Life on the Edge

Curled up in bed this morning -- a morning of cold, wet and grey -- I couldn’t help but feel slightly depressed about the ongoing destruction of Tasmania’s old growth forests; especially now that the government has both lifted a moratorium against logging in the Tarkine, the world’s largest remaining tract of temperate rain forest, and commenced logging in the Styx Valley where some of Tasmania’s tallest trees live. Wrapped in my warm doona, I also reflected on how today is also the day that the Wilderness Society is beginning a thirteen day, around the clock presence at the Styx Valley to coincide with the July 1 High Court decision 20 years ago that stopped the flooding of the Franklin River. “Brrrrr”, I thought. “They are going to have a miserable time erecting their marquee and maintaining high spirits in this weather.” With the thought of dedicating my morning prayers to the Styx Valley crew, I jumped out of my snug confines and made my way over to the Peace Garden in the light rain to greet the ancestors before making my way to the Peace Fire. And what should happen...... The dawning sun breaks through a small opening in the clouds and throws a rainbow down. It was as if to say: “Listen, within the storm resides beauty and hope. What you witness as turmoil is an agent of change, out of which compassion and love for this earth will grow. Stay steadfast in your commitment.” I went back into the warm house more than buoyed to carry on in my own small way to raise awareness of the reciprocal, reverential connection humans need to have for this earth. Edward Abbey came to mind: “We are obliged, therefore, to spread the news, painful and bitter though it may be for some to hear, that all living things on earth are kindred.”

Today is my birthday. Born year of the Dog, 1946. As I rolled out of bed and ambled down to the beach for a special, early dawn surf I couldn’t help but think of the Green Rosella that, yesterday, flew into the side of the house, broke its neck and died within minutes on the deck off the dining room. Now, I have had eagles, currawongs, hawks and cockatoos all enter into my life with messages in ways that can defy scientific explanation, but this crash seemed to be just an unfortunate incident. I did look for a teaching, though. As I held the dying Green Rosella in my hands, I thought: “Awareness of one’s surroundings is the key to survival. Fail to pay attention and you will fall victim to this lack of awareness”. So, I vowed to work even harder to see what was around me; to become even more aware of the flowers, the birds, the waves and, well..... just everything. This boy from Detroit was on the path to total awareness of place. This morning, as there were no waves to speak of, it was relatively easy to walk into the water, do my normal ritual of kissing the water, and then paddle out to deeper water. The dawn sky was pink; the shore breeze caressed the blue green surface into tiny ripples; the far sand stone cliffs were bathed in that luscious deep yellow morning light. A tiny wave came in about three feet tall and I took a simple, yet sweet, short ride. My eyes were taking it all in. Boy, was I every aware of my surroundings. And then...... I felt something funny about my head. The wet suit hood seemed too far forward on my head, so I tried to push it back off my forehead. “Ha! “ I screamed out in delight. I was still wearing the woollen hat with the red puff ball on top. I had put it on because of the morning cold, but had forgotten all about it. Talk about awareness, or lack of. And then the message gifted to me by the Green Rosella became apparent. What is really important in life is to daily celebrate one’s existence with gratitude and a simple joy. Look at the colors of the feathers on the Green Rosella. What a cloak of celebration. What an exquisite demonstration of visual music dancing. And me, swimming around with a red puff ball on my head in icy cold water at the crack of dawn laughing at my silliness. What fun. What a joyful beginning to this day of birth.

More wonderful than even the visual delight of a native currant bush (Leucopogon purviflorus) in bloom is the delicate honey fragrance that hovers in the air when the wind abates and the sun’s warmth exults its nectar to exude. With a nickname of “Bear”, I take great delight in sticking my head straight into this bush and filling my nostrils with deep intakes of scented air. Nothing better. But I’m confused, as a lot of other animals and insects are, because the photo taken today should not have happened for another four months or until October/November. All around Windgrove more than half the currant bushes are blooming far out of season; and with masses of flowers. Sure, it is a pretty sight. But there are no bees or other insects flying in and out of these bushes. Winter has just started (June here being the equivalent of December in the northern hemisphere) and there is no one available to crawl into the tiny one eight inch flower to retrieve the pollen off the anther and spread it to the plant’s ovaries. A silent blossoming. Perhaps the wind will blow things around a bit enabling the fruit, a small, edible waxy white drupe, to emerge. But when? In the middle of winter, before its time? Will it ripen? Will the birds who normally eat the fruit in summer, be around? Or, have they migrated north for the winter? And, what will they eat upon their return if there is no more fruit? So what is this telling us? That global warming is creating havoc? That there are consequences when complex interconnected natural cycles are disrupted? I look at this currant bush and think of those many well meaning, yet potentially unwise, parents who force feed their children with so much extra schooling and lessons that the poor kids blossom into knowledge, into adulthood, too quickly before the appropriate season. And then later in life, all confused and angry over who they are, they wither early and never bear fruit of much significance. Not having had their hearts, minds and spirits pollinated in a more natural sequence, they stay stuck in adolescence and find it difficult to ripen into wise elders. Stretching a long bow on my part? Maybe. Maybe not. Why is drug and alcohol abuse and suicide occurring within socio-economic groups of higher education and wealth? What’s failing these supposely gifted people?

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?

