Gabi Mocatta, a freelance photo journalist, came by yesterday to gather information for an upcoming story about Windgrove. Even though it had been a month since I had last walked the land, I didn’t want to confine myself to the house for the interview as it is easier for me to talk more articulately and passionately while actually out on the land, i.e., the stories reveal themselves while the feet traverse the “song lines” (so to speak). I, therefore, took a punt and walked the whole two kilometre Peace Path—the first time since my operation.

I could go on and tell you what we talked about as we slowly walked this great headland, but I would rather retell the following story that took place some six years ago about a man who “accidentally” visited Windgrove.

His name was Chris and he was one of three carpenters who, in l986, helped build the house I designed and lived in near Hobart until it burned down in a bush fire in 1991. He happened to be driving through Nubeena and, when he drove past the Roaring Beach road sign, he felt, he said, “a strong urge to turn down the road and see the beach”. Then, when he saw my name posted at our driveway entrance, he felt compelled again to turn in to see if this “Peter Adams” was the man he worked with in 1986.

When Chris, along with his wife June, knocked on the door I invited them in, but first asked that they remove their shoes as there is a “no shoes” policy. Chris laughingly said he would do this, but only if he was allowed to remove his leg as well as he had lost his foot and half a leg in a motorbike accident and the shoe was screwed onto the wooden leg.

Over tea we began sharing what each of us had been up to over the years. When Chris asked about the spiral he saw driving in, I described the various concepts behind the Windgrove Garden, especially the one concerning the need for each individual to personally find an inner peace. Chris and I were both painfully aware that our mutual friend Phil, who had supervised the construction of the house, had committed suicide a few years earlier.

Chris turned to me and calmly said:

You know, Peter, I died twice in the past year and I know what it means to lose all faith in life and then have the courage to find it again. A year ago I had a quadruple heart bypass and for awhile in the hospital I was clinically dead. Afterward, for months on end I was in such physical pain with my leg, broken rib cage and fused spinal column, that I set about planning my own suicide and was within days of carrying it out when June found out about it. Through her committed love, she brought me around to life again. Today, I still have to struggle with the physical and emotional traumas of life, but I also have a much deeper love for life, my family and my friends and I am willing to engage in this process, this journey I am on. My concerns are not about any ultimate destination, but just being present today of where my feet are on the path of discovery.

After so much talking, it seemed important to, at least, take Chris over to the Peace Garden and maybe do a portion of the Peace Walk. None of us were sure whether Chris would have the physical strength to make the full two kilometres, so we just agreed to go from bench to bench, willing to turn back if necessary.

Over and over again, Chris kept exclaiming how utterly beautiful everything was. There were pockets of fog and mist in the valleys, on the hill tops and up the cliff faces. The sun broke through constantly creating glistening water diamonds on the leaves and needles of the trees and magic rainbows appeared everywhere. At the Point, a sea eagle perched on a nearby branch and a wedge tail eagle spiralled up from the middle circle.

Chris was so enraptured by the vista and his own growing sense of well being that he kept pushing on. Slowly, we walked and talked and, eventually, we did the whole circuit in around three hours. When we said our good-byes, Chris added: “You have no idea how special this day has been. What you have done here is create a healing environment.”

And that took place six years ago. Yesterday, with the photo journalist Gabi and her partner Phil, I also walked slowly around the whole path and, at the end, felt renewed and “truly on the mend”. This land is a powerful, healing place. This single aspect is what I hope Gabi both felt and will write about.

A year ago I used the above Amnesty International photo of a Sudanese refugee who was shot and wounded while defending his daughters from armed militia members who tried to rape them. Looking, then, at his eyes, I had asked “what is dead and what just might be green and moist, tender, loving, even hopeful?”

Without the written explanation of what the photo is about, and just looking into the refugee’s eyes, it would be easy enough to intuit that this person was expressing some form of emotion. We might not know exactly what emotion, but it is axiomatic that humans are capable of and hold within themselves any of several types of emotions.

Can the same be said for my neighbour’s dog, Winnie, in the top photo? Having cared for and been witness to her many “human” moods from howling with gladness to sulking for not being allowed up on the couch, I would say she expresses and feels many emotions. Animal right’s activists would most likely agree with me, but does the scientific community?

