Fauna

Force of Fire (extra)

January 10, 2013

There’s always a showoff. Even among the birds. Observe the dive bomber, landing gear down, coming in sideways from the right about 1 o’clock. Tricky, yes?

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During the six fire days this past week, I made sure the bird bath was always filled with clean, cool water. Sometimes there would be ten or more of our feathered friends jostling for space.

The acrobatic bird in the top photo (a female pink or scarlet robin) is the same one seen in the photo below. She is either doing a “jump start” or coming in hard for a “look, no wings” approach.

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A little humour to lighten the day.

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The power of yellow

December 17, 2012

Snapshots of beauty lurk no matter where I reach in. Today it is yellow that fascinates. Tiny punchy pockets packing joy wherever I look.

Supposedly only 3% of the spectrum, yet …

sometimes blushing, sometimes flurried feathers, sometimes peeking out and sometimes bold with protectors of thorns, yellow bursts beauty into the world.

Yellow dots of dandelion flowers splashed across a suburban lawn might be a bit too messy for the civilized aesthetic, but where I walk the glorious — if minuscule — spread of yellow in all its forms is evidence of the miracle of passion.

Imagine life without the invention of yellow. How so very boring.

Trouble is, our culture advises against having too much passion; instead, pushing reason ahead of being unreasonable. Our traffic lights with their arrangement of colours where yellow signifies caution is all wrong. If nothing else, yellow is an invitation to a zestful life, not a warning to stop.

The Danger of Wisdom

We learn to live without passion.
To be reasonable. We go hungry
amid the giant granaries
this world is. We store up plenty
for when we are old and mild.
It is our strength that deprives us.
Like Keats listening to the doctor
who said the best thing for
tuberculosis was to eat only one
slice of bread and a fragment
of fish each day. Keats starved
himself to death because he yearned
so desperately to feast on Fanny Brawne.
Emerson and his wife decided to make
love sparingly in order to accumulate
his passion. We are taught to be
moderate. To live intelligently.

Jack Gilbert

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“To believe we can live without taking life is delusional.”
— Barbara Kingsolver, ‘Animal, Vegetable, Miracle’

What happens here is that people dump their unwanted kittens and cats because they can’t bear the thought of harming their cuddly pet who is all sweetness and innocence. Put them in a box, instead, and leave them in the parking lot at Roaring Beach. Perhaps, someone will come along and take them home.

This never happens and once out of the box, hungry and needing to survive, the once domesticated cats’ atavistic skills emerge and they quickly mutate into four legged furry feral psychopathic killers of enormous skill. They breed up and become a deadly menace to a native wildlife that is defenseless against their iuhunting skills. Left unchecked, feral cats can rampage through an intact eco-system faster and create as much lasting damage as a D9 bulldozer pillaging a rainforest.

As a wildlife rehabilitator, I see firsthand the damage cats do to birds. Of all the ways human beings casually slaughter “protected” wildlife, letting domesticated cats outside is by far the most egregious, and the most easily shrugged off. People who wouldn’t dream of taking a shotgun and blasting a bird out of a tree let their cats outside, which accomplishes the exact same thing but in a slower and more horrifying way.

email from a “sensitive woman”

In Tasmania, humans are the only predator that can control them. 

Therefore, I choose to kill. If there are long term implications to my karma, so be it.

After mentioning this to a friend in America and explaining the difference between feral and domestic cats, she wrote back (I feel with good intention):

“I want to alert you to the reaction you will evoke in most civilized, life respecting women…indeed ALL of the women I know, if you share, I shoot cats.”

“…killing cats and kittens is way off the range of acceptable behavior… and it goes against everything that women love in men…tenderness, respect for life.”  

“…it seems the readiness with the gun and drowning is a very primitive and violent response. What is all this KILLING about.”

