The Kangaroo Code and the Misty Dawn of Oneness

I wasn’t looking for enlightenment that morning. Let’s be clear about that. I was a young bloke in a beat-up car with too little sleep, too much caffeine, and probably a half-eaten servo pie on the passenger seat. I wasn’t meditating under a Bodhi tree or chanting under the full moon—I was dodging floods on a backroad detour through Charters Towers in Far North Queensland. Glamorous, right?

Sometimes Spirit doesn’t care about aesthetics.

I’d driven through the night, grumbling about the detour, the mud, the extra hours on the road. Somewhere between second-guessing my life choices and wondering if I could get reception to call someone who’d care, I rounded a corner. And then—bam.

No lightning bolts. No choirs of angels. Just a moment. But it was enough to change everything.

Before me stretched a vast plain—lush, electric green from recent rains, as if the Earth itself had just taken a deep, satisfied breath. A soft mist curled along the ground like a gentle exhale from the lungs of Mother Nature herself, kissed golden by the newborn rays of the sun. And scattered across this living postcard? A mob of kangaroos, just grazing in the silence like the sacred keepers of some ancient code.

And in that stillness… I broke.

Not in the falling-apart kind of way. In the breaking-open kind of way.

It was like Spirit reached down, grabbed me by the metaphysical collar, and went “Oi, pay attention!” In an instant, I wasn’t just looking at beauty. I was in it. I was of it. I was it.

The air wasn’t just mist—it was breath. My breath. The kangaroos weren’t just animals—they were fellow travellers, not just on the land, but through the mystery of existence itself. And I wasn’t just a scruffy twenty-something guy driving to who-knows-where. I was a thread in the tapestry, a note in the symphony, a perfectly flawed part of the whole bloody magnificent plan.

It wasn’t that the world became perfect in that moment. It’s that I finally saw it was perfect all along.

Even the detour.

Even me.

And that was the kicker. Because for the first time, I understood—not just intellectually, but in every cell of my body—that the Divine wasn’t something you prayed to, or searched for, or hoped might forgive you someday. The Divine was everything. The grass, the kangaroos, the fog, the sunlight. The car. The road. The tired driver behind the wheel.

And if it was everything…

Then it was me, too.

I didn’t need to become anything. I already was. And so were you. And so is the next cranky truck driver who honks at you in traffic. (Okay, maybe that guy still has a few lessons to learn… but he’s Divine too, just… under construction.)

Since then, I’ve come to recognise that Spirit doesn’t always whisper. Sometimes it grabs you by the heart and shoves your face into the holy until you finally stop resisting long enough to remember what you are.

We don’t awaken to become perfect. We awaken to realise the perfection that’s always been. Even in our detours. Especially in our detours.

So if you ever find yourself lost, exhausted, and cursing the floodwaters that messed up your plans—keep driving. You never know when a mob of kangaroos and a misty plain might just dropkick you into enlightenment.

And if it happens, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

—Laughing Crow 🪶

P.S. If this story stirred something in you—like a dusty memory of a truth you’ve always known—then you’re already on the path. Don’t walk it alone. Come visit www.living5d3d.com, where detours become destinations, Spirit speaks in memes and mist, and awakening is served with a side of humour. You belong here. You always have.