Well, the answer is yes. Two American research scientists, who had presented papers at an international conference on animal behaviour in Hobart, visited Windgrove this past weekend and explained some of their latest findings. Each has a hugh pedigree of books to their names. The man with the green baseball cap is Marc Bekoff, whose latest book, The Emotional Lives of Animals, “blends extraordinary stories and anecdotes of animal grief, joy, embarrassment, anger, and love with the latest scientific research confirming the existence of emotions that common sense experience has long implied.”

In The Pleasurable Kingdom, Jonathan Balcombe (the bird watcher) sets out with rigourous scientific evidence to formally recognise that animals emote, not just pain and stress, but pleasure as well. “Animals feel good thanks to play, food, touch, sex, anticipation, comfort, aesthetics, and more.”

Bekoff and Balcombe and others are proving what animal lovers have known for generations. Better late, than never, yes? Out of this research, though, the question inevitably arises: what are the ethical ramifications for society? Can we continue with business, as usual? Not only can animal emotions teach us humans about love, empathy, and compassion, they require us to radically rethink our current relationship of domination and abuse of animals.

My only problem with Marc and Jonathan is this: before their Sunday visit my winter reading list was getting shorter and to a stage of manageability, but now, thanks to their literary talents, it looks as if the coffee table will be cluttered with several more books of required reading. Will I be able to find the time to take Winnie for a walk? She’ll be really upset if I don’t.

So who comes to Windgrove to partake in its natural beauty and restive charm?

Disembarking from the bus are 50 people from the states of New South Wales and Victoria; here in Tasmania and Windgrove (last Friday) as part of a tour organised by the Australian Garden History Society. These people are mostly 40 years of age and above (way above).

The bottom photo, from a weekend visit by Heidi Douglas and Paul Oosting on either side of my camera shy partner, Sally, are people of a much younger generation.

Between the two groups, are there generational clashes or do they share some things in common? Being at Windgrove certainly gives them a bonding of sorts. But beyond that, what I hope is that all of them are motivated enough in their concern for the earth that they will use whatever skills and talents they have to speak out for the care of the earth. Either that, or use their financial resources to fund others to speak for them.

I enjoyed guiding the Garden History society around as they were truly knowledgeable, inquisitive and understanding about the environment. Who knows on what side of the political fence they stood? What I can infer, though, is that they would want the environment and, especially, Tasmania’s natural heritage, to be protected from unscrupulous development. Wood chips; no way. Pulp mill; no way.

Heidi is being sued by the southern hemisphere’s largest timber company, Gunns, because of a documentary film she made about the woodchip industry in Tasmania. Paul heads up the Wilderness Society’s anti-pulp mill task force. For little earned money, both have invested much of their time and emotional energy for the sake of us all. We, of the baby boomer and older generations, owe them much gratitude for carrying the activist banner we might have dropped behind as weariness, pessimism and a touch of cynicism crept into our lives.

Sally’s painted stone mandala is an engagement present. Like the older generations before them, one thing Paul and Heidi will be honouring is the tradition of getting married.

Now, if only someone in the bus tour or elsewhere would help with Heidi’s legal costs.

The first tragedy to strike our tight knit community this past week was the passage by the upper house of the pulp mill fast track legislation that had been approved by the lower house the previous week. The bill is so bad that it does not allow any prosecution of proven criminal intent by Gunns (the pulp mill builder) to be permissible. There is no public input allowed into the assessment process and no scientist other than the appointed government consultant can make any recommendations or point out any flaws in the environmental material submitted by Gunns.

The Australian Medical Association is aghast by the legislation and most legal scholars are astounded by its blatant denial of democratic process. Yet, it gets passed.

The second tragedy was on Saturday when a father had to bury his son; a mother her child.

Too young, too young, were the words most often heard floating across the muffled hush of 300 or so mourners come to give their last respects to Tom and to offer heartfelt, if ineffective, support to the grieving parents, Pete and Anna.

Part of Pete’s eulogy spoke of his son wanting to live an “authentic life” and not be consumed with the accumulation of material things. Aside from a massive collection of books, Tom wanted to travel light and to devote himself to honest work. Work that would be for the betterment of all.

While sitting in the funeral home’s chapel, I noticed to the right of me was Christine Milne, the Green’s federal Senator. To the left was Duncan Kerr, federal Labor parliamentarian. The one has been outspoken in her condemnation of the scandalous ethics of the state Labor party; the other totally silent. Duncan Kerr, although a federal politician and the former attorney general of Australia, would know that what his state Labor party mates were doing was totally unethical, yet, to date, he has not defended the rule of good governance with even one spoken or written word.

