of years. Imagination enables people to rise above their own circumstances, to dream new visions and to hold on to old ones. It fosters inventions and discoveries, facilitates simple improvements to peoples lives and uplifts our spirits. Creating is not the exclusive domain of the rich nor of the technologically superior, but of the imaginative. (158) Weaving, is at times, my portal to imaginative realms. Once, after a women’s ceremony in north-east Arnhem-Land, the women told us – us women from the heavily colonised and disconnected New South Wales east coast – to not forget what they had taught us and to always return to them in our imaginations. According to Welch, some scholars refer to this as the inscape or the inner space – the source of insight and intuition (27). And according to Ermine (1995), one important aspect of knowledge creation occurs through introspection, the way in which knowledge creation becomes a spiritual experience. He goes on to explain that as knowledge and understanding of the world comes from within, it is through rituals and ceremonies, and the experience of self-actualisation, that knowledge creation occurs and “is synonymous with the soul, the spirit, the self, or the being” (103). Weaving, the practice and the knowing it brings, returns me to a state of embodied being. Anjilkurri Radley acknowledges that, given that all things are connected, “what I perceive as not knowing is only a lack of connectedness” (quoted in Radley, Ryan, and Dowse 423). As I gather together the strands of my life, weaving becomes both the process and language for me to connect my knowings and unknowings. The reviewer for this article pointed out to me how this relates to that spiral, with embodied knowing and practicing circling back on itself. With each moment of return something more has been revealed. “There is a whole ritual in weaving … and for me, it’s a meditation … from where we actually start, the centre part of a piece, you’re creating loops to weave into, then you move into the circle” (Aunty Ellen Trevorrow cited in Bell 44). Weaving helps me listen better. My ears hear differently, pick up differently the languages of earth and sky. The vibrations reverberate in a deep part of my inner landscape. The threads are like the string that keeps me connected to the sky world. Weaving becomes a language that connects my inner and outer worlds, crafting each basket into a story. Stories that keep me connected to communities. Communities that include what Jace Weaver refers to as “the wider community of Creation itself” (xiii). Stories like that Songspiral of those Seven Sisters. The Seven Sisters creation story that we now read in the sky as the Pleiades: “those faint, gentle stars have touched all our lives on a multitude of levels. Their celestial influence in all spheres of life is prolific while their esoteric, spiritual nature in world mythology is profound. Beyond their symbolic meaning, the practical application of the Pleiades in the sciences – especially in measurements, geodesics, geometry, architecture and navigation – is considerable” (Andrews 8). Those Seven Sisters speak to me of my Creation Story and I see their emplaced myth in both the landscape of my body and on my Country. A resting site of theirs nearby. Such emplaced myth speaks of connection and community. The solidity of the raffia strands keeps me grounded in earth, while the rhythm of weaving tugs on my string to the Milky Way. My great, great Aunt (my Nan really) taught me to crochet when I was little. We would sit together out the back of the kitchen and I would listen to her tell stories about locals while we crocheted ourselves together in a rug. Lifetimes later, I learnt how to weave after collecting pandanus, stripping, dying, drying it, sat in a circle on the earth with Aunts and Grandmothers. My sinful left-handedness called to mind my late Mum’s voice – “you cacky-handed bitch” – making me try with my right hand out of shame when I see not one other woman is using her left hand! Eventually, I give in to the calling of my naturally inclined hand to hold the needle and I switch over, requiring me to learn left to right all over again. Now, another lifetime later, I mostly weave alone. But that’s another story and one that’s changing as I sit on my Country with family, little ones, and Elders, hopelessly trying to teach the kids to mirror me, not follow me. From weaving with Yolŋu yapas, to weaving alone, to weaving with mob, the threads of each experience always bring me back to connection. Back together. Joseph Couture says that “Native ‘seeing’ is a primary dynamic, an open and moving mindscape. This process determines and drives the Native habit to be fully alive in the present, without fear of self and others, non-compulsively and non-addictively in full relationship to all that is – in relationship with the ‘is’-ness of a self-organizing ecology, a cosmic community of ‘all my relations” (48). Weaving that relationship became a language for me, allowing me to find the words to write. Once it’s finished, I will give the basket away. I only ever start weaving an item with a person in mind to gift it to. From my heart to my hands, I try to imbue each strand with love, with strength, with harmony. Sometimes the baskets emerge slightly lopsided and uneven in their base or bulgy in some spots in the side. Sometimes I weave embroidered trimming in swirls around the top edge. Holding the emerging basket in my hands, each one takes its own form in co-creation with the world around me. I have no idea how each basket will turn out, its size, its shape, its depth, until it says to me in the process of embodied co-creation, it’s time, it’s done. And so I gather the final strands and weave into the whole. “Sometimes knowledge is received as a gift at a moment of need; sometimes it manifests itself as a sense that ‘the time is right’ to hunt, or counsel, or make a decisive turn in one’s life path” (Castellano 24). Why do I weave? To weave myself whole again. To remember. “From fish traps and cradles to coffins, a basket can hold many things: food, babies, love, trinkets, water, sustenance, bones, burdens, grief and secrets. Like a gathering up of ‘all those shattered pieces’ that have been taken, lost or forgotten, a basket can hold stories, ceremonies and dances, for a new remembering” (Harkin 156). I stop and start this article so many times. I stop because of tears and fears. I start again because of love. The threads of raffia I am using feel alive in my hands. I acknowledge and pay respect to Pandanus and briefly in my imagination return to north-east Arnhem Land: the sky, the smell, the hooked stick to pull the strands of pandanus down, filling bags to take back to camp to prepare for stripping and dying. I run my fingers down a few strands, recalling through my fingers a nightmare as a child – a thread of hair, expanding, igniting a horror in me that even waking up didn’t dispel. Once, when I told a sista about this dream, she said perhaps