Speaking for myself — and, possibly, all tender men and women committed to bio-diversity and healthy eco-systems who have an intimate, sacred connection to the land — not to kill feral animals is what is unacceptable. To turn a “blind eye” to this massive problem, to let others deal with it, or hope the problem goes away, is no solution. 

To preach a high-minded, city oriented, “civilized” utopian world view of total pacifism where the lion sleeps with the lamb is a little too fuzzy headed for my rural sensibilities.

“Take a walk in the green dark”, I suggest to my big city oriented brothers and sisters. Avoid the misguided idealism that bounces off parking lights to such an extent that the complex, paradoxical, shadow reality of the underbelly of existence in our visceral world is refused entry unless accompanied by shame and guilt.

To remain aloof to the soulful sufferings that exist in personal decisions requiring a choice between life and death is a shallow ethicalness. The natural world doesn’t operate this way. Being animals ourselves, we have to understand this.

To me and my muddied world view, there is a certain dysfunctional spirituality in city people who would condemn my actions.

Could it be that by living an entrenched urban life they have become as comfortably domesticated as their house cats and are now so dis-connected from the tilled and soiled workings of Nature that they have forgotten what it actually means to fully live on, in and with this earth in a holistic, nonjudgmental way?

The Dalai Lama endorsed the killing of Osama bin Laden saying that “if something is serious… you have to take counter-measures”.
The feral cat problem is serious. Very serious.

With the feral cats, there are casualties other than birds. Every marsupial mammal is prey: wombats, pademelons, wallabies, bandicoots, quolls. The larger size of the wombat and wallaby is no defense when they come into contact with cat scat because feral cats (and their scat) carry a fatal disease called Toxoplasmosis that causes blindness, paralysis, respiratory disorders, and loss of young due to stillbirth and spontaneous abortion.

For one year I fed a blind pademelons carrots and other fresh vegetables in order to keep him alive as long as possible. Heart wrenching.

Let me speak in plain language about the holiness of the heart.

I choose the word “holiness” deliberately because I believe that if a sentient being is to be killed (executed, to be more blunt) it is imperative that a deep felt compassion for all victims — the perpetrator and the perpetrated upon — be evidenced along with the purely rationalistic legal and scientific justifications.

At Harvard in April 2009, the Dalai Lama explained that “wrathful forceful action” motivated by compassion, may be “violence on a physical level”  but is “essentially nonviolence”.

The sacredness of each earthly life must be taken into account. Only then can the killing be morally and ethically permissible.

The above photo I took two days ago and it demonstrates another example of how humans have altered and whacked the balance of life into a hugh imbalance. The brownish water in the foreground is centuries old top soil washed into the sea after recent rains because of the clear-felling of forests. This human induced catastrophe will result in the loss of sea grass and habitat for marine plant and animal life. On land, the land will suffer the loss of soil that took hundreds of years to accumulate.

We humans have pretty much messed up the natural balance of most environments. It is no different in Tasmania. Living in the bush is hard. The realities here of life and death face you daily and choices have to be made. Abandoning cats and kittens is the creation of just one more imbalance among many.

What I’m trying to do by culling feral cats is to try and redress this particular imbalance. There is no other way than shooting or drowning. Yes, I could take trapped cats or kittens to Hobart and have them euthanized, but why? They will die in the end. I’m willing to accept the burden of doing this alone.

And a burden it is. It causes me hugh distress; similar, I expect to that of field doctors practicing triage: a system of priorities designed to maximize the number of survivors.

Looking into the eyes of a caged feral cat just before pulling on the trigger; hearing the frantic struggle of a kitten fighting for her/his life while being drowned. A callous heart could do this easily. A caring and tender heart suffers.

It shouldn’t go unnoticed that, aside from the Dalai Lama, the quotes used in this blog are from women. I take seriously their guiding words — affirming or not — as they reflect the spiritual path I chose to walk: a spirituality based on an eco-feminist, indigenous, Gaian understanding of this world. Where mindfulness and compassion pray together.