In the hospital, just before his death, Tom wrote something along the lines of:  “A good architect can look at the foundation of a building and imagine what the completed structure will be. I hope my family and friends can look at my life to date, my foundation so to speak, and see that I would have been a decent person who would have done good.”

Tom’s brief life fell as ashes on the one politician and as feathered kisses on the other.

Driving home, I will have to admit to feeling a surge of anger towards those politicians who would desecrate, not only the state’s environmental wonders, but the basis of democratic law. What sort of role models to our young are our politicians when they tear up the rule book on political transparency and sell their souls publicly and blatantly to deceit and political grovelling.
In the town of Sorrell, I passed the state Labor office and felt an urge to get a can of paint and spray, in red, SHAME across the names of the five politicians posted in the windows.

By Dunally, I wanted to take out full page advertisements in the newspaper denouncing the actions of our Labor and Liberal politicians.

By Eaglehawk Neck, I wanted to use the billboards across the city of Hobart to effectively keep the issue alive.

In the end, I did none of the above. The spray painting seemed too violent a reaction while the ads and billboard signage proved too costly.

But I have and will continue to do what I can through letter writing and engaging in dialogue with as many as will listen. In no small way this honours Tom’s memory by offering Pete and Anna and us older folk a path of committed hope for the future.

For you see, the natural cycle of passing on to a younger generation issues of responsibility was broken somewhat with Tom’s untimely death. The baton of social justice issues he had been preparing to carry has been passed back to us. It might be that us oldies have to carry the flag of protest a little longer. Breath in deeply and keep on truckin’.

Tom is now on the other side of the song, but if we talk up our walk while walking our talk, our collective voices will be sweet music to him.
And the meaning of the top photo?

Mike, a true “journeyman” carpenter from a German wood guild passed through Windgrove last week carrying nothing save for a walking stick and a small bundle of clothes. For a minimum of three years and one day, he told me he has to “do good and bring happiness to others through his woodworking skills”.

Tom travelled light. Mike travels light. May we all travel light.

Beautiful

You’ve got to get up every morning with a smile on your face
And show the world all the love in your heart
Then people gonna treat you better
You’re gonna find, yes you will
That you’re beautiful as you feel

Waiting at the station with a workday wind a-blowing
I’ve got nothing to do but watch the passers-by
Mirrored in their faces I see frustration growing
And they don’t see it showing, why do I?

You’ve got to get up every morning with a smile on your face
And show the world all the love in your heart
Then people gonna treat you better
You’re gonna find, yes you will
That you’re beautiful as you feel

I have often asked myself the reason for the sadness
In a world where tears are just a lullaby
If there’s any answer, maybe love can end the madness
Maybe not, oh, but we can only try

You’ve got to get up every morning with a smile on your face
And show the world all the love in your heart
Then people gonna treat you better
You’re gonna find, yes you will
That you’re beautiful as you feel

Carol King

She came to Hobart last night and gave all of us “oldies” a thrilling concert. (Of the 4,000 people swaying and singing nostalgically in their chairs, maybe 50 were under 40.)

A true elder, Carol King carries her message of love for each other and for this earth to many appreciative people. She reminds us that there is no age where one retires from activism or gives up on trying. And the words from her many songs that held us together in the 70’s are just as relevant today.

Obviously, the above photo is a tapestry of people who are not in my generational age group. These are some of the 31 fifteen year old Steiner school students from the mainland who were waiting for me this morning when I arrived back from my overnight trip to Hobart.

I greeted them with: “You’ve got to get up every morning with a smile on your face and show the world all the love in your heart.”

Beyond that, my aboriginal friend Harri led the students in a day long ritual of talking up mother earth and finding the specialness and beauty that was unique to each one of them. They were sent out in search of seven objects representing: “who they were, happiness, sadness, love, fear, peace and conflict”. Then, using jute, string and other fasteners, they bound the seven gathered objects together into a single talisman.

Simple, yet powerful and meaningful. Just like Carole King’s music.

At one point we gathered around the Peace Fire and, just like last night, raised our hands to the sky in appreciation for the love that surrounds us constantly. The words spoken and sung by Harri might have been different from those of Carol King, but the message was universal.