someone had sung me as a child. The threads of raffia don’t feel like the terror of the hair strand, though. Instead, they feel like home and each time I touch the threads, pushing through, curling over, pulling up, the rhythm, the flow of the pattern, centres me, grounds me while my bare feet rest on the earth. On my Country. That black soil that grew me up. The smell of first rain on its layer of dry dust is the best smell in the world. Petrichor, my sons would say. And I weave the elements of earth, rain, and air into my nest, the basket that will carry love after transmuting my fears with each thread. Seneca dancer Rosy Simas writes, “recent scientific study verifies what many Native people have always known: that traumatic events in our ancestors’ lives persist in our bodies, blood, and bones. These events leave molecular scars that adhere to our DNA” (29). The stories I carry in my body, in my DNA, the stories I carry for my descendants, may not be able to be expressed in spoken English, but my baskets hold them. Fig. 4: The Whole. Radley, Ryan, and Dowse refer to this as “intentionally trusting ancestors and their gifts of cellular memory to guide [us] when something is, or is not, right” and explain how it underscores their ethical and cultural research protocols (435). Dancer Monique Mojica, from the Guna and Rappahannock nations, expresses how “our bodies are our libraries – [with] references in memory, an endless resource, a giant database of stories. Some we lived, some were passed on, some dreamt, some forgotten, some we are unaware of, or dormant, awaiting the key that will release them” (97). I carry my Ancestors in my DNA and the threads that hold us together become solid in my hands. And so, I breathe and weave. References Andrews, Munya. The Seven Sisters of the Pleiades: Stories from Around the World. North Melbourne: Spinifex, 2004. Bell, Diane. Ngarrindjeri Wurruwarrin: A World That Is, Was, and Will Be. North Melbourne: Spinifex, 1998. Cajete, Gregory. "Philosophy of Native Science." American Indian Thought (2004): 45-57. Carmichael, Elisa J. How Is Weaving Past, Present, Futures? Dissertation. Queensland University of Technology, 2017. Castellano, Marlene Brant. "Updating Aboriginal Traditions of Knowledge." Indigenous Knowledges in Global Contexts: Multiple Readings of Our World (2000): 21-36. Couture, Joseph E. A Metaphoric Mind: Selected Writings of Joseph Couture. Athabasca: University Press, 2013. Ermine, Willie, M. Battiste, and J. Barman. "Aboriginal Epistemology." First Nations Education in Canada: The Circle Unfolds (1995): 101-12. Harkin, Natalie. "Weaving the Colonial Archive: A Basket to Lighten the Load." Journal of Australian Studies 44.2 (2020): 154-166. Hinch-Bourns, Andrea Colleen. In Their Own Words, in Their Own Time, in Their Own Ways: Indigenous Women's Experiences of Loss, Grief, and Finding Meaning through Spirituality. Canada: University of Manitoba, 2013. Mojica, Monique. "Stories from the Body: Blood Memory and Organic Texts." Native American Performance and Representation (2009): 97-109. Nimkulrat, Nithikul. "Hands-On Intellect: Integrating Craft Practice into Design Research." International Journal of Design 6.3 (2012): 1-14. Radley, Anjilkurri, Tess Ryan, and Kylie Dowse. "Ganggali Garral Djuyalgu (Weaving Story): Indigenous Language Research, The Insider–Outsider Experience and Weaving Aboriginal Ways of Knowing, Being, and Doing into Academia." WINHEC: International Journal of Indigenous Education Scholarship 1 (2021): 411-448. Simas, Rosy. “My Making of We Wait in the Darkness.” Dance Research Journal 48.1 (2016): 29. Smith, Linda Tuhiwai. Decolonizing Methodologies: Research and Indigenous Peoples. London: Zed, 1999. Weaver, Jace. That the People Might Live: Native American Literatures and Native American Community. Oxford: Oxford UP, 1997. Welch, Shay. “Dance as Native Performative Knowledge.” Native American and Indigenous Philosophy 18.1 (2018): 23-35.

In a letter responding to the Federal Government’s refusal to offer a formal apology to the ‘Stolen Generation’ of Indigenous Australians, members of the Vietnamese-Australian community expressed an understanding (often lacked by Anglo-Australians) of the need to appreciate their position as migrants in relation to the Indigenous community: "We are here now, living in cities and towns that once were their hunting grounds, their camping places, their sacred sites. We are the beneficiaries of their dispossession, and we acknowledge their loss. We understand about the loss of home, family and cultural values, and we too would like to express our deep sorrow to all indigenous Australians for their suffering and offer our support for genuine reconciliation." (Le and Nguyen 14) This letter remains one of the few instances in which the contemporary positioning of migrant and Indigenous peoples is discussed in relation to one another. It is demonstrative of some of the points of continuity between the ways Aboriginal and migrant collectivities (especially those who are racially ‘marked’) experience Australian society but, more often than not, these connections remain under-theorised. In Australian debates concerning the significance of descent, belonging and culture, there have been two distinct, yet connected currents (Curthoys 21). One of these debates concerns the positioning of Indigenous and settler Australians within a (continuing) history of colonisation and genocide. The other debate centres on immigration, multiculturalism and ethnic/cultural diversity. Ghassan Hage argues that such distinctions are a reflection of a white governmental tendency that conceives ‘white-Aboriginal’ and ‘Anglo-Ethnic’ relations in oppositional terms. The whites "relating to Aboriginal people appear as totally unaffected by multiculturalism, while the ‘Anglos’ relating to the ‘ethnics’ appear as if they have no Aboriginal question about which to worry" (24). It is only since the mid to late 1990s that debates on both Indigenous and immigration policies (re-ignited by independent member of parliament Pauline Hanson in 1996) have been explicitly connected. This article examines the ambiguous and often strained relationship between the positioning of Indigenous and migrant peoples in contemporary Australian society. While the above letter suggests a degree of sympathy and empathy between recent migrant collectivities and Aboriginal people, such a level of recognition and understanding cannot be taken for granted. The following account of Aboriginal-migrant relations indicates that these are structured by both "complex conflicts and points of solidarity" (Perera and Pugliese 5). Given that both diasporic and Indigenous communities can be the targets of white supremacist ideologies and hostilities, some commonalities between these collectivities become apparent. The "attraction of outsiders to fellow outsiders, the stranger (the [I]ndigenous made a stranger in her or his own land) to the stranger from elsewhere" (Docker and Fischer 15), can result in the