In 1967 the descendants of the original people in this continent known as Australia were recognised as citizens and afforded rights in society that they had previously been excluded from. I use the term “they” here as a point of reference to the past, not as “them and us”. During this time in the push to get such recognition, the idea emerged that the original people were recognised under the Flora and Fauna Act. In the past 15 years or so I have heard this statement presented as fact, the belief that we are classified as Flora and Fauna in the constitution. Over the years I have sat with this belief and felt where this sits within me.
Regardless of the legal accuracy, the emotional truth of the statement is undeniable. To be thought of as less than human, as something to be managed, documented, or preserved like a plant or animal—this tells a story about the way colonial systems saw, and in many ways still see, First People: as part of the landscape, but not as sovereign beings with voice, law, and spirit.
And yet, there is a deeper irony here. In our ways of knowing, to be kin with flora and fauna is not a degradation—it is a sacred belonging. Our ancestors have long understood that the trees are teachers, the rivers are kin, and the animals hold songs and stories older than empire. To be classified with flora and fauna may have been meant as an erasure of humanity, but through Indigenous eyes, it speaks to an ecological truth the colonial system could never grasp: we are not separate from the living world—we are embedded within it.
I remember walking Country as a child, Elders pointing out plants and birds not as objects, but as relations. Each had a name, a function, a songline. The kangaroo that passed by was not just an animal—it was a reminder of a story, a responsibility. When I think of “Flora and Fauna” now, I think of those moments. I think of what was taken, yes—but also of what endures.
Those memories stay with me—not just as moments in time, but as threads that bind me to a greater web of life. In those teachings, I am not above or below the natural world. I am within it. There is no hierarchy—only relationship. This is the truth that sits quietly beneath the myth of the Flora and Fauna Act: that colonial systems may have used the language of diminishment, but our systems have always spoken the language of kinship.
To classify us with the natural world, even as an act of dehumanisation, reveals a truth the colonisers never intended to tell. Because yes—we are of the land. Not in the way they meant, as objects to be documented or managed, but in the oldest and most sacred sense: as custodians, listeners, interpreters, and co-creators in the ongoing song of Country.
In many ways, the animals and plants have never stopped seeing us for who we are. The birds still speak if we are quiet enough to listen. The eucalyptus still sheds its bark in rhythm with the stories of renewal. The kangaroo still moves with careful intention across Country, reminding us of what it means to walk with awareness.
The pain of misclassification, of being erased or distorted in the colonial imagination, is real. But it is not the end of the story. If anything, it invites a deeper remembering—a turning inward to the laws older than any document, the ways of knowing passed through fire, water, seed, and story.
So when I hear someone say, “We were once classified as flora and fauna,” I no longer rush to correct them. Instead, I pause. I ask: What would it mean to truly reclaim that phrase—not as an insult, but as a doorway? A doorway back to deep relationship, to listening, to law that comes from land, not parliament. A truth that cannot be legislated, only lived.
For me, the idea of being part of the landscape, of being noticed as flora or fauna, has never felt foreign or uncomfortable. In fact, I’ve always felt an easy alignment with it, a quiet knowing that I am part of something larger—something that has rhythm and purpose beyond human design. It’s not something I’ve felt diminished by; rather, I have always embraced the notion that I belong to the land in the same way the trees do, the rivers do, the animals do. There’s no separation in my heart, no need to prove myself above or below. I have always felt at home here, in this symbiotic dance with the world.
What I’ve noticed, however, is how others react to this idea—that some find it offensive, or unsettling, to be thought of as connected to nature in such a profound way. It seems that we, as humans, have been conditioned to believe that our worth lies in our detachment from nature, in our ability to dominate it. This system we are asked to conform to, it is built on the idea of extraction and consumption. It teaches us to value achievement over harmony, progress over presence, and production over being. But it doesn’t teach us how to be in alignment with nature, how to honour the cycles that sustain us all.
Instead, it sets us on a treadmill. A race that keeps moving faster, but never toward anything nourishing. It’s no wonder so many are unwell, their spirits frayed by the pace and disconnection. We’ve created a world where mental health struggles and addictions flourish, where families are scattered and communities erode. We’ve forgotten the ancient rhythms that once guided us, the lessons that nature has always been whispering.
In this way, I see how the disconnection from nature mirrors the disconnection from each other. Kinship has been broken—not only with the land but also between people. We no longer know how to relate deeply or how to sustain long-lasting, meaningful bonds. The very fabric of our ecology, of our society, is out of balance, and it’s no surprise that we are feeling the strain. We’ve lost our place in the web of life, and in doing so, we’ve lost our ability to thrive within it.
But this is not the end of the story. It is an invitation. An invitation to remember. To return to the teachings of the earth, to the wisdom of plants and animals, and to one another. Nature does not ask us to be separate or superior. It asks us to be part of the whole.