Harri spoke about what the Earth sings to us each and every day. Let me try to translate:

When you’re down and troubled
And you need some loving care
And nothing, nothing is going right
Close your eyes and think of me
And soon I will be there
To brighten up even your darkest night

You just call out my name
And you know wherever I am
I’ll come running to see you again
Winter, spring, summer or fall
All you have to do is call
And I’ll be there
You’ve got a friend

If the sky above you
Grows dark and full of clouds
And that old north wind begins to blow
Keep your head together
And call my name out loud
soon you’ll hear me knocking at your door

You just call out my name
And know wherever I am
I’ll come running to see you
Winter, spring, summer or fall
All you have to do is call
And I’ll be there

Ain’t it good to know that you’ve got a friend
When people can be so cold
They’ll hurt you, and desert you
And take your soul if you let them
Oh, but don’t you let them

You just call out my name
And you know wherever I am
I’ll come running to see you again
winter, spring, summer or fall
All you have to do is call
And I’ll be there
You’ve got a friend

Carole King— You’ve Got A Friend

This morning I shared half of my breakfast mango with a pademelon and her little joey. For anyone familiar with addictive mango behavior, this was a genuine sacrificial gesture.

This is spring time when the land should be abundant with luxuriant, green growth; a time when mothers feeding their young should have an easy time finding the food required to turn the green stuff into milk. However, this land hasn’t had a deep soaking of rain for over 13 months. When I walk around Windgrove, the desperate search for food by the animals is clearly evident. Sagg grasses, normally unpalatable, have been pulled up out of the ground and their base stems eaten. Low hanging eucalypt branches, coastal wattle and blackwood are striped of leaves leaving spare denuded twigs for branches.

It is tough to watch. Hence, the giving of the mango. Well, half of it, anyway.

A superficial gaze over the landscape and one might think that things are okay as there seems to be sufficient “green” covering the ground. This, the result of sprinkles of rain falling casually, periodically over the past 13 months, has kept the top inch of ground moist enough to promote little bursts of grass.

The term I use for this is “desert green”. A condition where, even though the land seems to be promoting growth, the actual soil is desperately dry. Punch through the thin top layer and the soil comes up powder dry.

Alison Croney and Matthew Mosher were here for five days this past week. Recent graduates of the Rhode Island School of Design, they are in Australia researching and gathering information on sustainable architecture and living. Like all motivated, wide eyed young adults, they are searching for clues to answer the questions: Is there a future for humanity on this earth? If so, how might they contribute?

When artists and others come to Windgrove, I usually ask nothing of them other than they use their time here in a way to nurture themselves. I won’t pretend that a week here will give anyone anything more than a sprinkling of inspiration. In order to leave Windgrove without just a “desert green” glow on their faces will require a lifetime of furthering the watering of their souls by embracing the diversity and constantly challenging aspects of life.

Allison left a gift of a small, painted totem that she placed at the top of the path leading down to the ocean.
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Matthew wrote several Windgrove poems.

One of these is:

Desert Green

It’s called desert green
When the rain lasts just long enough
to wash sea salt off she-oaks
The grass grows just enough
for the wallabies to cut it back to stems
but the moisture in the soil
falls and falls away
The she-oaks thirst for thirteen months
as waves rumble on Roaring Beach,
spray sea salt in the air.

Matthew Mosher

Just as I was finishing writing today’s blog, I received via email the poem below from my African friend and long time warrior for the earth and social justice, Bev Reeler. I feel compelled to offer it alongside Matthew’s poem and Alison’s totem as a way of honouring all three people’s journeys. For two of them, the path to awareness and wisdom is just beginning whilst Bev’s path is well and truly trodden.

I offer the best of wishes to Matthew and Allison. May they never lose sight of their, now, fresh and youthful desire to foster peace.

I offer the best of wishes to Bev for staying true to her path. May her elder years be filled with an inner peace.

Holding the Focus
to all the unseen heroes
November 2006

for so many years they have
been witness
to the process of destruction

they have given their lives to counting and recording

numbers …..
of baton marks on the soles of feet
of AIDS orphans
of deaths
of hungry mouths
of rapes
illegal arrests
torture victims

they have stitched the wounds
filmed and photographed and told the stories
and have held this mirror
to the world

How does one carry the witnessing of so much pain?
is it still possible to turn the gaze
and watch the planet turning
is it still possible to rest your souls?

we thank you

Bev Reeler

This is a great story. A story that supports and gives hope to the many individuals in the world seeking change, but who sometimes, like myself, wonder and doubt that their work is having any affect; especially, on those hugh and seemingly immovable government or corporate bodies.

On Monday, as I sat in the bull’s eye middle of the large pastured circle on the Windgrove headland (whose circumference is marked by 300 she-oak trees), I took a mirror and, using the sun’s rays, flashed an ocean going cruise liner some 20 kilometres/15 miles away.

