Livelihoods and whole communities throughout the Murray-Darling

Host: The sun had just fallen, leaving the sky a bruised violet, and the river below the ridge murmured like a tired storyteller. The air was thick with the scent of eucalyptus and ash, the aftermath of something that had burned — and survived.

The landscape stretched far and wide — fields half-green, half-scarred — an uneasy truce between life and loss. And in the midst of it, a small outpost café, its sign barely hanging, glowed with the faint hum of a generator.

Inside, Jack and Jeeny sat at a rough wooden table, mugs of tea steaming between them. Their boots were muddy, their clothes dusted with the kind of fatigue that doesn’t just live in the body, but in the soul.

Jack: “You can still smell the smoke.”

Jeeny: “You can still feel it.”

Host: The silence between them wasn’t awkward — it was shared, sacred, like the pause after a funeral speech when no words are left that could possibly help.

Jeeny stared at the horizon beyond the window — the last glint of orange fading behind the gum trees.

Jeeny: “Quentin Bryce once said, ‘Livelihoods and whole communities throughout the Murray-Darling Basin have been imperilled by the workings of drought, fire, flood, acid mud and human action over many decades. In the rescues and the cleanups and the long hauls, I see the same attitude over and again. People just rally and get on with it.’”

Jack: “Get on with it.” (He let the words hang in the air, heavy but unbroken.) “That’s the Australian gospel, isn’t it?”

Jeeny: “It’s more than that. It’s survival without spectacle. No speeches, no banners, just hands that don’t stop working even when the heart’s broken.”

Host: The generator outside rumbled, its steady thrum a heartbeat in the dark.

Jack took a slow sip of his tea, watching the steam rise like ghosts from another century.

Jack: “You know, I used to think resilience was romantic — like courage with dust on its boots. But the older I get, the more I think it’s just... exhaustion turned into muscle memory.”

Jeeny: “That’s not cynicism, Jack. That’s truth. Resilience isn’t loud or pretty. It’s what happens when you run out of choices.”

Jack: “So it’s not strength?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s duty. And duty becomes strength only because there’s nothing else left to be.”

Host: The rain began — slow, tentative drops tapping the corrugated roof. The sound was like a prayer that had forgotten its words.

Jack: “You grew up near here, didn’t you?”

Jeeny: “Yeah. My father used to call this land ‘patient country.’ Said it never hated the droughts, just waited for the rain.”

Jack: “And did the rain forgive it?”

Jeeny: “Eventually. But it always made the people prove themselves first.”

Host: She smiled, but it wasn’t an easy smile. It was the kind worn by people who have seen too much to laugh lightly again.

Jeeny: “After the fires of 2019, our town looked like a moonscape. Black trees, dead air, silence thicker than smoke. But you know what happened the next morning?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “Old Don Henderson showed up with his tractor, clearing fallen branches. Marcy brought sandwiches. Kids carried buckets of water to what was left of the gardens. No one told them to. They just... showed up.”

Jack: “Just rally and get on with it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because that’s what community really is. Not slogans. Not government funds. Just presence — the sacred, stubborn kind.”

Host: A flash of lightning lit the room for a heartbeat, casting their faces in pale gold. The thunder followed — soft, distant, like applause from the heavens.

Jack: “You ever think about leaving? About finding someplace easier?”

Jeeny: “All the time. But I can’t. Not because I love the hardship, but because I love the people who endure it. There’s something holy about the way they keep rebuilding what keeps breaking.”

Jack: “Holy?” (He smirked faintly.) “That’s not a word I’ve heard since Sunday school.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you were in the wrong church.”

Host: Her words hung between them — light, but unyielding. The rain outside grew heavier, beating against the window like the world was cleansing itself.

Jack: “So, you really think there’s something divine in human stubbornness?”

Jeeny: “I do. Not divine like miracles or angels. Divine like grit. Like people who keep planting seeds knowing they might never see them grow.”

Jack: “Sounds like foolishness to me.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But I think God hides in foolishness. It’s the only thing big enough to hold hope.”

Host: The lamp on their table flickered, then steadied again. A drop of rain slid down the glass, tracing the faint reflection of Jeeny’s face — tired, luminous, unbroken.

Jack: “You ever met anyone who gave up?”

Jeeny: “Sure. But they always come back. Maybe not to rebuild houses — but to help someone else rebuild theirs. That’s what Quentin Bryce saw, I think. This endless cycle of devastation and compassion. It’s not optimism — it’s faith disguised as work.”

Jack: “And yet, we call them ordinary people.”

Jeeny: “Because we’ve forgotten that the extraordinary is often quiet.”

Host: Outside, the rain had turned to a steady downpour. The smell of wet earth rose, thick and grounding, filling the small room with something that felt like memory — or healing.

Jack: “You think the land remembers us, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “Of course it does. It remembers who tended it, who scarred it, who stayed.”

Jack: “And forgives?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes. But only if we keep showing up.”

Host: The sound of thunder rolled again, closer now, echoing through the valley like a reminder — or a warning.

Jeeny: “That’s why I love this country, Jack. It doesn’t let you stay comfortable. It teaches you the cost of belonging.”

Jack: “And the reward?”

Jeeny: “The reward is simple — to be part of something that endures you as much as you endure it.”

Host: They sat for a while longer, the steam from their cups curling into the air, the storm outside singing its slow hymn of renewal.

Jack looked out the window, his voice softer now.

Jack: “Maybe resilience isn’t muscle memory after all. Maybe it’s just love with dirt under its nails.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.” (She smiled.) “Love that keeps showing up, even when the sky keeps falling.”

Host: The rain began to ease, and a faint glow spread across the wet horizon — dawn’s first mercy. The river shimmered again, quiet, forgiving, alive.

And in that fragile, perfect moment, it was clear — the land, like the people who called it home, would keep rising.

Not because it forgot what hurt it,
but because it remembered who stayed to heal it.