There is a quiet, insidious resistance that many carry within themselves, an inner struggle that often manifests outwardly as blame. activism and spirituality seeking. People feel the weight of the world’s wrongs, and the desire to make a difference—often urgently, even loudly—becomes their way of coping. But beneath the noise, I see a deeper truth: many of us are grasping for something to hold onto, trying to claim pieces of a world that feels lost or broken, not realising that what we seek is not found in the loud declarations or the rejection of others. It’s found in remembering, in letting go of the resistance, the enlightenment path and the need to constantly fight.
So much of this desire to reclaim is rooted in the feeling of separation—separation from nature, from each other, and from the wisdom of our ancestors. I see people trying to reconnect, to assert their place in the world by adopting roles or practices that feel like a bridge to something they think they’ve lost. Becoming an artist, adopting rituals from here and there and everywhere, or even engaging in the rhetoric of overhunting or hyper-indigenising their identity. These things are born from a need to belong, to find roots in a time that has erased or distorted the true connections we once had.
I can understand this desire, but I also see the fracture in it. These acts, as meaningful as they may feel in the moment, are often not true to the essence of who we are. They are the byproducts of colonialism—ways of performing connection, rather than embodying it. Even those who rise in the media, change the patterns of their speech to fit a narrative of the system, they are caught between two worlds: one that demands conformity, and another that calls them back to a truer self. They become actors, playing roles rather than living authentically.
People are caught in the tension of this world, the world that constantly demands more, the system that consumes without regard for balance. And so we give, and we give, until we burn out. We become ill in spirit, in mind, in body. Some of us even die of stress and illness. The machine keeps turning, and we become its fuel.
But there is another way. A way that is simple, yet profound: remembering. Remembering is not complex—it is a return. It is the act of returning to Country, to the land and waters, and recognising that we are not separate from this earth. We do not own it; we belong to it. Nature has not deviated. It continues in its rhythms, its cycles, its interconnections. And when we remember, we return to those rhythms, those cycles, and to the wisdom of our ancestors who walked with nature in kinship.
Our ancestors knew something we have forgotten: that true balance is not achieved through consumption or desire, but through reciprocity. They lived in harmony with the land, not seeking self-enhancement or validation, but understanding that each act of living had consequences, and that balance could only be found through the ongoing care and respect of all that exists. They were not distracted by the clamor of modern life; they listened to the quiet teachings of the land, the songs embedded in every leaf, every stream, every rock. They lived in kinship with these teachings, knowing that balance was not a destination—it was a relationship.
What would it take for each of us today to release the conditioning we’ve inherited? To let go of the distractions that demand our time and attention, that constantly pull us out of alignment with nature’s rhythms? To face the truth of what we’ve been taught and ask: Does this path lead to balance, or does it simply feed the machine?
I often wonder what it truly means to be Indigenous to the land and waters. To me, it is not a claim to ownership or possession; it is an identifier of responsibility. It is not about staking a claim over something, but about recognising that we are obligated to care for and contribute to something much larger than ourselves. In doing so, we are met with an automatic return—an exchange that restores us in ways the system never can. This is what wholeness in relating looks like: the understanding that in nurturing the land, we are nurtured in return. And in embracing kinship with all things, we remember who we truly are.
And so, we return to that idea—that we are Flora and Fauna. For some, those words have felt diminishing, a remnant of disrespect and misclassification. But for me, they have always carried a deeper truth. I am of the land. I am part of the living world. My roots are not metaphorical—they are real, embedded in soil, water, dance, song, memory, story, and relationship. To be Flora and Fauna is not to be less—it is to be in right relationship with life itself.
What I have come to see is that in this state of belonging, of being a strand in the web of life, we also hold a unique authority. Not a dominion, not a power over, but a deep knowing—a cultivated intelligence that is encoded through kinship, through listening, through ecological attunement. It is a way of being that is far more advanced in its humanity than the version shaped by systems that have cut people off from land, from spirit, and from each other.
There is a great irony at play. In a world obsessed with becoming “more”—more productive, more efficient, more influential—the ones who live simply, who live in alignment with the earth, are often overlooked. And yet, in the quiet humility of those who live according to the patterns of nature, there exists a superhuman strength. Not the kind paraded on stages or polished for social media, but the kind that grows roots deep into the soil of being. The kind that knows how to endure, how to heal, how to remain whole in a fractured world.
The truth is, many are chasing an idea of advancement that is disfigured by disconnection. The performative identities, the curated personas, the striving to stand out, the constant seeking of validation—it is a response to a deeper hunger. But this hunger cannot be satisfied by accolades or followers. It can only be met by returning to relationship—with Country, with kin, with self.
True advancement is not about transcending our nature, but embodying it fully. It is knowing how to be still, how to receive wisdom from wind and bird and tree, by tides and seasons. It is having the discernment to recognise imbalance, and the courage to choose harmony instead. It is a humility that does not shrink, but expands—because it is grounded, because it knows where it comes from.
To be Flora and Fauna, and to know it, is to reclaim a way of being that honours both intelligence and interdependence. It is to remember that we were never meant to dominate, but to belong. And in belonging, we find the kind of authority that can never be taken—because it is not given by a system. It is earned through relationship, and through the lived wisdom of those who walk with Country, not above it.
– Rachel Shields 2025
Knowing In Nature
