Life on the Edge

For what seems like forever, I have been sitting at my desk sending out email after email to drum up support for the Parliament House Vigil (August 19). On average, 60 per day; individually written, no mass mailings. Whenever my back begins to hurt or my energy begin to fade, I turn to the right, gaze outside for a moment, and am reminded what it is I am trying to protect. Our children's future. The world itself will survive in one form or another. Whether humans will be along for the ride much longer will depend largely on our collective attitude towards each other and towards all other living beings. Reverence for all life seems such an easy concept. "Love thy neighbour as thy self" seems an appropriate guide to sustainable living. Last night there was on television a troubling documentary on the secrecy and lies behind the American governments campaign to bomb Iraq. One CIA analyst said that within the CIA, the people who are now in charge of America's foreign policy were once referred to as "the Crazies". Intelligence gathering used to be concerned with the truth, he said. Now, it is used to aid and abet what the government wants us to believe. Lies are an essential part of doing business at the White House. So, I look out to my little patch of trees. The beach and breaking surf is visible through swaying branches. It is all so beautiful. Worth a sore butt.

Is there a river within the soul that ferries vision after vision into one's consciousness? What forces are at work when an idea floods into one's mind, knocks over all the existing furniture and makes a space for itself way out of proportion to its.... its...well, it's just plain bad behaviour to come in all unannounced and uninvited, isn't it? I can't answer this. What I do know, however, is that once an idea, no matter how trivial, either tip toes or drives a truck across my threshold of awareness, I had better pay attention. Not only pay attention, but water and nurture the germinating bud into blossom. Not to do so, is to 'not' allow the mysterious hand of divine guidance to give me a proper push (or slap) in the direction I most need to go. Especially, if that direction is about healing my human relationship to this sacred earth. Which explains why I am strongly behind the effort to organise a one day vigil at Tasmania's Parliament House on August 19. For full details see www.tasmanianstogether.net. After the Styx Valley of the Giants rally, I came away with the feeling that it wasn't just the speakers speaking well that galvanised a sense of hope among everyone. It was the collective heart-voice of the massed crowd that amplified and lifted up out of the ordinary each speaker's speech. A tiny thought then entered into my mind that if this same group of people or more could come together at the opening session of Parliament House with the expressed intent of using their massed silent presence to speak their concerns about Tasmania's old growth trees, then the politicians inside could not fail but to react in a positive way. So watch this space. See politicians take vows of humility in front of thousands. See entrenched forestry practices come tumbling down quicker than the Berlin and Jerico Walls. Most importantly, witness the truly democratic process of public participation.

Shown are three recent arrivals to the growing collective of ancestral earth energies gathering here at Windgrove. The two hand size stones have come from a river beach where the senders, Sara and Ralph, run a water journeys retreat (http://www.aquaest.com) in Missouri, America. It is a bit hard to pick up in the photo, but the left hand stone with its many leylines contains the face of a shaman; the right hand stone carries a labyrinth. The hand woven pandanus grass string bag is a “thank you” to me from a Cape York elder aboriginal woman who wanted to express her appreciation that “a white man from America” could maintain the daily ritual/discipline of keeping the Peace Fire burning for over a year (15 months to be exact). What greater confirmation of one’s work could one receive than these three gifts? Thank you.

While at the Peace Fire this morning I spent a good deal of time pondering, as I have all week, the question of where anger fits into the peace process, if at all. Last Saturday, the day before I set off to attend the Styx protest march, I received the following email concerning my blog of July 10: <.....When I read the bit where you launched into judgement of "men in grey suits with double chins", I felt you contract. Are you sure you want to give up your peace in this way? Our brothers, whatever they are up to, need our LOVE, always. That is what heals. .....> It is hard to know sometimes whether my responses are written out of defence or wisdom, but today, while looking into the fire, it occurred to me that the name “Peace Fire” was made up of two, possibly opposing words: peace and fire. Somewhere in all this, fire or anger has a roll to play in fuelling protest in order to create a sustainable world of peaceful coexistence between all living beings. Healthy anger (not violence) surfaces when one's deep love for someone or something is called upon to defend them. Yes, everyone needs our love, but I don’t want to just float along on light. For me, “contracting”, as long as it is only half my existence is welcomed, because all of “life” depends upon contraction and expansion to survive (think of the heart). It might be said that a rainbow is the result of light (love) shining on the storm (anger). True, but not the whole truth. What I say, is that both love and anger are equal partners in the making of the rainbow; one without the other and it is a non event. Anger, when used in conjunction with love, can create miracles.

