Life on the Edge

Wearing a shirt with "New York" written across the top that reminded me of the recent 2nd year anniversary of 9/11, my neighbour's younger son, Patrick, sought refuge in my studio recently asking that I instruct him on how to carve a spiral. As I watched him from the corner of my eye while working on my own carving, his determination to learn as well as his quiet patience touched me. "Here is the future", I said to myself. "May this young boy grow up with the wisdom and courage and skills to live a full life in a peaceful world." Today, I received an email discussing the arrival at Windgrove in January of 12 students and two facilitators from the Rhode Island School of Design on the east coast of America. For five days they will camp out, explore, create art and learn..... what? Yes, what is really taught at Windgrove? What discourses happen around the Peace Fire? What learning takes place walking around the Peace Garden? What accumulation of knowledge occurs when a person or people gather on this land? This is for certain: students can at least gather here. Across the world democratic countries are becoming more fascist in their attempts to control terrorism, and increasingly facile with their use of spin to indoctrinate the public. Tasmania, relatively speaking, is still a safe place to speak one's version of the truth and to learn from others their truth. (Unless, of course, you're talking forestry.) Although a bit tarnished and tainted by the American governments continuous suppression of democratic rights in Guantanamo Bay, one of the most universal symbols of political freedom and democracy is the Statue of Liberty situated in New York harbour. Standing 151 feet tall or 46 meters, designed by the sculptor Frederic Bartholde and commemorated in 1886 as a gift from the French, it has welcomed onto the shores of America thousands upon thousands of immigrants and refugees seeking a life free of tyranny; a chance at grasping freedom and turning it into prosperity and happiness; a chance to speak.

I'm never sure if size makes any difference or not, but on Roaring Beach this week the Windgrove shadow of "Liberty Enlightening the World" (the statue's original name), cast itself tall and potently along the sand. "Give me liberty or give me death", cried a much older Patrick than my neighbour's son. This was the American Revolutionary War patriot, Patrick Henry who, in a speech delivered in 1775 sought to convince his peers that the political bureaucrats of the day (the British) were incapable of honouring the will of the citizenry and, therefore, a recourse to arms was the only way to protect the land/ the country. "In vain", he said, "may we indulge the fond hope of peace and reconciliation. There is no longer any room for hope." Although I, myself, am willing to die for the country's trees, I would prefer, instead, to use non-violent acts of civil disobedience to democratically express any anger over the Tasmanian governments increasingly arrogant policy of clear felling our world heritage rain forests. I have not given up hope, yet. In her newest book, "Earth Alive", scientist Mary White writes: "The continued logging of the Gondwanan forests in Tasmania is environmental vandalism. They are the largest remaining temperate Gondwanan forests in the world. The fact that they have been here for up to 60 million years and are little changed, with priceless biodiversity, should be enough to ensure their survival, unchanged, in spite of human greed." What awaits those young people coming into a world of diminishing ecosystems? Will Patrick have a happy future? Between his youth and old age, will the Peace Fire at Windgrove stay burning? Or, will there be a time when the children of today are forced to take up arms to protect their country from the rapacious appetites of corrupt politicians?

Why am I smiling? Because I'm planting. Because the red wheelbarrow has she-oak seedlings in it. And not only that, it also has the plastic bags, mulch mats and bamboo stakes that are required to protect each young tree during the first three years of its growth from rabbits, wallabies, wind and competing grass. When the owner of the Puchella nursery found out that I couldn't afford what I had ordered from him, he simply said that what was more important was that the trees get into the ground; the money could be paid later. Les also took $100 off what was owed as his way of supporting the Parliament House Vigil. My friend, Jess, has also sent money over from Melbourne stating: "I'm working at the Restaurant every night this week, and what better way to spend the money I earn than on something benefiting the planet." The land thanks each of them. The baby trees thank them. And I thank them. So now, part of each day will be given over to planting out this year's 365 she-oaks and some 35 blackwood trees. Generally, I'll work in my studio in the morning and then, later in the day, take two to three hours to plant out 50 trees. However, the nicer the weather, the earlier I have to get started in order to put in the same 50 trees because the tendency is to find more excuses to sit and admire the excellent work one is doing. All I can say is that it is a good thing that I'm the boss man around this place. On a really, really nice day, especially a clear day with no wind and where I take a thermos of hot tea plus a tin of baked cookies, it might take forever to put in just 25 trees. But boy, do those trees feel looked after and prayed over. As proud as I am of my artistic endeavours and the sculptures that come out of my studio, nothing quite equals the honest satisfaction of putting into the ground several hundred life forces for the planet's and our future. Think about this. For each tree that goes into the ground, I have to kneel down to put it into the newly dug hole. Even if I didn't say a prayer for each tree (which I do), just the prayerful pose of kneeling would do something energetically to both the plant and the planter. In a few weeks, when I'll have dropped down on my knees 400 times, this will be the equivalent of eight years of Sunday only church going. And since this year will mark the four thousandth tree planted, one could almost say that I have already done a lifetime of prayerful work. No wonder I feels good.

