Life on the Edge

If one were to define “ritual” as a repetitive act carried out with awareness, loving attention to detail and a touch of ceremony, my life could be said to have acquired several rituals. Seemingly non-religious, these common, daily secular acts are so full of devotional habit that they are elevated to a sacred status. Most often, every day begins with a morning walk to the Peace Garden for a quiet, prayerful sit at the Ancestral Midden followed by a walk over to the Peace Fire where I circle to each of the four compass points and welcome in the day by reaching to the sky and voicing a greeting. (In other words, an average sort of ritual for an average sort of monk beginning an average sort of day.) Invariably, this little stretch to the morning sun stirs and awakens within me the pleasant anticipation of returning back to the house for the smell of toast and the pressurised hissing sound of coffee in the expresso maker. My gait picks up considerably, much like a horse returning home, as I sense the second, though no less important, ritual of the day coming on. In fact, at Windgrove, the highest ranking ritual has to be this one, the “Toast/Coffee” ritual; a most favoured (and most flavoured) ritual that borders on the addictive (but is kept out of the ranks of addiction because of the pureness of my light heart). Because of space limitations, I’ll not describe the coffee making portion of this ritual; instead, let’s go straight to the crunchy stuff. Now, when it comes to the making of toast, I rotate the choice of bread to be toasted, having found out that boredom will set in and my enthusiasm for this ritual will suffer if I stick with one type of bread only. Sort of like, when I was living in Moscow it was always helpful in maintaining my sense of the spiritual if I was able to buy at the candle stall upon entering the Russian orthodox church any of several different sizes of candles to light and place at any of several altars dedicated to any of several saints. Therefore, it is imperative to have on hand, either on top of the fridge or in the freezer, “two pound” and “16 hour” loaves of bread from the Hobart baker, Jackman & McRoss, organic “sprouted wheat sourdough” and “nut and raison” breads from the Summer Kitchens bakery and, at least, one loaf of organic rye “grid sourdough” from Healthybake (shown in photo). All five are of a solid consistency, exhibiting a good weighty feel and excellent toasting capabilities. By necessity, since I only have a six burner commercial grade gas stove for cooking (no electricity), the choice of toaster is a stainless steel one of the kind sail boats would have in their kitchen galleys; one where the bread inclines at an angle like a lean-to over the flame and becomes all nice and toasty brown with just a hint of burn. Promite or veggiemite? No way. My toppings are sweet. Honey always on one or two slices and the choicest of jams over a good layering of butter on the others. Four pieces of toast and a giant mug of double expresso all fit onto the one tray and I carry this over to my favourite chair in the corner. Here I sit down and slowly savour every sip of coffee and munching of toast. My mind follows my gaze around the room or through several windows. My reading glasses stay off my face. Only when I have finished eating will I begin the third ritual of the day: reading for half an hour or so before heading out to the studio around 9 AM.

“He saw nothing. The country was thick with sacred stories more ancient than the ones he carried in his sweat-slippery Bible. He did not even imagine their presence. Some of these stories were as small as the transparent anthropoids that lived in the puddles beneath the river casuarinas. These stories were like fleas, thrip, so tiny that they might inhabit a place (inside the ears of the seeds of grass) he would later walk across without even seeing.”

This is author Peter Carey’s rather harsh description of the European/Christian attitude to the Australian landscape as found in his novel, “Oscar & Lucinda”. An attitude that still lingers today as we continue to desecrate both our cultural and natural environments by remaining blind to the damage caused by an elitist world view that denies the sacredness of all humans and of all the earth.

But.... and here is the good news.... it is an attitude being constantly challenged and eroded by more and more people from all walks of life: scientists, Christian clergy, Buddhist monks, corporate heads and a smattering of politicians. Just recently, there was an Earth Liturgy held in an area of ancient Tasmanian old growth forest and one speaker, a Catholic priest, said: “God is Green”.

Within Australia, there is an important reconciliation taking place between blacks and whites.
As well, heeding one of the definitions of reconciliation as “the purification or restoration to sacred uses after desecration or pollution”, there is also another reconciliation happening between the people and the landscape.

The three women above, each in their own small way, are doing what they can to change our dominate western behavioural pattern from one of arrogance to one of accommodating both forms of reconciliation.

Sally, the youngest, keenly aware of the health implications that arise when the environment is not treated reverently, is on her way to Kenya as a volunteer doctor in the Medicine sans Frontier organisation. She will both help the Kenyans with her expertise and learn from their stories a different knowledge.