Walking at the head of a protest march in the Styx Valley of the Giants this past Sunday with other invited speakers was an interesting position for me to be in. The view ahead was a muddy logging road empty of people except for the television and newspaper crews running around searching for the next best vantage point from which to photograph. If I had chosen to just stay focused (and smiling) on what lay ahead, I would have missed out on the overpowering great mass of hope and exuberance behind. Turning around and seeing this line of people stretching back a half mile and still coming, was overwhelming. Staying turned around and listening to this 5000 strong joyful chorus of civil disobedience was unbelievably empowering. Later, standing on a makeshift podium built on top of a hugh twelve foot diameter tree stump that, itself, was on a hill side, when I first took hold of the microphone to address the massed people below, I was stunned into a temporary silence defined by humility, yet tempered with a truly deep love with what I was witnessing. The prepared speech stayed folded in my jacket pocket; the first words that I spoke were: “I feel like an angel”. And indeed I was. Not of my own making, but because of the intensity of the crowd’s focused love on me and the tree’s focused love on me. It was palpable. And I glowed. What I said after this I am not sure, but it was along the lines of the following: “I am a sculptor who uses wood, but I clearly understand that there will never be a work of art as beautiful as a standing tree. I can, however, when using wood, do so with reverence and respect and try to create something that speaks of the beauty, sacredness and necessity of our shared earth. Likewise, although I am here speaking, I understand that there is no one person who will ever be as eloquent nor deeply informed as the collective voice of the people and trees surrounding me. I can, however, offer my little story to add to this great gathering of stories. The trees need us as we need the trees. In this reciprocal relationship we bless each other. In this greatest of cathedrals, we are in the presence of the ancestors; we are all sacred and divine. And we need to protect these trees, not only for the tree's sake, but for our own soul’s sake.” I went on for another minute or so talking about the need of being an “unrepentant sinner” in the name of protest; aiming for peace through love, but not feeling too bad if our arrows miss the mark. Later still, walking back to the car and finding myself alone for a few minutes, I felt a deep gratitude for the teachings my environmentalist mother gave me when, as a child, she took our family every summer to the north woods of Michigan and instructed us in how to listen to, love and feel connected to the father/mother god she felt present in the forests. I thank her.

Looking back at Windgrove from the far end of the beach, a faint circle around 200 feet in diameter begins to emerge on the hillside as the she-oaks outlining its perimeter grow and darken. Aside from its main purpose of being a native grass sanctuary, its symbol as a circle carries much meaning. Today, it reminds me of the earliest use of the word "sin"; to miss the mark. Archers, trying to hit the bull's eye, would receive the mark of "sin" when they missed hitting this one point of perfection with their arrow. Consider this, when they were aiming at the bull's eye, they didn't shoot their arrows in the exact opposite direction (our present idea of sin). They were attempting and "trying their best" to hit perfection. To not be a sinner would be someone who didn't even attempt to shoot at the target, or walk the path of peace, or attempt to live a good and just life. Early tomorrow morning, I will leave Windgrove to walk in the Styx Valley with many other hundreds of concerned Tasmanians to voice our objections to the clearfelling of old growth forests. As a speaker at this forest rally, I will be asking the people gathered the following questions: "Do we have the courage to consistently speak our collective truth with compassion?" "Can we commit ourselves to consistently stand up for the trees, despite the personal suffering it might bring us." "Will we stay firm in our resolve to respect our elders and never let the chain saw silence these forests, the home of many an ancestor. To answer the above in the positive will require being a consistent sinner.

During winter it is not always easy to find a comfortable place to sit for the morning meditations at the Peace Fire when the ground is near frosty cold or my favourite tree stump perch is butt damp. Might as well climb on top of the cover that slows down the rate of fire wood consumption. If the fire beneath is not too hot, lying back on this piece of heated metal is rather pleasurable and affords an easy way to gaze at the sky’s navel if not one’s own. Today, I was mulling over an article in yesterday’s newspaper that questioned the Wilderness Society’s use of actors and other artists to promote the message of stopping the clearfelling of our old growth forests. “If I want scientific, empirical evidence on the state of forests in Tasmania, I wouldn’t go to any of this lot for information!” stated the author of the article. My unscientific opinion is that the world might be a safer place today if artists, women, people of color, shamen, children and animals had more say, not less, in the great debates of this world. What would have happened if the development of the nuclear bomb was tempered with discussion by the Kogi indians of Columbia; a tribe of people who would have asked how might this bomb affect the seventh generation of children into the future? Radiation and its long term consequences might have been given more serious consideration. I love science and the insights it has brought me into understanding the particulars of this world. I also know that the bird chatter in the bush to my left has a message that is just as important to understand if we are to make this world a safe place for all beings to live and prosper. The question is whether or not science can decipher this message without the honoured participation of a reverential heart.

Several years ago, while in Helsinki, I read a Finnish health magazine (English translation) that suggested five foods be eaten daily to promote maximum health and longevity. These were: Apples, Carrots, Garlic, Lemons and Broccoli. On Wednesday of this week, I felt proud like a father with his new born child as I picked the first ever broccoli grown here at Windgrove. And doesn’t it look most delectable and packed with goodness, especially after a lip moistening drizzle had given way to a bit of evening sun lightly dusting the broccoli floret with a touch of buttery yellow. So, eat your broccoli, all you Greens out there reading this. And stay healthy. We tree lovers might not have the luxury of expensive spin doctors to look after us, but we do have organic apples, carrots, garlic, lemons and broccoli available. To paraphrase my hero Edward Abby again, author of “The Monkey Wrench Gang”, we environmental activists, ultimately, may not be able to stop the grey suited, double chinned politicians and business men from bulldozing down our ancient rain forests in the Styx Valley and the Tarkine, but we can, by eating well, at least out live the bastards; those Faustian thieves of oily, fatty handshakes and greasy ethics. They have supped with the devil so long they carry a lifetime of largess within their tailored clothes. Only their minders and tongue hanging fawners tell them they look good. Transparency and full dis-clothes-ure in government and business is important. We should all be willing to bare our assets and stand cheek to cheek with anyone from the Labor/Liberal party, Forestry Tasmania or Gunns. My bet is that our bottoms’s line is pretty firm and not propped up with false ergonomics. Eat well, enjoy life, carry on the good work and stand tall for the trees.