Life on the Edge

Where Does the Temple Begin, Where Does It End? There are things you can't reach. But you can reach out to them, and all day long. The wind, the bird flying away. The idea of God. And it can keep you as busy as anything else, and happier. The snake slides away; the fish jumps, like a little lily, out of the water and back in; the goldfinches sing from the unreachable top of the tree. I look; morning to night I am never done with looking. Looking I mean not just standing around, but standing around as though with your arms open. And thinking: maybe something will come, some shining coil of wind, or a few leaves from any old tree -- they are all in this too. And now I will tell you the truth. Everything in the world comes. At least, closer. And, cordially. Like the nibbling, tinsel-eyed fish; the unlooping snake. Like goldfinches, little dolls of gold fluttering around the corner of the sky of God, the blue air. Mary Oliver (from Why I Wake Early)

And yesterday, while walking my morning walk; while looking at the dawn of a new day, the world did come closer in the form of a wedge tail eagle (wing span 2 meters/6'6"). Several times it swooped passed. If not the eagle's feathers, than surely the draft from its wings is what I felt upon the nap of my neck when I bent my head to the side as it flew by. An extended arm could easily have grabbed a talon had they been distended. Twice it landed upon the hillside above me around 15 meters/ 50 feet away. Twice I walked to eagle as Mary Oliver would ask of us: "Reach out with your arms open." I am not professing that a great spiritual encounter came with this engagement. In eagle's eyes, I might have only been a possible breakfast. But the knowing that fills me, is that my being "present" every waking hour here at Windgrove is transformative. By walking and looking, by swimming and looking, by constantly "reaching out", I am slowly dissolving into earth; into earth's cycles of life and death. This eagle was no longer afraid of this, my human form. It was, now, checking on my condition. Was my body on offer to feed him/her yet? Happily for me, no. Will my body be on offer in the future? Happily for me, yes. I have taken from the earth all these years to sustain myself. It will be an honour to give back what flesh is left on my old bones. ******************* This solstice eve, I give thanks that, although the dark is at its longest, the light that comes into our lives on even the shortest of days can be staggering.

It started out, as they say, simple enough. I was on the back deck, yesterday, basking in the warmth of a warmer than normal late autumn afternoon sun and quietly contemplating the Gandhian principle, "Sarvodaya". This was because, a couple of hours earlier, a distant neighbour had just buried her dog, an Irish springer spaniel, and I was thinking about the emotional pain and loss Jane was experiencing. Sarvodaya recognises the intrinsic value of all life, human and other than human; all people, all plants, all animals, the entire Earth. All life. No privilege and no monopoly; everything should be shared. It seemed appropriate, therefore, to let Jane bury her friend and companion of twelve years on a plot of land at Windgrove that faced the setting sun and overlooked Roaring Beach. It was a simple sharing and a simple acknowledgement that this dog had been well loved. So, there I was, tea cup in hand, sipping and pondering the goodness of shared love that arises when humans can connect, on a deep level, to the more-than-human world. Then, just as quietly, a Brown Goshawk (a medium sized raptor), glided over the treetops and into view, about ten meters/thirty feet away. It never beat a wing; rather, just slowly moved along sideways, forwards, backwards, all the while looking down. Because of the day's activities and feeling a bit Gandhian and open-minded, I looked at the bird and said out loud: Hey, friend, give me a message. The bird pivoted 90 degrees and came gliding directly towards me. Right at the zenith, with me looking straight up at the hawk, and the hawk looking straight down at me, it stuck it's legs straight down, as if to brake itself, and let loose with a stream of shit. Only because of forward momentum did the stuff not hit me squarely on the head; instead landing on the roof behind. But I got the message. And, just laughed. It really was a funny sight seeing those thin, taloned legs splayed straight out and forward. Maybe this is how they always take a crap in order not to dirty their feet?