Along with words, I also turn to the “felt sensory experiences” of living on the land to guide me, and if lucky, offer affirmation to what and why and how I defend, nurture and live alongside the many souls inhabiting Windgrove.

Serendipitous possibly, but just as I was photographing the dirty waters and mulling over the immense difficulty of changing human behaviour — and whether or not it’s worth the effort — a wedge-tailed eagle flew into the frame of my camera.

Need I say more?

Comments on this perplexing issue would be welcome.

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Live ammunition

March 19, 2012

Sitting around the rim of the bird bath, New Holland honey eaters enjoy a visit to the pool.

Would you, therefore, put a sling shot into the hands of an eleven year old boy?

I did.

Do the birds look nervous?

My art work recently, as described in recent blogs, has drawn inspiration from the hakea nut; specifically, the visual of how it breaks open to release the seed.

Well, that’s one side of the story. A more fun proposition, even a creative one at that, is to send these really hard nuts flying. Pure delight.

What young Theo is doing is planting hakea seeds.

The word ammunition is a derivative of the word “munition”: the action of fortifying or defending.

Live ammunition is about using life to create life.

It’s all about teaching habitat “construction” rather than habitat “destruction”.

“Shoot for the clouds,” I yell to Theo.

And up over the tree tops the hakea nut flies. Landing 300 feet distant into the dirt, it has all the potential in the world to propagate a fledgling seedling that will eventually provide a home and nesting spot for the boisterous, chirpy honey eaters. (In the top left hand corner of the photo below you can see the hakea beginning its journey.)

Cluster bomb?

And what about those birds?

Their only concern is the pesky one doing all the splashing.

Like everyone else in the world, you have to turn your back to the one making the splash.

A beautiful life; what more?

February 6, 2012

The small blue orb held between thumb and middle finger is, at first appearance, simply a tasty looking blueberry. To me, however, it is a time capsule; an edible indelible memory from childhood.

When I close my eyes and squash down on its firm skin, the very distinctive flavor instantly, without exception, takes me back to a summer-dry, boreal oak-heath forest in northern Michigan some fifty to sixty years ago where, down on my knees with blue stained impatient fingers, pail at the ready, I’m half the time filling it with as many huckleberries (similar to blueberries) as I am sneaking them into my mouth. No matter. My mother would always get three buckets to my one guaranteeing plenty for the up coming evening’s hot huckleberry pie and the following morning’s huckleberry pancakes with maple syrup.

I don’t know of any other fruit or vegetable that works its time magic this way.

Such summertime field trips to the deep forest to pick berries whilst spending a barefoot three months at the lakeside cottage with no radio, telephone, TV, or even hot water, were always, not only a delight for my young self, but (if I may use a term not known to me then) a “transcendent experience”.

It would be one of many such ecstatic experiences felt in nature as a child; from the Greek root — ek stasis — meaning “out-standing” or “standing outside ourselves”.

Of possible interest to the reader is that this blue fruit belongs to the Ericaceae family, a group of mostly calcifuge (lime-hating), acidic soil loving flowering plants whose members include the cranberry, blueberry, huckleberry, azalea and rhododendron. Bet you didn’t know that.

Most Ericaceae form a symbiotic relationship with mycorrhizal fungi that grow in and around the roots and provide the plant with nutrients “in exchange” for sugar produced by the plant.

According to Diana Beresford-Kroeger in her delightful book ‘Arboretum Borealis’, there is something decidedly odd about the blueberry.

The plant loves the acid soils, no doubt, and grows well in them, making the powder blue fruit for which the skinny plant is famous. But the roots have no root hairs. They manage their underground life dealing with mycorrhizal growth in a mysterious manner. From its lucky dip of growth the plant manages to store some strange elements in the fruit. There are chromium, zinc, iron, copper, magnesium, and molybdenum. These are placed into a form that is extremely healthy to eat. All these elements make up the co-enzyme catalytic factors that fire up all metabolic pathways in the moving [human], beast, or bird.
Blueberries hike up the iron in hemoglobin. They are high in vitamin C and quercetin, the universal capillary protector. They therefore clear the skin and beautify the face. The ripe blueberry is antidiabetic and somehow helps with hypoglycemia.