I would imagine that everyone would know that today, Tuesday the 23rd, is the spring equinox (fall equinox for the northern hemisphere) where everyplace on earth receives an equal 12 hours of sunlight. A sort of balance at least twice a year. While doing my round of morning walking meditations, just as the dawn light came upon the Peace Spiral, I took a lovely photo showing its reflection in the still water of the pond thinking that this would be a nice visualisation of the day's equanimous character. But I have chosen not to use this image. I took another photo of the Peace Spiral around noon when the ABC film crew were next to it during a shoot while they were interviewing me for the Stateline TV program. But this hasn't captured the full balance of the day either. I took a third photo of the surf just after my swim while perfectly formed long lines of swells came into the beach then crested into waves with white manes spewing off their back. But this didn't quite hold the full essence of what an equinoctial day might be about. At sunset, when the low yellow/orange rays of the sun cast a deep serene light over the landscape, I took a photo of a circle of same aged trees that looked all harmonious while I did some repair work on the Peace Walk path. But..... not really suitable. After dinner, with just a few small, sharp tools, I spent a leisurely hour working on the second of a group of table top altars where stones are perched atop mesa like structures. Interesting close up photo, but.... It's getting late. And I want to choose a photo of something to symbolize the balance and equinity of today before it becomes tomorrow's imbalanced, stressed out craziness. Eennie, meenie, miney mo.......catch a tiger by the toe.....

It's hard to give a sense of being in balance.

Since first moving the Peace Bus onto the property, Windgrove, in 1992, I have planted one tree for every day that I have lived here. Each year the accumulated debt is accounted for in the month of September when the winter rains have softened the soil and the moist earth takes in the young trees more easily. With this year being the eleventh year completed, the total should have risen to 4,015 trees. I say "should have" because the expenses ($3,500) associated with organising the Parliament House Vigil last month wiped out the remaining credit on my credit card. With no money currently in the bank and no way to charge seedling she-oaks and blackwoods on plastic, I have been hard on myself these past few weeks as I ponder whether or not I did the right thing in financing a vigil to stop the cutting down of Tasmania's old growth forests instead of putting money into planting this year's trees here at Windgrove. Once Pastor Bob's bench arrives in America the remaining money owed will simply go to paying off the cash advance for the vigil's advertisements in the newspaper and elsewhere. Having taken a vow of simple living, I don't mind not having a closet of fashionable clothes and have learned to coddle a 16 year old truck with slack steering, but I do mind that the hill behind me is remaining barren simply because of a lack of money. Let me quote again from David James Duncan's book "My Story as told by Water": "What is a modern-day spirit offering? I'd say that now, as ever, it is anything we truly value. Our energy, our focus, the hours of our days. Anything we respect so much that, as we pour it out on the finned, feathered, and four-legged peoples' behalf, we kind of hate to see it go. Maybe single-malt scotches from the literalists among us. Prayers and mantras from the mystics. Money, time, and trouble from the capitalists and activists.... The big blockade to change is lack of passion. And the birth-house of passion is the heart. A spirit offering, then, is anything we can offer with a whole heart -- any song, dance, phone call, plea, letter, insight, gift, or prayer that helps determine the way we, and other humans, continue to create our world, rivers, hills, and forests." So, dear readers, offer up your version of a spirit offering to Windgrove so that the healing of this particular land can continue. Prayers of abundance are definitely welcomed. As well, slip ten dollars or anything else into an envelope and mail to: Windgrove Centre, Roaring Beach, Nubeena, Tasmania 7184, Australia. I'm reaching out for help. We all need the trees.