Marie, working with Chinese business people, knows how important a respectful listening to the world’s cultural stories can be in the making and fostering of a sustainable global peace. She carries a hugh, laughing optimism that the human heart is inherently good and will prevail.

Carolyn, befriended by aboriginal elders, is working passionately to find a way for all the people of Australia to come together, simultaneously across the nation, and affect a great healing by simply singing up the land in unison with one great collective voice.

As they blessed Windgrove with their presence over the weekend, may I now offer a blessing to each of them on their continuing journeys.

In one of Rainer Maria Rilke's poems, he asks of us: "Whoever you are: some evening take a step out of your house, which you know so well." "Your eyes find it hard to tear themselves from the sloping threshold..." Well, Rilke is correct in that I never fail to find joy in looking at the timber details of this house where I dwell. Nearly every morning where I sit to have coffee and toast, I look up and see this juncture of beam and post and brace and am forever gazing at what seems both complex, yet simple. Like a poem, like a visual mantra, they lull and pull me into a cathedral of trees. Only now, after many readlings, am I am slowly beginning to decipher their lofty language. Someone once described the design of the house as "lumberjack zen"; another. "Buddhist ski lodge". The point I would like to make is that, in designing this house, nothing happened by accident, yet it was only by accident that it came into being. After seven years teaching design and over thirty years as a practicing designer/sculptor, I am convinced that the best outcomes are arrived at slowly, with patience and in stages. In the above photo, there was a five year wait before the first timber post went into the ground and the last rafter was notched into place. There was no way to foresee this final outcome of a steep pitched roof giving way to a narrow slit of windows over a very shallow roof all in the one room. No blank piece of paper could have completely sketched out these timber details. One section had to exist before the other could be fathomed. What I am trying to draw out is an analogy of sorts in how to live our lives. To try and plan out the perfect life, to try and wait until it is all figured out before embarking on one's path, is fruitless, stalls us from finding purpose and dooms us to do nothing. A comment I hear a lot is: "As soon as I find myself, I'll become an environmental activist." Or, "I can't love someone/something else until I love myself first". "Ha!", I say. Start defending the trees and you will be guided, step by step, to understanding who you are. By helping others, you will help yourself.

A week or so ago I received from America a small, yet potent gift of Kentucky bourbon fudge made by the Gethsemani Trappist monks. The side of the box offered this insight: “The monks of Gethsemani are called to a balanced life of prayer, sacred reading and work”. I pondered and mulled over this for a few days and, in the end, decided that my life wasn’t too much different than that of the monks (even to the point of being celibate for two years). Nothing was intentional. It has just evolved into this pattern. And, (mostly), I gracefully accept it. Prayers happened throughout the day; formally, during the daily rituals of sitting at the Peace Fire and surfing or randomly, when carving or simply staring into the treed hill side. Sacred readings are eclectic; anything from Rilke’s “Book of Hours” to Michael Pollan’s “The Botany of Desire” and David Suzuki’s edited collection “When the wild comes leaping up”. But what is my work? The poet Mary Oliver, when writing about her future death, says: “I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.” She wants to be the bride married to amazement. She wants to be the bridegroom taking the world into her arms as she thinks of "each person" as precious to the earth. She wants to have made of her life something particular and real. Her work, therefore, is to insure that this happens. Likewise, for me. As I watched on TV tonight film footage of our Australian government's brutal treatment of refugees as though they were less than animals, I wept. As I heard Phillip Ruddock, minister of Immigration, defend the government's position, the tears turned to anger, turned to the realization that complacency is no substitute for compassionate action. We all have much work to do.

It started out as just a quick patch job; one, maybe two wheelbarrow loads of soil quickly raked into the hollows, throw a little grass seed down and done. Ha! How about the equivalent of one wheelbarrow pushed a total of three and a half miles uphill full, and back again three and a half miles empty. It took me 25 trips to get the dirt from the far side of the house to the Peace Fire. Early on, I realized that the job was a lot bigger than originally thought. Early on, I realized that I could save a lot of time and energy by using my truck. But.... being the apprentice monk I am and being more interested in process than speed, I decided to take a zen approach to the work and slowly pace out each shovel full and each step with a prayer for peace. Sort of like, "walk and work my talk'. By trip number 11, I was into it full swing and cheerfully talking my mantras. By trip number 21, I was dripping with sweat, shirtless and singing out loud. By trip number 25, and six hours later, I could hardly move. My knees, weak at the best of times, just about caved in. My arms could just about hold the rake. My body just wanted to lay down. But it got finished. And, it looks good. In a couple of weeks, when the new grass sprouts, there will be a lovely, shallow green dome coming off the stones surrounding the edge of the fire pit. Very sculptural; very Zen. Now, if I can just find someone willing to push me in a wheelchair to the local pub so that I could sit contently with a strong stout and reflect on the meaning of life.