So why the bird? Just to show that nothing happens at Windgrove without other equally fascinating events taking place, as well.

On the day I ate the blueberry, I woke to a noise on the roof. Thinking it was a possum I went to check it out, but was amazed to find it was, instead, a goshawk who, after flying off the roof, tried to enter into the house through the french doors. In the dim early morning light and without my glasses I quickly tried to get a photo of her, but didn’t do a great job of focusing.

For the twenty years I have lived at Windgrove, a white goshawk has never been sighted. The male goshawk is grey — and get this — only half the size of the pure white female. She’s no friendly white dove of peace, either, as she chases down little birds for breakfast.

Simple encounters make my day. They keep me excited; ecstatic. My childhood and adult adventures have blended into an ongoing lifestyle hybrid of what psychologist James Hillman would call a beneficial, yet paradoxical, paradigm of senex and puer.

Pantry delights

July 4, 2011

Last week I wrote of how I felt turning 65. Perhaps, the effect of aging — with its slow, persistent inevitable pull of my body into dark earth — tempered the message too much with gravity.

Despite being philosophical aware of the imminent cyclic nature of life, and the importance and acceptance of such, I allowed myself the pleasure to wallow in the recognition of the temporal nature and ultimate demise of “this” body. It was, after all, my birthday.

Today I want to focus on the little stories that can mark and punctuate each day with levity and mirth, and, by so doing, keep us in life. Because, in truth, I dearly love those days when surprise and glee greet me, tickle me, make me smile.

Little Pygmy possum

At the core of life is levity, and the force of levity is stronger than the force of gravity. Rising is ultimately easier than falling, because all that is alive has an upward swing, and the strength is there in us, in the tendril of the pea shoot, thrusting for the sun, in the oceans, in life itself. This levity is not a shallow thing: rather, levity matters more and is more profound than gravity A joke is more important than a funeral wake, a comedy more serious and truer than tragedy.

Jay Griffiths, ‘Wild’

On Friday the small pantry off the kitchen provided two moments when bursts of joy permeated the mundane reality of existence.

Scrounging around while in the pantry to rustle up some lunch, I heard a real rustling unlike any I had ever heard before. Quite loud, in fact, and seemingly unafraid of my presence. After much searching, the noisy culprit was a very cheeky marsupial, full of temerity and courageous beyond it size. This Little Pygmy-possum was trying to make a nest in a cup wrapped in a plastic bag. 

Who couldn’t laugh and find joy in such cuteness?

Also in the pantry was a covered stainless steel cooking pot half filled with chicken soup that I had intentionally left in place for several weeks as an experiment to see “what might happen”.

When I lifted the lid, I burst out laughing at the total ridiculousness of what I was seeing. How disgusting. How marvelous. What colours. What intriguing shapes. What a transformation.

On the one hand, death and waste; on the other, life in full chaotic beauty.

William Blake wrote about seeing the world in a grain of sand. In a pot of chicken soup I saw the universe.

What falls does rise and rise it must: the monk, cycling on ice, falls off laughing and gets to his feet again. The clown falls over and the children know they can laugh because he can bounce back up. We’re all cycling on ice: and we must get up again because life and time are pedalling on, cyclic, and therefore so are we. The shaman goes deep down to the undermind and comes back up again. The philosophy of compost is the same, in its eternal risorgimento against the very idea of “waste.” The force of this is feral, wild and tougher than any tragedy. The seed will explode the husk; spring will wrestle with winter and will win every time. (“For the red blood reigns in the winter’s pale.”) At the core of the dead and rotting apple is what? The pip. Tiny piece of pure braggadocio. I will survive. I make trees ‘n’ time. Ha!

Jay Griffiths, ‘Wild’

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