creation of common interests and affiliations. However, diasporic communities do not share the same history of colonisation (in Australia, at least) with Indigenous Australians, and may be perceived as yet another set of invaders. Just like the colonisers, more recent migrants are beneficiaries of the original dispossession and (continuing) colonisation of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Australians. The Indigenous and the Diasporic: Tensions and Uncertainties The shared knowledge of being located on the margins of white Australian society has enabled Aboriginal and non-white racial minorities to see many similarities in their circumstances and experiences. Both Aboriginal and non-Anglo migrant collectivities have largely been excluded from dominant ideologies of Australian national belonging. Those migrants who have come to Australia as refugees can often appreciate the feelings of cultural domination and loss that many Aboriginal people experience on a daily basis. Both Aboriginal and NESB collectivities have also come under pressure to adopt the assumed monolithic Australian culture. The assimilation policy offered a chance for Aborigines and NESB migrants to ‘fit in’, but this was on the proviso that they conform. Both NESB and Aboriginal communities experience ongoing structural disadvantages in Australian society and its economy. These collectivities can also suffer discrimination and hostility in their social relations with fellow Australians. Despite these similarities, however, there is often a lack of identification between Aboriginal and migrant collectivities. Australian Indigenous and immigrant peoples have very divergent histories and Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people often resist being drawn under the rubric of multiculturalism. Instead, many Indigenous Australians have attacked multiculturalism, claiming that the idea of the equal validity of every culture "reduces them to the status of just another ethnic minority" (Bulbeck 273). Many Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people wish to reinforce their status as the ‘first’ or Indigenous peoples of this country; an insistence that does not necessarily assist recognition of the ways in which racism and ethnocentrism impact upon ‘Other’ minorities. Another reason for the relative lack of engagement between Indigenous and diasporic communities is that the political agenda of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people is different from that of other minority collectivities. Indigenous activists have expressed understandable and substantiated fears that the focus on multiculturalism not only overlooks the Indigenous status of Aborigines as ‘first peoples’, but can distract attention from the issues of land rights and Native Title (Gunew 455). Lois O’Donoghue recognises both advantages and disadvantages in contemporary multiculturalism: "Perhaps Aboriginal people have benefited from the greater appreciation of cultural diversity which has resulted from the admission of other points of view". However, "we are the original inhabitants of this land, and our sufferings, past and present, make some form of special recognition a moral imperative" (qtd. in Bulbeck 274). Another difficulty lies is that newly arrived migrants are extended various social rights and privileges that have only relatively recently been granted to Indigenous Australians. Many Indigenes have resented the fact that new groups may be better treated than themselves, with some migrants taking on "the racist stereotypes of Anglo-Australian society" (Vasta 51). In Sang Ye’s interviews with various Chinese migrants in The Year the Dragon Came, for instance, one interviewee claimed that: "Nearly all the Aborigines are unemployed or refuse to take jobs that are available; they’re outside the pubs or on the grass getting drunk on beer" (182). These comments show very clearly that the common experiences of racism that many NESB and Aboriginal Australians share do not automatically guarantee understanding or political solidarity between the two groups (Perera and Pugliese 14). The above quotation also illustrates the way in which NESB Australians can reproduce dominant white Australian characterisations of contemporary Aboriginality. Aboriginal people continue to face popular conceptions of themselves as drunken, lazy, intellectually inferior, or as suitable only for servile or menial work (Morris 171-173). As Ruby Langford Ginibi maintains: They’ve got us stereotyped as nothing but lazy layabout boongs, you know, and they see a Koori fella staggering down the street charged up and they say, ‘Oh, they’re all like that,’ but they never stop, or pause to think, ‘Hey, what’s made this person like this?’ You can’t do what has been done to a race of people without it having disastrous results. (qtd. in Little 105 As long as Anglo- and NESB Australians focus on the low socioeconomic position of Aboriginal people without considering the lasting effects of colonialism, Aborigines will continually be cast as the culprits of their own positioning. Widely-circulated conservative ideologies that blame Aboriginal people for their own victimisation overlook the enduring legacies of colonisation. As Arthur Corunna states in Sally Morgan’s My Place: "You see, the trouble is that colonialism isn’t over yet" (212). According to Suvendrini Perera and Joseph Pugliese, "[i]t is vital that the structural disadvantages and racisms faced by indigenous peoples not be relegated to history, but be seen as ongoing in contemporary Australia" (10). Many Aboriginal communities also feel that because migrants have not, in Australia at least, suffered the same extent of cultural domination, they are less disadvantaged. John Docker argues that each individual in 1788 and since who has come to Australia, however variegated their experiences and "however much there has been racism and ethnocentrism and differential access to power ha[s] benefited from the original invasion and dispossession of the Aboriginal peoples, and still benefit[s]" (54). For Aboriginal people migrant groups could be seen as another set of invaders, "not brothers and sisters on the margins, not the fellow oppressed and dispossessed" (Docker 54). Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people have thus avoided conflating their own political agendas – at the foreground of which are land rights and Native Title – with the very different concerns of various migrant communities (Brewster 16). Many Aboriginal people feel that because those migrating to Australia can retain their language, and often have families or communities to go to, they are less disadvantaged. Langford Ginibi’s comments are illustrative: Even the people who migrate here are on a higher social level than we are, and we’re the first people of this land! My people were forced to give away using our language and culture, and adopt the ways of the white man, but the people who migrated here don’t give away their language or culture to become Australian citizens." (52) In her autobiography Born a Half-Caste, Marnie Kennedy makes similar claims: "Every nationality in Australia is allowed to speak its language. They have their own gatherings. These are the things that make Aborigines very bitter because they were made to give up everything that was sacred to them" (4-5). Given the tensions and contradictions outlined above, long-lasting and productive relations between Aboriginal and NESB peoples can sometimes be difficult to forge, but it is important that NESB people recognise their responsibility in the ongoing dispossession of Indigenous Australians. NESB migrants (and all non-Aboriginal Australians) remain the beneficiaries of colonisation but, unlike their Anglo-Australian counterparts, non-white migrants have been racially marked and had their ability to claim the title ‘Australian’ questioned. Ongoing analysis of the positioning of NESB collectivities in relation to Aboriginal peoples will assist in undermining the central conflict of Black vs. white in reconciliation debates. Further research might also help disrupt the continuing cleavage of ‘the immigrant’ and ‘the Indigene’ in contemporary paradigms of reconciliation, providing a space for discussion on the potential role and contribution of NESB Australians to the reconciliation process. References Brewster, Anne. Literary Formations: Post-colonialism, Nationalism, Globalism. Carlton, Vic: Melbourne UP, 1995. Bulbeck, Chilla. Social Sciences in Australia: An Introduction. Sydney: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1993. Curthoys, Ann. "An Uneasy Conversation: The Multicultural and the Indigenous." Race, Colour and Identity in Australia and New Zealand. Eds. John Docker and Gerhard Fischer. Sydney: U of NSW P, 2000. 21-36. Docker, John. "The Temperament of Editors and a New Multicultural Orthodoxy." Island Magazine 48 (1991): 50-55. Docker, John, and Gerhard Fischer. "Adventures of Identity." Race, Colour and Identity in Australia and New Zealand. Eds. John Docker and Gerhard Fischer. Sydney: U of NSW P, 2000. 3-20. Gunew, Sneja. "Multicultural Multplicities: US, Canada, and Australia." Meanjin 52.3 (1993): 447-461. Kennedy, Marnie. Born a Half-Caste. Canberra: Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies, 1985. Langford Ginibi, Ruby. My Bundjalung People. St. Lucia, Qld: U of Queensland P, 1994. Le, Thanh Van , and Thang Manh Nguyen. "Vietnamese and Aborigines: Letter." Age 3 Apr. 1998: 14. Little, Janine. "Talking with Ruby Langford Ginibi." Hecate 20.1 (1994): 100-121. Morgan, Sally. My Place. South Fremantle: Fremantle Arts Centre P, 1987. Morris, Barry. "Racism, Egalitarianism and Aborigines." Race Matters: Indigenous Australians and 'Our' Society. Eds. Gillian Cowlishaw and Barry Morris. Canberra: Aboriginal Studies P, 1997. 161-176. Perera, Suvendrini, and Joseph Pugliese. "Detoxifying Australia?" Migration Action 20.2 (1998): 4-18.

Creators do not just 'create' or 'act' -- they are privileged agents, points of origin, sources of innovation and transformation. Within religious systems, creators can exist in an extra-discursive real beyond nature and culture, functioning as the origin of the word and being. They can be supernatural, existing outside nature to influence earthly events via strange powers. They can also be 'supra' natural -- above nature -- capable of acts that both break and establish laws to which the created are subject. Yet, these types of creators only seem to exist through the cultural economies which allow their representation. Their roles and personas can differ with the production, combination and utilisation of selected characterisations: in other words, creators are created. As these texts explore, the idea of creator is a site of textual contestation, where creations must be authenticated not only by their authors but by their believers. These fictive acts and others like them, explored to great narrative detail in 'The Fall of Every Sparrow', contribute to the way we collectively construe and construct the idea of creators. Yet the notion of 'creating' used here can also be understood as a process of transformation and, in this sense, it is argued that creators 'act', that they produce and position the object of their creation as a social process or discrete detail to which people respond accordingly. It is in such an environment that society can claim to collectively worship the 'works of the great masters' and yet not draw evidence of an artist's signature from an almighty creator written in the living world. And though it might remain unclear or at least debatable whether these 'masters' truly perceived themselves as such, it is clear that from time to time society requires its citizens to legitimise such positioning through culturally accepted activities and institutions: for example, gala musical performances, poetry and prose readings, publications and book launches, art galleries and festivals, etc. Our feature article, A Remarkable Disappearing Act: immanence and the creation of modern things by Warwick Mules, considers modern creation not as a phenomenon of the gifted artistic individual, but as present in the mediated spaces of the everyday. Drawing upon the theories of Latour and Deleuze and Guattari, he argues that the mode of desire of contemporary consumer culture is "the ghost of a certain kind of immanence which has haunted modernity and its projects from the very beginning." Mules traces this immanence to Descartes' creation of the modern ego on the paradoxical basis that an autonomous subject is conceivable only on the grounds that it partakes in something outside of itself (in Descartes' case, God). Mules views the commodity as an exemplary modern object which binds consumers into particular fields of immanence (the relations of consumer formations) in their acts of consumer self-creation. William J Wilson's fictional work, The Fall of Every Sparrow, recounts the last entry made by one Brother Clothren, an archeotheist whose main duty is to 'mark the fall of every sparrow'. This is an engaging and original piece, exploring concepts of deities 'wrought into existence solely by the collective belief and adoration of the worshipful races' and reflecting upon our own constructions of gods through irony in its evocative play on the contemporary death of the Terrene god Yahweh: 'Tell me about your gods', writes Wilson, 'and I will reveal the inmost secrets of you heart'. This is a piece that defies one reading – it's philosophical penetration demands additional readings. In The Documentary Photographer as Creator Maria Mitropoulos investigates the tension between creation and the representation of events in the field of documentary photography. She traces longstanding debates in the field between those who emphasise the faithful recording of events, and those who—regarding the technological manipulation of images as a legitimate means of enhancing their impact—emphasise the expressive potentials of the medium. By tackling these