Two days ago, while simultaneously washing the dishes and looking out the window above the kitchen sink (great skill required to "feel" the dirt while looking elsewhere), a Scarlet Robin came and perched himself on the loosely balanced stones that sit atop the large guardian stone. I say "himself" because the female of this species is less brightly coloured in the breast and has no black colouring. How delicate, I thought, to be able to land on these three stones that a puff of wind could knock over (which happens). What the photo doesn't show is the top stone gently rocking whilst the bird is perched on it. What analogy this brings to mind, maybe, you the reader, can tell me. And then yesterday, on my way to the beach there were two eagles flying/gliding side by side above the dunes, capturing the uplifting draft caused by gale force on shore winds. Hiding behind a bush to escape notice I watched them for several minutes. One bird seemed especially to like to do acrobatic manoeuvres in the air, shooting upward then folding his/her wings and then plummeting back down in a sort of reverse circle. This eagle would occasionally "bump" into the other, more stationary eagle and the two would fall together, talons clasped, then break off and resume their respective "side by side" sharing of the air space. At first I thought this might be some sort of mating ritual. But, quickly, I realised I was looking at both a white bellied sea eagle and a wedge tailed eagle; normally, mortal enemies, very protective of their territory. What to make of this? Why the seeming indifference? Why the tolerance? Something to do with the burning of the Peace Fire for two years? Maybe, maybe not. The sea eagle flew off due east and the wedge tail due west.

My neighbour's father is in intensive care in the north of the state, so Mick needs someone to look after his dog while he and his partner, Caroline, do bedside vigil at the hospital. "I hope he won't be a problem for you", I'm told as Mac gets dropped off at my doorstep. "No problem", I say. Besides, who could look into those brown eyes and not be seduced. Actually, there have been several problems. The first was yesterday when I was giving a serious interview for an ABC radio national program next to the Peace Pond and Mac started barking joyfully and splashing around in the water doing his best to upstage me. The second problem occurred when I was at the beach throwing his stick into the water for him to chase and retrieve. Well, he got caught in a tiny rip and started being swept out to sea and just as I was wondering whether or not to go and rescue him a large wave (for Mac's size) brought him in with head held high paddling furiously. And last night, sometime in the wee hours of darkest night, probably 2:30 AM, Mac came into my bedroom to announce that there was a possum crawling on the roof: "Grrrrr, grrrrr". Exactly what I wanted to hear. The biggest problem, though, was having someone at your side all day trying to get you to play. "Hey, let's go for a walk.", "Here's a stick to throw.", "What's hiding in this hole?", "Are you still working?" Well, all the above could have been a problem if my heart hadn't been wearing such a big smile all the while. I can't begin to express what pure joy these past three days have been with Mac being here. Spent the day hand digging another trench to lay more water pipe, but found the whole operation more enjoyable simply with Mac as company. My neighbour was correct when he thought Mac might be a problem. Because there will be a big problem with me giving Mac back.

I was so looking forward to picking the above peppers off the thickly leafed potted pepper plant that I had been watering and caring for for the past several months. They were growing in the protective atrium which is attached to the dining room. Just last week I took the above photo of the ripening peppers thinking I would write a journal entry about their vibrant, luscious look. Alas, yesterday evening I forgot to close the windows to the atrium and, just after darkness came, two possums crept in and had the audacity to enjoy themselves to a feast at my expense. If it hadn't of been for them loudly squabbling over who got to eat what and alerting someone in the house to their presence, they might have demolished, not just the pepper plant (which they succeeded in pretty well), but also the three tomato plants, the Chinese mint, the lime tree and two lemon trees. The cacti I think they would have left alone.

One brief moment of inattentiveness and tomorrow's Mexican feast gets postponed until the next crop of peppers come along. The little buggers. I don't wish the possums any harm, but a bit of heart burn or upset stomach might put them off from tampering with the kitchen goods.

