Life on the Edge

Paulus Berensohn, the current Windgrove Refugee-in-Residence, has just completed this small batik with running stitches (approximately 35 cm/ 14 inches square). The title is: "The Current of Universal Being". When asked to pick a poem to accompany the photo of this work, he chose the following: "Variation on a Theme by Rilke" (The Book of Hours, Book 1, Poem 1, Stanza 1) A certain day became a presence to me; there it was, confronting me -- a sky, air, light: a being. And before it started to descend from the height of noon, it leaned over and struck my shoulder as if with the flat of a sword, granting me honor and a task. The day's blow rang out, metallic or it was I, a bell awakened, and what I heard was my whole self saying and singing what I knew: "I can". Denise Levertov

Okay folks, How about increasing your vocabulary today? Endemic: only found growing naturally in the place mentioned Tomentum: (adj. tomentose) a dense covering of soft, matted hairs Stellate: studded with stars Subtending: extending under so as to embrace or enfold Phyllaries: the small bracts around the outside of a daisy head Bract: a small leaf-like structure, sometimes scale-like Scarious: thin, papery or horny, dry, non-green Pappus: the ring of hairs or scales which make up the parachute on daisy seeds Pappus bristle: one hair of such a structure Now read this: Bedfordia linearis --- Shrub or small tree, endemic to Tasmania, with slender trunk and thin spreading branches, bark grey, upper twigs covered with white tomentum. Leaves alternate, narrow-linear to 9 cm/4 inches long, margins revolute under surfaces white with stellate hairs. Flower heads clear golden yellow, white stalked, one or two in each axil of many leaves near the ends of branches making a showy mass but flowers much shorter than the subtending leaves. Daisy-type head with all florets tubular, head 6 mm/quarter inch across. Phyllaries green with white felted hairs, inner ones with shining scarious margins. Pappus bristles long white. Flowering December till January. Widespread in wet eucalypt forests and on rocky hillsides. All very well, except that it flowered in November and is in neither a wet eucalypt forest nor a rocky hillside. Instead, by itself in an open grassy area of sandy soil. Isn't it amazing what can be learned from one little shrub?

Sitting for a group photo this week are long time friends, Roger Ash-Wheeler on the left and Paulus Berensohn in the middle. The average of our three ages is exactly 60 years; enough to entitle us to wear these "Old Growth" tee shirts. Both men are recipients of one of the eight Peace Mandala stones. (see Archives/January 18) In Tasmania, wearing such a slogan would be the equivalent of walking down the streets in Washington D.C. with a tee shirt that read "Bush is an asshole". Yes, there are those good folk that agree with the idea of saving ancient rain forests, but because being a "spokesperson" for change generally pits one up against the current majority political view (even if corrupt), it takes a consistent will to maintain one's commitment to change. And change is what my two friends are about. And why I admire them. Roger, when fresh out of university, lived as a Tibetan Buddhist monk for ten years until he met his wife, Clair, who lovingly persuaded him to disrobe. Still an agent for spiritual change in a largely consumerist society, he and Clair run a non-profit yoga and retreat center on their beautiful property at Chagford, England. At "The Barn", besides teaching yoga, Roger also lectures on Buddhist philosophy. Paulus, a fairy godfather to twenty lucky souls, is best known for his book, "Finding One's Way With Clay". As a craft educator, his overriding concern has always been to get people to listen to and experience the transformative powers of the materials of this world. "Whatever we touch is touching us: craft art and a deeper sense of ecology" is his latest monograph and can be purchased through Haystack Monograph Series () Needless to say, without these two men in my life, Windgrove would not be what it is today. My gratitude runs deep. However...... every friendship has its share of challenges. In one day I almost caused Roger a painful bounce in a rock pool and he almost caused me a painful bounce down a steep hillside. Both unintentional, but potentially full of danger. The first "friendly encounter" was when we dropped down to look at several rock pools and the marvellous aquatic gardens within each of them. Knowing how the waves break here, I should have been more attentive, but I wasn't. Too late to move when one rumbled in, all I could see was the tumbling white wash hit Roger from the waist down. He was quick enough to cover his camera (sort of), but any bigger and the wave would have thrown Roger against the barnacle encrusted rocks and, at the least, he would have come away with shredded arms. As it was, it was just an adrenaline rush plus soggy pants. An hour or so later, after a sun drying stay at a pebble beach beneath some sloping cliffs, Roger suggested we take the short way home.... in other words, straight up. I knew that because the 100 foot cliff gradually got steeper as one ascended, much like walking up the side of a mixing bowl, what looked easy at the bottom would get very tricky at the top. Since Roger seemed determined to go despite my misgivings, I finally said: "Okay, but you lead."