issues she argues for the reinstatement of the referent (or the semiotic trace of it) as an object of critical inquiry. In her own conclusions she attempts to avoid the impasse between naïve realism and thoroughgoing constructionism, acknowledging instead how documentary photography may contribute to the becoming of reality. Bev Curran analyses two novels—Le désert mauve by Nicole Brossard and The English Patient, by Michael Ondaatje— which exemplify "how a translator may flaunt her creativity, and allow the cultural position of the translator vis à vis language, history, or gender to be critically exposed by the text itself." In Portrait of the Translator as Artist, she proceeds from a deconstruction of a received cultural opposition between the author and the translator, in which the activity of former is viewed as creative and that of the latter as derivative. She suggests that translation in the broader sense of an openness to textuality is a creative process which acknowledges influence, positionality and contradictory currents. It allows the creative subject to be transformed in and by versions of reality as a result of giving up the pretence to creative autonomy. In That All May Be One: Co-creating God, community and religion within the Catholic sisters of St. Joseph, Patricia Foley explores the relationship between goals of self and the goals of religious institutions in the pursuit of social justice. In a personal and touching work about her sister's lure towards a religious organisation providing the opportunity to be 'involved in creative change', Foley considers the 'creation of new possibilities in the expression of faith'. Extending her argument beyond her concerns with her sister, Foley asks perhaps for a reconsideration of the overall location and situation of 'women religious' within and without the community. Foley suggests that contemporary forms of ministry for women can be diverse and empowering in application, which acknowledge more an individual's sense of creative autonomy than following the traditional image of a nun secluded within convent walls, unable to effect a difference. Marginalised positions, Foley argues, can become effective locations for change in rather creative ways. Leanne McRae examines the relationship between crises of masculinity and bodybuilding in Rollins, representation and reality: Lifting the weight of masculinity. She argues that "The desire to shore-up male power in the face of various 'threats' has called for a corporeal manifestation of masculine dominance." Part of this involves the performance of "superhero" myths across the body in order emphasise the supposed ability of men to create themselves and society. The article ends with a consideration of how rock star/bodybuilder Henry Rollins occupies, but plays with superhero roles, simultaneously embracing and deconstructing associated myths. Finally, in an extended work, Juliette Crooks concludes this publication by interrogating the traditional depiction of Prometheus being tortured night upon night as perhaps the 'quintessential image of masculinity in crisis'. With a view to contextualising the relationship between creator and created, Crooks examines 'the usurping of maternal (creative) power by patriarchy' and the various experimental models in which masculine identity might be recreated in the contemporary age. In closing, it can be argued that on the interpersonal, metaphorical, iconic or philosophical status of 'creators', cultural history shows their continual design. The articles in this issue deal with modern concepts of creation, from politics of self and creative autonomy, to the emerging linguistic foreplay between different forms of media and expression. The Romantics invented the author in the form of the creative artist-come-genius who is the originator of unique artistic impulses conceived in accordance with his/her own laws. Such creators seem peculiarly contemporary and it would be fair to argue that the idea of self-creation has stood behind many modern liberal concepts of agency. Yet it has also become the target of critique with the rise of constructionism, which emphasises the agency of language and society in determining subjectivity. And when such agency is debated, we can at least, according to some existentialists and liberals, count on the ability of the authentic individual to have the power to create him or her self. But as this publication aims to demonstrate, not all creators are created equally but are subject to the needs and desires of their worshippers.

Special Care Notice This article contains images of deceased people that might cause sadness or distress to Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander readers. Introduction Like many cities, Perth was founded on wetlands that have been integral to its history and culture (Seddon 226–32). However, in order to promote a settlement agenda, early mapmakers sought to erase the city’s wetlands from cartographic depictions (Giblett, Cities). Since the colonial era, inner-Perth’s swamps and lakes have been drained, filled, significantly reduced in size, or otherwise reclaimed for urban expansion (Bekle). Not only have the swamps and lakes physically disappeared, the memories of their presence and influence on the city’s development over time are also largely forgotten. What was the site of Perth, specifically its wetlands, like before British settlement? In 2014, an interdisciplinary team at Edith Cowan University developed a digital visualisation process to re-imagine Perth prior to colonisation. This was based on early maps of the Swan River Colony and a range of archival information. The images depicted the city’s topography, hydrology, and vegetation and became the centerpiece of a physical exhibition entitled Re-imagining Perth’s Lost Wetlands and a virtual exhibition hosted by the Western Australian Museum. Alongside historic maps, paintings, photographs, and writings, the visual reconstruction of Perth aimed to foster appreciation of the pre-settlement environment—the homeland of the Whadjuck Nyoongar, or Bibbulmun, people (Carter and Nutter). The exhibition included the narrative of Fanny Balbuk, a Nyoongar woman who voiced her indignation over the “usurping of her beloved home ground” (Bates, The Passing 69) by flouting property lines and walking through private residences to reach places of cultural significance. Beginning with Balbuk’s story and the digital tracing of her walking route through colonial Perth, this article discusses the project in the context of contemporary pressures on the city’s extant wetlands. The re-imagining of Perth through historically, culturally, and geographically-grounded digital visualisation approaches can inspire the conservation of its wetlands heritage. Balbuk’s Walk through the City For many who grew up in Perth, Fanny Balbuk’s perambulations have achieved legendary status in the collective cultural imagination. In his memoir, David Whish-Wilson mentions Balbuk’s defiant walks and the lighting