This very small, three quarter inch tall pile of wood dust on top of a wooden bench seat caught my attention today. Forget that it is caused by a tiny wood borer eating up through the belly of an aboriginal goanna sculpture carved in the central Australian desert. Forget that I have been attempting to get rid of these little buggers for the past five months. Forget that too many more of these “diggings” and the goanna will simply collapse when it can no longer hold itself together because of the thousands of pin holes riddling it. Instead, just look at the beautiful symmetry between the dust’s conical shadow within the light cone and how the grain of the wood radiates out from the dust pile as though it was intentionally placed there for maximum aesthetics. Notice, also, the warming golden colors. Doesn’t it all just take your breath away? This is one of those fleeting moments that bring respite to the day; when a whimsical, delicate piece of nature's art is created for the enjoyment of those aware and lucky enough to see it. Within two minutes, the sun moved the shadow along and the effective stage lighting was lost. Within three minutes, a heavy foot step caused the towering pile to collapse into just another not-so-good-looking pile. Within three and a half minutes, I was thinking again how to rid the goanna of its borers. But, for those few special minutes, the beauty behind the destruction took center stage. And, for this, I can only smile.

On October 6th of last year, I started out on what was to be a six month ritual of surfing daily at Roaring Beach. Well, that was eight and a half months ago and I still feel compelled to make the walk from the house to the beach. The photo I took today, just after the 250th surf and late in the day, captures a lot of why the inclination is there to carry on with this watery journey: storm brewing, but still relatively calm with just enough warming sun to create a sense of real grandeur. To be in the water, tossed around on darkening waves when a beam of focused sunlight hits center stage, really does feel miraculous. It is not easy to give up on this. And why should I? One compelling reason to stop is that, although winter is officially here, as of the first of June, the really cold water comes into Storm Bay from the Antarctic in July and August, dropping the temperature to 8C/ 47F (down from a summer temperature of 20C/ 70F). Surfing then can become an act of “endurement”. One reason to continue, however, is that by going into the mystery, even if cold, something valuable can be gained. This then becomes an act of “endearment”. I suppose this is what "tough love" is all about.

If there is any one spider that visually exemplifies all the fears of every arachniphobe in this world, then it would be the Tasmanian huntsman, as ferocious a spider as one could imagine. In truth, it’s not all that dangerous. With no poison, just a mean bite, it just looks ugly as hell with its two inch to three inch diameter body and furry legs . Some ancient fear, however, is easily brought to the fore when a huntsman drops from the car visor onto your lap while driving. Anyway, the other morning after I had replenished the firewood on the Peace Fire, just as I sat back for a little quiet time, I noticed a huntsman spider running frantically up and down the log that I had just put on the fire; a spider definitely in a hurry to get out of an increasingly difficult situation. In my attempt to help world peace, inadvertently, I was destroying this spider’s home and creating a refugee as he/she fled their homeland the woodpile. It was too late to pull out the log, so I got the shovel and tried to coax the spider onto it so that I could, at least, carry it to greener pastures. No way. The spider avoided the shovel and just kept hopping around on its eight warming feet. Okay..... “Take a deep breath and bend down and pick up the scared, scary spider with your bare hands”, some higher more compassionate force within me screamed its plea. Did it. And, I felt a bit of pride in overcoming my initial fear. I sat back down to continue the morning’s meditation when, you guessed it, another two spiders crawled out from under the bark of the same log and began their search for an exit. The last one was captured on film before being provided with safe passage in the palm of my hand. No sweat.

To casual viewers looking at the above photo, they could be forgiven for saying: “What’s the big deal? Just a few shrubs of different sizes.” The fog of one’s ignorance disappears as one takes the time to become familiar with each shrubs’ story. With understanding, even a modicum of understanding, the potential of compassion, care and love becomes more real. These “shrubs” are actually an endangered pine and have been planted to help in the longevity of their species. They also stand as sentinels around an eternal flame dedicated to world peace. Nine represent the guardians of the future and four of the them represent the past. The Peace Fire at Windgrove, initially called the “Children’s Grove”, is ringed with a single species of pine native to Tasmania: “South Esk River Pine (Callitris Oblonga), a tall shrub or small tree 3 to 4 meters (13 feet) with bluish foliage. Dense compact form. Hardy.” Or so said the plastic tag identifying this tree from all the others at the nursery. But only “hardy” if given a habitat to grow in. When I planted the first seven trees seven years ago to commemorate the births of six girls and one boy, I had actually never seen a mature specimen of South Esk pine in the wild or elsewhere. I only knew from a visiting botanist that this particular pine was one of the most endangered pines in the world because its very small native habitat in north east Tasmania was being lost to clear felling, farming and other land “improvements”. To survive, it needed to be propagated elsewhere. Hence, my choice of it for the Children’s Grove. Yesterday, I planted out four more along the circumference of the existing circle; paid for with a donation of money and a request from a woman visiting from Amsterdam who desired to have a grandmother tree planted next to her granddaughter, Isabella (one of the babies of seven years ago). The amount of money given was enough to purchase four trees, so I planted two on either side of the designated granddaughter tree thereby allowing all four of her grandparents to be with her. They might be smaller than she is at present, but I would think this particular tree is feeling rather lucky. Shall we go back to the original sentence: “So, what’s the big deal?”