It turned and headed straight towards me.

Wow!! A tiny beam of light was powerful enough to have a 200 meter/ 650 foot, 14 stories tall passenger ship change directions. It took me completely by surprise.

Half an hour later the ship came as close as it could to Windgrove without running into Wedge Island; its massive size an impressive sight as it sailed past. Before turning and heading back out to sea, with three long blasts from the ship’s horn followed by one short, the captain signalled a “thank you and good-bye”.

(I later found out that for the captain to alter his planned course to New Zealand he had to get special permission from the Hobart Port Authority.)

Needless to say, I felt elated. As though the mouse was able to bring the elephant to his doorstep. As though the mountain had been moved with just a thought.

And, I also felt that a significant, if not profound, connection had been made between myself and a few of the people on board The World.

Let’s unwind the story a bit.

At 44,000 tons, The World is the largest, privately owned cruise liner circling the globe. It’s passengers purchase apartments on the ship complete with kitchens, living rooms and bedrooms similar to any land based condominium arrangement with the major difference being that the view out the ship’s “picture” windows constantly change.

Obviously, the people on board The World are enormously wealthy. Being multinational, multicultural and highly educated, they are also enormously aware of the world’s problems and more than willing and capable of helping others. (One of the apartment owners is the Iranian-American woman, Anousheh Ansari, who just spent $20 million to be the first woman tourist and the first Muslim to fly into space.)

Last week, two Americans from the ship, Lincoln and Suzy Boehm, came out to Windgrove for a visit. They did so because years earlier they had been made aware of Windgrove’s focus on peace and the environment (as well as my individual studio sculpture work) while viewing the SBS Global Village documentary on Windgrove.

We walked the Peace Path. We talked about art, the environment and politics. We made a connection. Hours later, they left excited, not solely because they had fallen in love with one of my sculptures, but because they had sensed and were moved by all that comprises Windgrove.

From the landscape, to the eternal flame, to the wind, to the towering Spiral, to the benches, to the floating eagles, to the piercing light breaking through clouds, to the home brewed coffee, to the 6,000 planted trees and to the messy, somewhat disorganised studio I work in, Lincoln and Suzy had experienced the magic of a place where art and ecology, Chinese medicine and Buddhist philosophy come together in a dialogue for peace.

After giving an impressive tour of “their home”, over dinner the next night the Boehms mentioned that the ship would be sailing out of Hobart at noon on Monday. When Monday rolled around, I sent an email to them stating that, even though they might not see me, I would be in the middle of the circle waving good-bye.

Unbeknownst to me, Lincoln and Suzy on Monday morning had carried my sculpture to the bridge of the boat and, with several fellow passengers gathered around, they explained to them and to the captain what Windgrove was all about and how the two people living there were devoting their lives, in their own individual small ways, to world peace. All eyes scanned the coastline looking for the circle.

Sitting on the “dashboard” of the captain’s bridge, the spiral sculpture must have beamed a talisman’s energy for when the little light from the circle at Windgrove flickered across the expanse of Storm Bay and into the ship’s bridge something happened to those who witnessed it for, as I was told later, a great cheer went up from the boat.

What else would have caused this ship to change course if not the coming together of several hearts and minds all yearning for peace to prevail on this earth?

And herein lies the meaning of this story. With all their global travels and certain knowledge and grasp of the complex inner workings of the political and corporate landscape, it is impressive that a simple concept like Windgrove can move and excite such people.

And perhaps motivate?

Who knows? Perhaps the whole direction of their lives might have been altered by a simple flame emanating from a single, small source. Perhaps the eternal flame that burns at Windgrove caused something that was lying dormant to be rekindled in these talented people and will motivate them to be of even greater service to the world’s poor, to the world’s environment and to seek change for a better, more just world. I’m certain Suzy and Lincoln will continue their good work.

That Monday afternoon I stood in the middle of the circle and waved my own “thank you and good-bye”. I felt terribly proud of living in Tasmania and being one of the creators here at Windgrove. I also felt, in no small way, linked to the rest of the world with its global network of activists and philanthropic supporters. Such a family. Such awesome power.

What a day.

Just as the winged energy of delight
carried you over many chasms early on,
now raise the daringly imagined arch
holding up the astounding bridges.

Miracle doesn’t lie only in the amazing
living through and defeat of danger;
miracles become miracles in the clear
achievement that is earned.