up of the city for astronaut John Glenn in 1962 as the two stories that had the most impact on his Perth childhood. From Gordon Stephenson House, Whish-Wilson visualises her journey in his mind’s eye, past Government House on St Georges Terrace (the main thoroughfare through the city centre), then north on Barrack Street towards the railway station, the site of Lake Kingsford where Balbuk once gathered bush tucker (4). He considers the footpaths “beneath the geometric frame of the modern city […] worn smooth over millennia that snake up through the sheoak and marri woodland and into the city’s heart” (Whish-Wilson 4). Balbuk’s story embodies the intertwined culture and nature of Perth—a city of wetlands. Born in 1840 on Heirisson Island, Balbuk (also known as Yooreel) (Figure 1) had ancestral bonds to the urban landscape. According to Daisy Bates, writing in the early 1900s, the Nyoongar term Matagarup, or “leg deep,” denotes the passage of shallow water near Heirisson Island where Balbuk would have forded the Swan River (“Oldest” 16). Yoonderup was recorded as the Nyoongar name for Heirisson Island (Bates, “Oldest” 16) and the birthplace of Balbuk’s mother (Bates, “Aboriginal”). In the suburb of Shenton Park near present-day Lake Jualbup, her father bequeathed to her a red ochre (or wilgi) pit that she guarded fervently throughout her life (Bates, “Aboriginal”).Figure 1. Group of Aboriginal Women at Perth, including Fanny Balbuk (far right) (c. 1900). Image Credit: State Library of Western Australia (Image Number: 44c). Balbuk’s grandparents were culturally linked to the site. At his favourite camp beside the freshwater spring near Kings Park on Mounts Bay Road, her grandfather witnessed the arrival of Lieutenant-Colonel Frederick Irwin, cousin of James Stirling (Bates, “Fanny”). In 1879, colonial entrepreneurs established the Swan Brewery at this significant locale (Welborn). Her grandmother’s gravesite later became Government House (Bates, “Fanny”) and she protested vociferously outside “the stone gates guarded by a sentry [that] enclosed her grandmother’s burial ground” (Bates, The Passing 70). Balbuk’s other grandmother was buried beneath Bishop’s Grove, the residence of the city’s first archibishop, now Terrace Hotel (Bates, “Aboriginal”). Historian Bob Reece observes that Balbuk was “the last full-descent woman of Kar’gatta (Karrakatta), the Bibbulmun name for the Mount Eliza [Kings Park] area of Perth” (134). According to accounts drawn from Bates, her home ground traversed the area between Heirisson Island and Perth’s north-western limits. In Kings Park, one of her relatives was buried near a large, hollow tree used by Nyoongar people like a cistern to capture water and which later became the site of the Queen Victoria Statue (Bates, “Aboriginal”). On the slopes of Mount Eliza, the highest point of Kings Park, at the western end of St Georges Terrace, she harvested plant foods, including zamia fruits (Macrozamia riedlei) (Bates, “Fanny”). Fanny Balbuk’s knowledge contributed to the native title claim lodged by Nyoongar people in 2006 as Bennell v. State of Western Australia—the first of its kind to acknowledge Aboriginal land rights in a capital city and part of the larger Single Nyoongar Claim (South West Aboriginal Land and Sea Council et al.). Perth’s colonial administration perceived the city’s wetlands as impediments to progress and as insalubrious environments to be eradicated through reclamation practices. For Balbuk and other Nyoongar people, however, wetlands were “nourishing terrains” (Rose) that afforded sustenance seasonally and meaning perpetually (O’Connor, Quartermaine, and Bodney). Mary Graham, a Kombu-merri elder from Queensland, articulates the connection between land and culture, “because land is sacred and must be looked after, the relation between people and land becomes the template for society and social relations. Therefore all meaning comes from land.” Traditional, embodied reliance on Perth’s wetlands is evident in Bates’ documentation. For instance, Boojoormeup was a “big swamp full of all kinds of food, now turned into Palmerston and Lake streets” (Bates, “Aboriginal”). Considering her cultural values, Balbuk’s determination to maintain pathways through the increasingly colonial Perth environment is unsurprising (Figure 2). From Heirisson Island: a straight track had led to the place where once she had gathered jilgies [crayfish] and vegetable food with the women, in the swamp where Perth railway station now stands. Through fences and over them, Balbuk took the straight track to the end. When a house was built in the way, she broke its fence-palings with her digging stick and charged up the steps and through the rooms. (Bates, The Passing 70) One obstacle was Hooper’s Fence, which Balbuk broke repeatedly on her trips to areas between Kings Park and the railway station (Bates, “Hooper’s”). Her tenacious commitment to walking ancestral routes signifies the friction between settlement infrastructure and traditional Nyoongar livelihood during an era of rapid change. Figure 2. Determination of Fanny Balbuk’s Journey between Yoonderup (Heirisson Island) and Lake Kingsford, traversing what is now the central business district of Perth on the Swan River (2014). Image background prepared by Dimitri Fotev. Track interpolation by Jeff Murray. Project Background and Approach Inspired by Fanny Balbuk’s story, Re-imagining Perth’s Lost Wetlands began as an Australian response to the Mannahatta Project. Founded in 1999, that project used spatial analysis techniques and mapping software to visualise New York’s urbanised Manhattan Island—or Mannahatta as it was called by indigenous people—in the early 1600s (Sanderson). Based on research into the island’s original biogeography and the ecological practices of Native Americans, Mannahatta enabled the public to “peel back” the city’s strata, revealing the original composition of the New York site. The layers of visuals included rich details about the island’s landforms, water systems, and vegetation. Mannahatta compelled Rod Giblett, a cultural researcher at Edith Cowan University, to develop an analogous model for visualising Perth circa 1829. The idea attracted support from the City of Perth, Landgate, and the University. Using stories, artefacts, and maps, the team—comprising a cartographer, designer, three-dimensional modelling expert, and historical researchers—set out to generate visualisations of the landscape at the time of British colonisation. Nyoongar elder Noel Nannup approved culturally sensitive material and contributed his perspective on Aboriginal content to include in the exhibition. The initiative’s context remains pressing. In many ways, Perth has become a template for development in the metropolitan area (Weller). While not unusual for a capital, the rate of transformation is perhaps unexpected in a city less than 200 years old (Forster). There also remains a persistent view of existing wetlands as obstructions to progress that, once removed, are