Yesterday, late in the afternoon, a car drove into Windgrove. A couple in their late forties got out and I could immediately tell from their clothes that here was money. Also, a little out of place, as though they had just come from an opening night at the Sydney Opera House. Not quite suitable for a comfortable walk around Windgrove.

"Hi. We were told we had to see your place. We live at Whale Beach." (For readers who don't know, Whale Beach is an up market, trendy location north of Sydney.)

As they got ready to go on their walk (in the fading light, cold and gray), he reached into his pocket, pulled out a key ring, pressed a button and the car lights came on, signalling that all four doors and the boot/trunk had been locked.

Being that they had just come up my two kilometre driveway and would not have seen another human being; being that they had chosen to come to view the "Peace" Garden, and the "Peace" Fire and do the "Peace" Walk; and, being that I am obviously here all alone, his locking the car didn't seem to exhibit much trust in either me, the founder and director of the Windgrove Peace Centre, or the inherent "safeness" that powerfully resides in this landscape.

"Well," I said, "I find it really interesting that you feel you have to lock your car."

"Habit," he said. "There's nothing in the car. You can steal whatever you want." But, he still kept it locked.

They started off on their walk. Within fifteen minutes they had returned, got into their car and drove off. Obviously, there wasn't much here to interest them. It would have all been just a blur of little significance.

To me, their life choices had not prepared them to see the depth and beauty and power of what lies at the heart of Windgrove. An ontology of fear and mistrust not only "locks" doors, it closes the door on enriching experiences. Rather than opening a door to a new unfolding and understanding of life, one is kept in a tiny closet of tiny experiences.

My intention is not to pick on this one couple from Sydney, because the above locking of a car has happened more than once. What I have noticed, though, is that the more material wealth a person possesses, the more keys they carry to weigh down.

What is needed to fully partake in the offerings of Windgrove is an ontology of trust; a willingness to abandon and leave behind one's defenses and open up one's heart to the vulnerability of one's precious, and all too brief, life.
I am more than happy to give my time to anyone when they come to Windgrove because Windgrove's purpose is to serve in helping to change our collective behaviour and attitude towards ourselves, each other and the larger living world. I will go out of my way to give time to strangers and the unexpected guest.

My minimum and only request is that people who visit not lock their car doors.

From Neruda's book of poetry "Still Another Day" VI Pardon me, if when I want to tell the story of my life it's the land I talk about. This is the land. It grows in your blood and you grow. If it dies in your blood you die out. XV We the mortals, touch the metals, the wind, the ocean shore, the stones, knowing they will go on, inert or burning, and I was discovering, naming all these things: it was my destiny to love and say goodbye.

This morning, like every other morning, I awoke to the sight of this tree photographed through the open French doors of my bedroom. It’s a eucalyptus tenuramius more commonly known as a silver peppermint. Its age is around 100 years; not ancient yet, but worthy of respect. All week I have been mourning the loss of this tree’s cousin, El Grande, a 350 year old eucalyptus regnans cooked to death in a Forestry Tasmania regeneration burn. With a girth of 65 feet (20 metres), it was the largest tree in Australia and possibly the largest tree outside of North America. Try to imagine standing on it’s stump: a dance floor 24 feet across. Has Forestry Tasmania shown any remorse? Hardly. Hoping that the public will forget about El Grande’s death, all they have done is issue a statement saying that it will take a year before it is known for certain if the tree is totally dead. Frankly, I don’t think they give a damn. Forestry Tasmania’s willingness to protect El Grande and our natural heritage is on par with the US military's defence of the museums in Iraq. There is only one word in the English language that comes close to describing the outcome of their stupid, arrogant, idiotic, immoral, asinine, shameful, despicable, repugnant, offensive, ugly, illiterate, callous, heartless, brainless, heinous, vicious, foul, witless, depraved and unbelievable behaviour. That word is “Tragic”.