The photo was taken the next day when we went back to the scene of the crime and it shows Roger standing at the top of the cliff trying to "fish" out the belt that came off his pants; pants that he had taken off to use as a rope to help me up a section when my extra weight just constantly spilled rocks away from the loose soil and my hands constantly ripped out the poa grasses with their shallow roots. The pants started to rip during my first pull up, so we abandoned them and decided to use his wool sweater instead. With rocks falling away from me, I knew there was no going back the way I had come. With Roger gripping firmly his end of the sweater, I knew I had only one chance to pull myself up level to him and then, using my momentum, carry myself spider like up the remaining ten feet to the top of the cliff. It took awhile for our hearts to regain a more steady pace. Looking out from this cliff top down to the rocks 100 feet below and knowing that there was a good dose of luck twice that morning, this journal's title of "Life at the Edge" took on a new dimension. Friendships, it seems, are about growing old together.

To be prepared for the destructive aspects of a fire requires that I commit time, effort and money into setting up a system that is in place if need be, but hopefully will never be called upon, to water down any encroaching fire, real or otherwise. What I am asking is: "What do I/we need to do in order to have access to a source of water?" Two days ago my neighbour, Steve, and I worked all day putting in an extension of the water line from the dam to the house and then connecting it to a fire reel and hose at the far wall in the above photo. We both walked away from the job exhausted. The only hint that we had done any work at all the whole day was the scarred line of replaced turf grass over the buried water pipe... and my sore knees as I hobbled down to the beach for a none too vigourous swim. From the water as I draped my tired body over the boogie board and floated aimlessly, I looked up towards the house and land and wondered whether or not this "defensive" approach to protecting the house/myself/valuables was worth it. Could I not just live more fully in "trust" and pray daily for everything to be looked after and, in effect, not tiring myself out so much looking after my land and house. Maybe yes, maybe no. This morning I am coming down on the side of a more disciplined preparation. Especially, when it concerns acts of civil disobedience.

I say this because tomorrow I will drive into Hobart to be at the police station when Neil Smith, also known as Hector the Forest Protector, becomes the latest political prisoner in Tasmania when he begins serving a jail sentence of 51 days for refusing to pay a $5,000 fine for "interfering with the operation of a vehicle" during a protest to save the ancient, old growth forest, Mother Cummings. While Neil was perched in a tree, an excavator had to deviate around this tree delaying it for about 20 minutes. The law under which Neil was charged was repealed in January 2000, but the present government has refused to drop his sentence choosing instead to make him a political prisoner because of his environmental stand. The only photo I have of Neil shows him (wearing glasses) standing behind Heather Rose, spokesperson for Artists for Forests, during the chilly August morning of the Parliament House Vigil. With hands up, Heather seems to be saying to those in Parliament House (behind the camera): "Stay away from Hector the Forest Protector". When in jail, what will serve the well being of Neil Smith? What "well" is there for Neil do draw upon to quench what needs quenching? Does this quiet looking man have any defensive preparations ready for his incarceration? Over the years has Neil done the necessary emotional, physical and spiritual work to lay the water pipe that up until now has remained hidden? Does he have an inner source of water to use to put out whatever fires of anger, resentment and hatred will torment him in jail? Fires started by others but capable of burning him out. Our prayers are with you Neil....... Stay strong. Letters of support can be sent to:

The busiest part of today came this morning when I showed 22 kids around from the Hobart Catholic school, John Paul II. Oh, to be that young and exuberant again; full of curiosity, spice, fun and boundless energy. They were a nice combination of being well mannered and wild at the same time. What a treat for me. I loved how the little girl (in photo on the left) carefully crept up to the edge of the cliff, daring herself to venture closer with each step. Will she always be this brave? Yes, I had a captive audience. And yes, I pushed my personal wheel barrow on the sacred aspects of art, peace and the environment.