soon forgotten (Urban Bushland Council). Digital visualisation can contribute to appreciating environments prior to colonisation but also to re-imagining possibilities for future human interactions with land, water, and space. Despite the rapid pace of change, many Perth area residents have memories of wetlands lost during their lifetimes (for example, Giblett, Forrestdale). However, as the clearing and drainage of the inner city occurred early in settlement, recollections of urban wetlands exist exclusively in historical records. In 1935, a local correspondent using the name “Sandgroper” reminisced about swamps, connecting them to Perth’s colonial heritage: But the Swamps were very real in fact, and in name in the [eighteen-] Nineties, and the Perth of my youth cannot be visualised without them. They were, of course, drying up apace, but they were swamps for all that, and they linked us directly with the earliest days of the Colony when our great-grandparents had founded this City of Perth on a sort of hog's-back, of which Hay-street was the ridge, and from which a succession of streamlets ran down its southern slope to the river, while land locked to the north of it lay a series of lakes which have long since been filled to and built over so that the only evidence that they have ever existed lies in the original street plans of Perth prepared by Roe and Hillman in the early eighteen-thirties. A salient consequence of the loss of ecological memory is the tendency to repeat the miscues of the past, especially the blatant disregard for natural and cultural heritage, as suburbanisation engulfs the area. While the swamps of inner Perth remain only in the names of streets, existing wetlands in the metropolitan area are still being threatened, as the Roe Highway (Roe 8) Campaign demonstrates. To re-imagine Perth’s lost landscape, we used several colonial survey maps to plot the location of the original lakes and swamps. At this time, a series of interconnecting waterbodies, known as the Perth Great Lakes, spread across the north of the city (Bekle and Gentilli). This phase required the earliest cartographic sources (Figure 3) because, by 1855, city maps no longer depicted wetlands. We synthesised contextual information, such as well depths, geological and botanical maps, settlers’ accounts, Nyoongar oral histories, and colonial-era artists’ impressions, to produce renderings of Perth. This diverse collection of primary and secondary materials served as the basis for creating new images of the city. Team member Jeff Murray interpolated Balbuk’s route using historical mappings and accounts, topographical data, court records, and cartographic common sense. He determined that Balbuk would have camped on the high ground of the southern part of Lake Kingsford rather than the more inundated northern part (Figure 2). Furthermore, she would have followed a reasonably direct course north of St Georges Terrace (contrary to David Whish-Wilson’s imaginings) because she was barred from Government House for protesting. This easier route would have also avoided the springs and gullies that appear on early maps of Perth. Figure 3. Townsite of Perth in Western Australia by Colonial Draftsman A. Hillman and John Septimus Roe (1838). This map of Perth depicts the wetlands that existed overlaid by the geomentric grid of the new city. Image Credit: State Library of Western Australia (Image Number: BA1961/14). Additionally, we produced an animated display based on aerial photographs to show the historical extent of change. Prompted by the build up to World War II, the earliest aerial photography of Perth dates from the late 1930s (Dixon 148–54). As “Sandgroper” noted, by this time, most of the urban wetlands had been drained or substantially modified. The animation revealed considerable alterations to the formerly swampy Swan River shoreline. Most prominent was the transformation of the Matagarup shallows across the Swan River, originally consisting of small islands. Now traversed by a causeway, this area was transformed into a single island, Heirisson—the general site of Balbuk’s birth. The animation and accompanying materials (maps, images, and writings) enabled viewers to apprehend the changes in real time and to imagine what the city was once like. Re-imagining Perth’s Urban Heart The physical environment of inner Perth includes virtually no trace of its wetland origins. Consequently, we considered whether a representation of Perth, as it existed previously, could enhance public understanding of natural heritage and thereby increase its value. For this reason, interpretive materials were exhibited centrally at Perth Town Hall. Built partly by convicts between 1867 and 1870, the venue is close to the site of the 1829 Foundation of Perth, depicted in George Pitt Morrison’s painting. Balbuk’s grandfather “camped somewhere in the city of Perth, not far from the Town Hall” (Bates, “Fanny”). The building lies one block from the site of the railway station on the site of Lake Kingsford, the subsistence grounds of Balbuk and her forebears: The old swamp which is now the Perth railway yards had been a favourite jilgi ground; a spring near the Town Hall had been a camping place of Maiago […] and others of her fathers' folk; and all around and about city and suburbs she had gathered roots and fished for crayfish in the days gone by. (Bates, “Derelicts” 55) Beginning in 1848, the draining of Lake Kingsford reached completion during the construction of the Town Hall. While the swamps of the city were not appreciated by many residents, some organisations, such as the Perth Town Trust, vigorously opposed the reclamation of the lake, alluding to its hydrological role: That, the soil being sand, it is not to be supposed that Lake Kingsford has in itself any material effect on the wells of Perth; but that, from this same reason of the sandy soil, it would be impossible to keep the lake dry without, by so doing, withdrawing the water from at least the adjacent parts of the townsite to the same depth. (Independent Journal of Politics and News 3) At the time of our exhibition, the Lake Kingsford site was again being reworked to sink the railway line and build Yagan Square, a public space named after a colonial-era Nyoongar leader. The project required specialised construction techniques due to the high water table—the remnants of the lake. People travelling to the exhibition by train in October 2014 could have seen the lake reasserting itself in partly-filled depressions, flush with winter rain (Figure 4).Figure 4. Rise of the Repressed (2014). Water Rising in the former site of Lake Kingsford/Irwin during construction, corner of Roe and Fitzgerald Streets, Northbridge, WA. Image Credit: Nandi Chinna (2014). The exhibition was situated in the Town Hall’s enclosed undercroft designed for markets and more recently for shops. While some visited after peering curiously through the glass walls of the undercroft, others hailed from local and state government organisations. Guest