The simplistic beauty of waves washing up on a beach can provide enough inspirational material for any artist for a lifetime. Beyond this, in the lulled space between washing waves, it offers time to mull over thoughts that might normally get lost in the hurly burly of city traffic. A couple of weeks ago someone criticised my online journal as sometimes being "too spiritual; too full of sermons". This comment threw me about for a few days because, on the one hand, it is possibly true. On the other hand, I'm not so sure this is a bad thing. Why have a journal if I can't write what I want to preach? This morning I read the following passages from David James Duncan's book "My Story as Told by Water". It seemed to sum up how I feel about the subject of nature and spirituality. "It's a prickly topic, spirituality. Sloppy and pedantic talk about God is obnoxious and dangerous, and those who parade such talk have knocked the religion clean out of a lot of us, with no sense of loss. But reverence for life is not religion. Reverence for life is the basis of compassion, and of biological health. This is why, much as it may embarrass those of us trained in the agnostic sciences, I believe every life-loving human on Earth carries a far-from-agnostic obligation to remain primitive enough, and reverent enough, to stand up and say to any kind of political power or poll or public: Trees and mountains are holy. Rain and rivers are holy. Salmon are holy. For this reason alone I will fight with all my might to keep them alive." "...If we put our full conviction in such [spiritual] belief, if we feel no embarrassment over it, if we stand up and stand by it again and again, we might begin to discover a spirit-power in ourselves that moves from there out into our friends or kids, or into our scientific research, our art, our music or writing..." Or onto a web blog.

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.

Yesterday was day 333 of swimming daily at Roaring Beach. During the preceding night I was awoken by thunder, lightning and a noise only made possible by terrific winds howling through trees. The Tasman Peninsula was being hit with gale force winds gusting to 90 knots. Trying to photograph mountainous seas in salt spray laden air while bracing against a continuous barrage of walled winds proved difficult through the whole day. The image above of an 8 meter (25 foot) breaking wave caught in a flash of dawn sun, although demonstrating a particular moment, does not fully convey the immense powerful story that was happening all around. Sound, taste and smell were equally demanding of attention as were numerous other senses. At the end of the day, the sensory overload was so great that at 8:30 PM I crawled into bed unable to write up the story for this blog "Life at the Edge". Part of the reason for this exhaustion was that after my "careful" swim that afternoon in outrageous surf; just after finishing with flippers off and wrist strap undone, I was swept up by a wave, floated laterally along eroding sand dunes and, as luck would have it, deposited on top of a rocky outcrop before the wave washed back out to sea.

I had actually seen the wave coming; had even judged its ability to reach me. I guessed wrong. The volume of the surge behind the wave was the unknown factor as it had stayed hidden until I found myself being lifted up off the sand, buoyed along like a cork. Moments earlier, I saw this wave begin its roll up the beach and I figured there was enough time to skirt along the sheer wall of collapsed dune to a safer vantage point 100 or so meters further down. Jumping off from the rocky outcrop onto the sand below, I had gotten about twenty feet along when the wave was half way up the beach. From all the many thousands of waves that I had seen come up the beach over the past twelve years, I mentally calculated its speed and height and guessed that, at best, it might just reach my ankles. Within seconds the thought "Oh, shit" was impacting on me as I was suddenly totally out of control, flippers in one hand, boogie board in the other and floating down some Amazonian river to a possible white hell. I could go on...... The point I want to make, however, is that I never panicked or later felt stupid or angry (or proud) with myself. I knew I was in real danger, but there was an acceptance to it. I had made a mistake in judgement, but would not judge myself whatever its outcome. To truly live "life at the edge" requires an equanimity or balance between safety and danger and knowing how (and a willingness) to engage either. One other point. I believe we should all try to live by Thoreau's quote "In wildness is the preservation of the world". As without, so within. The wildness within our own personal worlds has to be nurtured so that we don't entropy into becoming domesticated house cats or politicians passing legislation condemning our rain forests to charred hillsides. Our soul's survival requires it. Our society requires it. Jung writes: "...the lack of meaning in life is a soul-sickness whose full extent and full import our age has not yet begun to comprehend". May we all have healthy souls.