Life on the Edge

How's this for a laugh? No, I am not displaying my collection of stainless cooking pots on the floor of the living room because they look good there. Rather, they have been strategically placed to capture the many drips of water coming off the ceiling. A week and a half ago I wrote how I had gone on the roof to fix a leaking sky-light. Well, back then when it rained only one pot was needed on the floor. Now look at how many are needed. Obviously, my repair job created more leaks than it fixed. Reminds me of the time I tried to patch up a relationship by explaining my actions. Well, the more I explained the more furious she became. Silicon, like words, can't just be thrown around with the hope it will be effective. Do I dare go up on the roof again?

Just when you think that everything is done and you can kick back and enjoy the fruits of your labor, the kick is of a different sort. After all the planning on where to put up the eight tents for the RISD students, the one area that I thought was the most sheltered from the prevailing south-easterly, southerly, south-westerly, westerly, north-westerly and northerly winds (directions from which storms come) turned out to be the most vulnerable. On the same day this week the wind knocked the ladder over, that night it played havoc with the two tents on the above site. I hadn't figured on a freak "north-easterly" blasting into the one unprotected direction the tents were facing in their horseshoe shaped, treed enclosure. They had been left up because a group of Greenpeace "front-line" people were coming for a weekend of R&R in early February and, of the three tent areas, this was the most beautiful and private. (One reason the site is so nice is that I had brought in 15 tons of sand to level out and soften the ground.) I wonder how the RISD students who slept here would have coped should the wind storm have happened during their stay? Something tells me they would have loved it.

Once again I have found reason to smile at the appropriateness of the naming of this blog journal, "Life at the Edge" and to draw analogies from all that surrounds me in order to guide, inspire and instruct me in how I might gain a modicum of wisdom from the many small lessons thrown up here at Windgrove. Yesterday, I went up on the roof to repair a leak in one of the three skylights that are in the ceiling of the living room (something that I have been meaning to do for over a year). Being a rather sunny and pleasant day, even if a bit windy, I sat down on the gently sloping corrugated metal roof beneath the shade of an overhanging eucalypt branch and pondered how best to fix the leak. Technically fairly simple; just squeeze out three tubes of silicon around the skylight, make a hugh sticky mess, but shrug one's shoulders knowing that no one but the birds and possums will see the total lack of craftsmanship in the application of the silicon. Job done, I then became more philosophical and considered what it might mean to "open up" any protective covering; punch a hole through to allow light in. In other words, what happens when we punch a hole through our chests to bring light to our hearts? Is it a fail safe operation? Or will this action inevitably offer an opportunity for melancholic waters to seep into the safe surrounds of our innermost sanctum? Most likely the latter. But who wants to live in the safety of a dark room? Or where the light source comes from artificial means? Although knowing the RISD students and I would be together for only five days, I allowed myself, my heart, to be totally open. By being so open I knew I was exposing myself to a potential future wet. And now that all are gone my heart does cry a little. A tear drop here. A tear drop there. Nothing major, but drips nonetheless.

The second incident yesterday happened after I finished "patching up" the skylight. Because the rain gutters were full of leaves and a potential fire hazard, I decided to clean them out. This requires kneeling down and crawling along the "edge" of the roof while reaching into the gutter with one hand and scooping out the leaves. When this is done there is invariably a bit of mud and gunk from decaying leaf matter that has to be washed out (remember, my drinking water comes off this roof). So, I climbed down the ladder, started up the fire pump and brought up the hose to clean out the gutters. This requires a little extra care because with water spraying everywhere the roof is now very slippery. But I'm aware of this and creep along carefully. Job done, I toss down the broom, rags and caulking gun and, holding onto the ladder with one hand with the hose in the other, I begin my descent. Little did I realise that the now wet deck would be like ice beneath the ladder. One step with my full weight onto the ladder and it shot out from under me. Fortunately the wind had earlier blown the ladder over and I had tied it off to the rain gutter so this prevented it from completely slipping down, but the quickness of the short fall was enough to spill me back onto the roof and twist my back (making sitting here this morning a bit painful). I could have fallen the other, more dangerous way, onto the deck below, but didn't. Life at the edge has its perils, but the view is fantastic.

For twelve years the infrastructure at Windgrove has been slowly building. A week ago today, an inaugural group of participants arrived from America's Rhode Island School of Design to move the dream of Windgrove as a refuge for ecology and art into that of established reality. What transpired within the artistic souls of each of us during this intense, often emotional five day residency? Is it even possible to adequately describe what happened? Let David Whyte give a clue. Self-Portrait It doesn't interest me if there is one God or many gods. I want to know if you belong or feel abandoned. If you know despair or can see it in others. I want to know if you are prepared to live in the world with its harsh need to change you. If you can look back with firm eyes saying this is where I stand. I want to know if you know how to melt into that fierce heat of living falling toward the center of your longing. I want to know if you are willing to live, day by day with the consequence of love and the bitter unwanted passion of your sure defeat. I have been told, in that fierce embrace, even the gods speak of God.

Wage Peace Wage peace with your breath. Breathe in firemen and rubble, breathe out whole buildings and flocks of redwing blackbirds. Breathe in terrorists and breathe out sleeping children and freshly mown fields. Breathe in confusion and breathe out maple trees. Breathe in the fallen and breathe out lifelong friendships intact. Wage peace with your listening; hearing sirens, pray loud. Remember your tools: flower seeds, clothes pins, clean rivers. Make soup. Play music, learn the word for thank you in three languages. Learn to knit and make a hat. Think of chaos as dancing raspberries, imagine grief as the outbreath of beauty or the gesture of fish. Swim for the other side. Wage peace. Never has the world seemed so fresh and precious. Have a cup of tea and rejoice. Act as if armistice has already arrived. Don't wait another minute. Mary Oliver