comments applauded the alternative view of Perth we presented. The content invited the public to re-imagine Perth as a city of wetlands that were both environmentally and culturally important. A display panel described how the city’s infrastructure presented a hindrance for Balbuk as she attempted to negotiate the once-familiar route between Yoonderup and Lake Kingsford (Figure 2). Perth’s growth “restricted Balbuk’s wanderings; towns, trains, and farms came through her ‘line of march’; old landmarks were thus swept away, and year after year saw her less confident of the locality of one-time familiar spots” (Bates, “Fanny”). Conserving Wetlands: From Re-Claiming to Re-Valuing? Imagination, for philosopher Roger Scruton, involves “thinking of, and attending to, a present object (by thinking of it, or perceiving it, in terms of something absent)” (155). According to Scruton, the feelings aroused through imagination can prompt creative, transformative experiences. While environmental conservation tends to rely on data-driven empirical approaches, it appeals to imagination less commonly. We have found, however, that attending to the present object (the city) in terms of something absent (its wetlands) through evocative visual material can complement traditional conservation agendas focused on habitats and species. The actual extent of wetlands loss in the Swan Coastal Plain—the flat and sandy region extending from Jurien Bay south to Cape Naturaliste, including Perth—is contested. However, estimates suggest that 80 per cent of wetlands have been lost, with remaining habitats threatened by climate change, suburban development, agriculture, and industry (Department of Environment and Conservation). As with the swamps and lakes of the inner city, many regional wetlands were cleared, drained, or filled before they could be properly documented. Additionally, the seasonal fluctuations of swampy places have never been easily translatable to two-dimensional records. As Giblett notes, the creation of cartographic representations and the assignment of English names were attempts to fix the dynamic boundaries of wetlands, at least in the minds of settlers and administrators (Postmodern 72–73). Moreover, European colonists found the Western Australian landscape, including its wetlands, generally discomfiting. In a letter from 1833, metaphors failed George Fletcher Moore, the effusive colonial commentator, “I cannot compare these swamps to any marshes with which you are familiar” (220). The intermediate nature of wetlands—as neither land nor lake—is perhaps one reason for their cultural marginalisation (Giblett, Postmodern 39). The conviction that unsanitary, miasmic wetlands should be converted to more useful purposes largely prevailed (Giblett, Black 105–22). Felicity Morel-EdnieBrown’s research into land ownership records in colonial Perth demonstrated that town lots on swampland were often preferred. By layering records using geographic information systems (GIS), she revealed modifications to town plans to accommodate swampland frontages. The decline of wetlands in the region appears to have been driven initially by their exploitation for water and later for fertile soil. Northern market gardens supplied the needs of the early city. It is likely that the depletion of Nyoongar bush foods predated the flourishing of these gardens (Carter and Nutter). Engaging with the history of Perth’s swamps raises questions about the appreciation of wetlands today. In an era where numerous conservation strategies and alternatives have been developed (for example, Bobbink et al. 93–220), the exploitation of wetlands in service to population growth persists. On Perth’s north side, wetlands have long been subdued by controlling their water levels and landscaping their boundaries, as the suburban examples of Lake Monger and Hyde Park (formerly Third Swamp Reserve) reveal. Largely unmodified wetlands, such as Forrestdale Lake, exist south of Perth, but they too are in danger (Giblett, Black Swan). The Beeliar Wetlands near the suburb of Bibra Lake comprise an interconnected series of lakes and swamps that are vulnerable to a highway extension project first proposed in the 1950s. Just as the Perth Town Trust debated Lake Kingsford’s draining, local councils and the public are fiercely contesting the construction of the Roe Highway, which will bisect Beeliar Wetlands, destroying Roe Swamp (Chinna). The conservation value of wetlands still struggles to compete with traffic planning underpinned by a modernist ideology that associates cars and freeways with progress (Gregory). Outside of archives, the debate about Lake Kingsford is almost entirely forgotten and its physical presence has been erased. Despite the magnitude of loss, re-imagining the city’s swamplands, in the way that we have, calls attention to past indiscretions while invigorating future possibilities. We hope that the re-imagining of Perth’s wetlands stimulates public respect for ancestral tracks and songlines like Balbuk’s. Despite the accretions of settler history and colonial discourse, songlines endure as a fundamental cultural heritage. Nyoongar elder Noel Nannup states, “as people, if we can get out there on our songlines, even though there may be farms or roads overlaying them, fences, whatever it is that might impede us from travelling directly upon them, if we can get close proximity, we can still keep our culture alive. That is why it is so important for us to have our songlines.” Just as Fanny Balbuk plied her songlines between Yoonderup and Lake Kingsford, the traditional custodians of Beeliar and other wetlands around Perth walk the landscape as an act of resistance and solidarity, keeping the stories of place alive. Acknowledgments The authors wish to acknowledge Rod Giblett (ECU), Nandi Chinna (ECU), Susanna Iuliano (ECU), Jeff Murray (Kareff Consulting), Dimitri Fotev (City of Perth), and Brendan McAtee (Landgate) for their contributions to this project. The authors also acknowledge the traditional custodians of the lands upon which this paper was researched and written. 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Many people contributed to the realization of the Salesian church of St Joseph in Przemyśl: builders, craftsmen, and artists. Among them was Marian Stroński (1892¬1977), one of the chief painters of Przemyśl of the 2nd and 3rd quarter of the 20th century. He completed several commissions for the church whose neo-Gothic shape and slender tower became part of the city's panorama. From 1926 to 1927, in the presbytery, Stroński worked on the polychrome according to the design by Mario Ceradini and contributed two paintings for the main altar: The Holy Family and The Death of St Joseph. Twenty years later he was commissioned to create subsequent paintings for side altars: Mary Help of Christians and The Sacred Heart of Jesus which replaced the canvases from 1926 by another Przemyśl painter, Franciszek Hałun. The new altars with the paintings were consecrated in 1946 and 1947.