When I first noticed this family of caterpillars munching away at a silver peppermint eucalyptus leaf, I thought it was "one" larger insect rather than the seventeen individuals grouped together. This was because they had the habit of simultaneously arching their bodies upward from the head, giving the impression of some winged creature or dangerous spider. Possibly it was a defensive gesture to make their "collective self" appear too large or too dangerous for any small birds flitting about the tree looking for smaller insects to satisfy their own appetite. Here's the quandary I face..... in a just, fair and diverse ecosystem there are enough checks and balances in place to make sure that there are sufficient leaves to eat, but not the whole tree; that there are sufficient caterpillars to eat and that there are sufficient birds (in particular, the kind of little bird that hops around on the branches searching out the smaller insects). An increasing problem at Windgrove is the introduction of the feral cat and the feral bird, the kookaburra, because both diminish the populations of the smaller birds. Everyone understands that cats will kill birds, but not many people know that kookaburras will do the same. The end result is that the leaf eating caterpillars are allowed to proliferate because their "natural" predator is gone and the trees get stripped of more leaves than is warranted with the possibility of the whole tree dying. I, therefore, shoot feral cats and kookaburras. They are not native to Tasmania and their introduction has caused problems in maintaining a healthy and diverse ecosystem. On mainland Australia, the natural home of the kookaburra, the goanna keeps the bird in check by climbing trees and stealing the kookaburra's eggs from the nest. We don't have this goanna in Tasmania, hence my decision to protect the littler birds with the rifle. Living peacefully in harmony with nature is not always an easy task.

Went down to the beach today and came across these footprints in the sand. Many years of hunting and tracking animals in the wild left me perplexed as to what was being dragged between the feet. The creature, whatever it was, had come from the dunes and headed straight for the water. Must have wanted a swim. But why? Never was able to find any sort of return tracks back to the dunes. Must have been real eager to get to the surf to venture out into the open like this, what with wedge tail eagles flying above constantly looking for a meal. Down at the other end of the beach I found my answer.

Known locally as "marram grass itch" and caused by multiple sand flea bites, the poor bastard with his swollen and inflamed balls must have needed to cool them off.

The sound woke me up. Massive waves cresting at 24 feet roared into Roaring Beach this morning. After a “hurried” greeting to the day at the Peace Fire, I scurried over to the Drop Stone bench (sat spell bound like a seven year old on Christmas morning) and with great joyful anticipation of bigger and bigger things to come, saw with widening eyes the visual evidence of some great storm to the south of Tasmania. However, not to be outdone by the great sound coming from the water below, a greater piercing noise announced a chattering flock of yellow-tailed black-cockatoos. They came out of the morning shadows to the east, descended upon several banksias just beyond where I was sitting, and began to partake in a breakfast feast of seed pods. I abandoned my box seat at “the wave show” in order to try and see how close I could get to the cockatoos before their sentries spotted me. Sociable, always in conversation and exhibiting both a humorous and tough demeanour, I have adopted this large stocky bird (four foot wing span) as one of my totem animals ever since finding a yellow tail feather in the she-oak grove up the hill back of the house. I took off my woollen beanie with the red puff ball on top and shoved it into my jacket pocket. Hunched over and hiding behind woolly tea trees, native currants, banksias, blackwood scrub trees and saggs, I slowly inched my way towards the flock; a flock as happy and noisy together as any group of caffeinated New York breakfast diners. Twenty feet, fifteen, ten, nine......... I was within seven feet of two of the birds; one holding a seed pod in its claw while eating it, the other preening itself. “What a great morning,” I thought. “Two for the price of one. Big waves and twenty five or so cockatoos for company.” And then the screeching alarm went up as I'm sure one of the birds caught the sun glinting off the gold tooth exposed by my big smile. The photo shows them heading back towards the morning sun. But not “empty handed”. The cockatoo, just below and to the right of the main bird in the photo, has a large banksia pod in its beak. Can you also see the waning gibbous moon hanging in the dawn air?