And to underscore the importance of educating our children on being active in social and environmental justice campaigns, half an hour after the school kids left, two tourists from Israel came to see the Peace Garden and walk the Peace Path. In conversation with the woman, she told me that in Jerusalem she would go to the military check points to pass out information to the Palestinians on their legal rights as well as do a "citizen's watch" on the behaviour of the soldiers. She and her partner agreed with me that governments (Australia and America included) seemed incapable of moving beyond the pattern of using violence to try and stop violence. Has it ever worked? Around three o'clock two American sisters from Pennsylvania, one an English major just out of university and the other about to complete her chemistry degree, cruised on in just a few minutes ahead of four senior citizens from New South Wales. Not everyday is this busy with people who have found their way to Windgrove to witness what is happening here. By the time I went for my surf at 6:30, I had spoken to four separate groups totalling 22 kids and ten adults. As the school bus pulled away at lunch time and as each of the Hertz rental cars left later in the day, I felt grateful each time to have been given the opportunity to share with these young, older and oldest hearts and minds some of the Windgrove philosophy on art, peace and right livelihood. Their smiles and waving good-byes were some indication that the legacy unfolding here was being appreciated.

Sometimes in the mail a letter from the other side of the world arrives whose contents helps put my Tasmanian experience into a global perspective. What I would like to share is excerpts from such a letter plus a poem sent to me yesterday by my friend, Bev Reeler, who now lives in exile in South Africa after having had to leave her home in Zimbabwe because of death threats to her husband. Unlike some of us in Tasmania who would put all our efforts into one issue (refugees or old growth forests), Bev has worked continuously and tirelessly over the years as an activist for both social and environmental justice because she firmly believes that the two are inextricably linked and that to resolve either issue requires the resolution of the other. Bev Reeler’s present work is offering Deep Ecology workshops to victims of torture and social injustice.   November 1, 2003 Dear Peter, During this week’s Tree of Life workshop we were visited by the South African National Intelligence Agency and a local white farmer. This followed two visits during the previous week’s workshop when 5 hours of our precious two and a half days were spent being interviewed by the South African Police on two separate visits: one from the police in Groot Marico and one from Zeerust.  They were responding to the complaint from the farmer who had seen 'new blacks in the area' - they said they were investigating a MDC training camp  (run by 3 grey haired white women!).    Today I have felt overwhelmed by the task of healing in an environment that is designed to prevent it. By the unending attrition that seems bent on keeping the victims, victims.   By the phone call from Qulani telling me of the hundreds of refugees being camped outside the home office last Tuesday, trying to get asylum - their once a week try at getting legal - only to be told that they are taking only 4 people and the office will now be closed till December.   Overwhelmed by the phone call from Nkotaso who had got his papers and had been excited at the chance of a job as a waiter - at last.  He had needed shoes for the interview - I wrote him a reference.  "They said I couldn't have a job because Zimbabweans are dishonest.”   Uncomprehending at the lack of empathy or sanctuary, in a country which was given solidarity during the South African struggle for democracy and freedom.   Overwhelmed by the constant rhetoric from the African leaders that Mugabe is a hero going through a difficult time.   Writing about the workshop in the following poem, “Late October - New Moon in Groot Marico”, has brought me back from my anger, rage and tears - to remember that there is - floating down a river towards the Limpopo, a small spark of hope.   much love, Bev Late October - New Moon in Groot Marico I sit in a circle with a group of young men -some the age of my son young bright faces marred and scarred  by torture and violation   Young intelligent eyes dimmed and darting weary and fearful   Young lives used as tools in another’s battle for power   Sitting in a circle with both perpetrators and victims all in refuge in a foreign country for the same reason   We sit in this circle -with the intention of healing   A silent line of people walking out into a deep green valley following a river of pure mountain water   walking our mother earth asking for healing asking for help in this enormous journey   touching the trees the rocky sandstone cliffs asking for healing for the courage to tell our stories   Back to the circle to remember our roots - our ancestors, grandmothers, totems - our stories of childhood of the hopes and fun and hardships how the small seed grew into this tree   We walk to the river asking for healing the courage to remember and let go the courage to forgive   Back to the circle to tell the stories of the reasons for our leaving our home the mothers, the predawn stars as they let out the cattle   We hear of the torture and the unseen scars of the burnt homes of the violence committed the raiding of townships which housed their relatives the torment the running away   different tribes same tribe different side same sides perpetrator and victim random selection look across the room   trust that they have heard the stories that the suffering was the same that this can change   We sit in a circle reaping the fruits that these young seeds have been able to gather on this awesome journey   They sit higher bodies lighter their eyes begin to meet   they speak of their courage their ability to endure their adaptability their learning to trust to talk to people of other tribes the courage to stand alongside themselves to survive a foreign country of God of hope Hearing their wisdom   A silent line weaves its way down to the river and meets in the tall green forest On a small fire we burn symbols of what we would like to leave behind fear/distrust/abused friendships   A silent line stands by the river each one throws a symbol of our hope for the future ash from our evening fire small flowers and leaves floating down the river one day to join the Limpopo to our home