Singing to the Land

I recently listened to an episode of The Emerald podcast titled Enchanted Lands: Remembering the Holy Hum Between Person and Place. As the audio played, a honest and sobering realisation settled over me: I do not know how to sing to the land. I do not know how to enchant my own place.

I realised I am disconnected. I have separated and isolated myself out from this place I reside in but through this work I am slowly beginning to rediscover the interdependence and kinship I share with the life breathing around me. I can see and feel that I have been caught in a kind of mechanical trance. It has been so easy to fall into the trap of "disenchantment," a worldview identified over a century ago as the belief that there are no mysterious forces at play, and that we can master everything through mere calculation. In this trance, I have often viewed my local ecology as a backdrop or a problem to be managed, rather than a living relative demanding my respect and reciprocity.

But the stories shared in the podcast offered a profound mirror. I was reminded that the word "enchantment" has a very literal, foundational root: it means to chant, or to sing. To be enchanted is, quite literally, to be in song. I learned that enchanted land is not just a concept from a fairy tale; it is an actual, tangible reality—it is land that has been deliberately sung to, honoured and revered through repetitive ritual over many, many years. And as my own living system, my body, the place in which ‘I’ reside begins to sing when deeply listened to. I describe this singing as udana (spontaneous joy). It wells up from the depths and often bursts out in the joyous sounds of delight and laughter. It feels like there is a song waiting to be discovered on my lips that the kauri, the pōhutukawas and the piwakawaka would dance and sway to.

Joshua, the podcaster, says historically, across countless cultures, the enchantment of land was considered an ultimate human duty. Our true role as human beings is to develop a deep reciprocity with the earth, a reciprocity built on the very foundation of enchantment. It struck me deeply that my failure to see my place as enchanted goes hand in hand with the physical destruction of this planet. When I ignore the specificity of a place, the land, the whenua, begins to lose its true nature. I forget that a genuine relationship with place requires me to recognise that places actually long to speak to me.

I am working hard to remember my role as a human being. I want to move away from extraction, a value-extracting way of living, and instead discover how to generate systemic wealth that is adding value and benefits all of life here. I am realising that this transformation cannot be fuelled by a tortured anxiousness about the state of the world; it must be driven by the courage to stand at the crossroads of hazard where uncertainty is embraced and new adventures are to be found.

This shift requires me to practice a new, yet ancient, vocabulary of listening, reflecting and embodying - hear the song, share the song, sing the song. Enchant. As I walk along the river or cycle into town, everything is open, tuning and sensing. My eyes, my ears, the lingering taste, the smell of fresh air, the touch of my shorts on my thighs or the stream of beautiful thought passing through my mind. I am having to acknowledge how much I am probably missing and how much there still is to sense, to come into relationship with. I am working to discover how to tune in to the specific song of my place, so that the earth might radiate back in true expression of itself.

Can you feel the hum? Who do you need to be to be able to do this in your local ecology? It could be as simple as taking a precious moment to listen to the song or screech of a passing bird. What magic would this bring to your week?

If you are feeling the friction of the old, extractive paradigm and want to explore what it means to step out of the mechanical trance, come to a campfire. Bring your own firewood to burn and maybe a song, a new song will emerge as we listen to ourselves, the crackle and hiss of fire.

see you at a campfire,

Ākāśaḍāka