To work with things is not hubris
when building the association beyond words;
denser and denser the pattern becomes —
being carried along is not enough.

Take your well-disciplined strengths
and stretch them between two
opposing poles. Because inside human beings
is where God learns.

Rainer Maria Rilke (translated by Robert Bly)

Desi, Chris, Paul and Heidi came last weekend to Windgrove bearing the offer of work. They, like Rilke, know that the “vision” is just half the equation; the mundane, daily slog of washing windows, splitting wood, moping floors and chopping onions is the other half. They gave of their time freely, willingly and with gratitude.

I offer back my gratitude for their two days of cheerful company. The house shines again.

And, not to be outdone by any human endeavour, yesterday I went to the outdoor, composting toilet and found these little possum turds on top of one of the two holes.

I’m not sure if the possum was trying to keep the toilet area clean (only mistakenly pooing on top of the wrong toilet because its command of English is limited), or, probably more true to the point, its cheeky personality just wanted to remind me that cleanliness is a matter of degree.

Speaking of cheeky, three other visitors came to Windgrove over the weekend from mainland Australia and wanted to baptise themselves in the frigid winter waters of Roaring Beach. One of these visitors is the great grandson of Charles Darwin, Chris Darwin. Can you spot any evolutionary similarities or some semblance of a divine intelligence?

Geoffrey Lea is a Tasmanian environmental activist whose tool of choice is his camera. Recently, he was named Canon/ Landscape Photographer of the Year 2006 and deservedly so. The stunning photo below, of sea breaking over rocks taken at Port Davey in Tasmania’s southwest, gained a gold distinction and was ranked in the top ten across all categories (more than 1,500 images).

A few years ago, Geoffrey came to Windgrove with a commission to photograph the land and my sculptural benches for inclusion in a book on Australian Gardens (The Open Garden/Allen&Unwin publishers). The day was overcast and bleak and I fretted that the dark, ominous clouds would hamper his efforts to get even one decent photograph, let alone the three needed. Well, his mastery of light and dark, of clouds and contrasts resulted in the publishers using two of the images for double page spreads. Wasn’t I fortunate that this master of the dark cloud happened by on this particular day?

For several weeks now I have been looking at the Port Davey photograph and am still awed by its sheer beauty and chaotic power.

I have looked around where I live and have tried to imagine capturing such an image.

What is there around here, I have asked, that speaks of something: overwhelmingly daunting, beyond control, needing courage to tackle, seemingly impossible to fathom, an overpowering sense of helplessness, or, where even the gods fear to tread?

For days I have stalked this land waiting for just the right moment, just the right combination of events to give me what I wanted. But to no avail. In the end I would come home empty handed.

And then I saw it. Right in front of my eyes. What I had been waiting for. The image that would capture all the meaning…

of fear,

of dread,

of wildness untamed,

of despair and foreboding.

I first met the iron worker/ sculptor, Bill Brown, when he was a hell raising 19 year old chasing, in equal measure, women and the demons within himself.

This year, turning 50, he reckoned that a good way to celebrate both his birthday and his 25 years of being totally committed to Alcoholics Anonymous would be to come to Windgrove from his mountain home in North Carolina, hang out as an artist-in-residence for a few weeks and chew the fat with me.

For a week now, Bill and I, along with his travelling buddy, the energetic, younger Pino, have been having the equivalent of a “boys’ night out” with great peals of laughter and lots of food accompanying the recounting of our times together at the Penland School of Crafts in the late 70’s and early 80’s. This “catch up” has been tremendously rewarding as all three of our hearts have been massaged. And, even though Bill and Pino bemoan the lack of their womenfolk (Liz and Annie) partaking in our joy, we are also appreciative of this opportunity to “just be guys” together.

Any of us who have met up with friends from years past understand the bittersweet quality of such a meeting. Sprinkled into the good natured humor and telling of stories are those accounts of deaths, trials and tribulations. Over the years we have all experienced the full gamut of emotions and somehow we have survived.

What is tremendously rewarding for me is to see how Bill’s passage through life has left him a truly caring, compassionate and generous person. He demonstrates this in many ways, but what is most impressive to me is his weekly role as an AA sponsor in a North Carolina state prison. That’s courageous work. It is also creative work. Bill doesn’t separate this aspect of his life from his studio art. One feeds the other.

Bill demonstrates that talent as an artist is not a birthright. It comes with living.

I salute you, Bill Brown, for the life you have carved out of the material given you.