Life on the Edge

Two days ago, while simultaneously washing the dishes and looking out the window above the kitchen sink (great skill required to "feel" the dirt while looking elsewhere), a Scarlet Robin came and perched himself on the loosely balanced stones that sit atop the large guardian stone. I say "himself" because the female of this species is less brightly coloured in the breast and has no black colouring. How delicate, I thought, to be able to land on these three stones that a puff of wind could knock over (which happens). What the photo doesn't show is the top stone gently rocking whilst the bird is perched on it. What analogy this brings to mind, maybe, you the reader, can tell me. And then yesterday, on my way to the beach there were two eagles flying/gliding side by side above the dunes, capturing the uplifting draft caused by gale force on shore winds. Hiding behind a bush to escape notice I watched them for several minutes. One bird seemed especially to like to do acrobatic manoeuvres in the air, shooting upward then folding his/her wings and then plummeting back down in a sort of reverse circle. This eagle would occasionally "bump" into the other, more stationary eagle and the two would fall together, talons clasped, then break off and resume their respective "side by side" sharing of the air space. At first I thought this might be some sort of mating ritual. But, quickly, I realised I was looking at both a white bellied sea eagle and a wedge tailed eagle; normally, mortal enemies, very protective of their territory. What to make of this? Why the seeming indifference? Why the tolerance? Something to do with the burning of the Peace Fire for two years? Maybe, maybe not. The sea eagle flew off due east and the wedge tail due west.

Like ships in the night, four dark shadows passed in front of me as I stood silent in the sand looking out to sea. Where they trod, trails of star-sparks traced an outline on the wet sand; phosphorescent phytoplankton marking out the leading edge of the last wave once it retreated back to the sea. The stars above were of the same size. The line below, pure joy to behold. These four stomping, dancing, goddesses of the night were Emma, Annette, Zanni and Maya; Melbourne visitors spending a few days recovering from an exhilarating "Sense of Place" nature writers' colloquium held south of Hobart last week.

In the past two weeks, six other separate groups of people of 16 adults and four children (painter John Wolseley most likely the best known) spent from two to five days at Windgrove sleeping either in the house, the bus or in a tent. Evening meals were always a joyful mix of tongues. Participatory living at its best. Then there were the 30 or so day visitors that included twelve students from Cornell University where it is "so gorgeous". After the last cramped carload of people left yesterday morning, I collapsed in a window seat wanting to take a nap to recover some of my energy (well spent, of course). What woke me was a complete stranger walking around inside the house. When I asked him why he hadn't taken his "f...... " shoes off or knocked, he replied that he was looking for the reception desk for the Windgrove Centre. Once apologies were exchanged (I felt just as bad for being so grumpy), he turned out to be a lovely man from Portland, Oregon sent to see me by my long time friend, Raymond. Today I was suppose to drive into Hobart to wash sheets and replenish the pantry, but the sky is blue, the day warm and my mood one of wanting solitude. Can anyone blame me?

Good Friday and Easter are reminders, even for non-Christians, of the importance of allowing oneself to venture into the "cave"; into darkness, mystery and the unknown. Three days seemingly dead and then a rebirth. Just like the moon when it disappears from view for three days only to reappear as a thin crescent of hope waxing, yet again, into fullness. Do any of us avail ourselves to this call? Do we allow ourselves to enter into the dark well of our being? Why are we so afraid of this part of nature's cycle? To be born requires gestation in the womb; any womb. For adults to be born again, this might require an entrance into Earth's womb before an exit into newness is possible. Maybe it just isn't possible to always be in the light if one truly wants to see.

Life is full of strange twists. I'm sure all those people who know my history with Forestry Tasmania might find the following a bit difficult to believe, but confess I must. You see, just after another nasty "letter to the editor" where I complained bitterly about the practices of Forestry Tasmania, I had an epiphany and began to appreciate what the prophets, Paul and Evan, have been preaching: "The Styx Valley and Tarkine trees have been standing around for 60 million years and doing what? Nothing it seems. They are little more than the world's tallest dole bludgers. Better that they were turned into paper, at least, than waste another 60 million years". It all began to make sense; the dollars began to line up. Why, I thought, have I been promoting "peace" when I should have been promoting myself for a "piece" of the action. The kind of action that all of Gunn's shareholders are taking part in. I wanted dividend payoffs from chips, too, to help pay for my outdoor stainless steel barbecue with attached wok and complete set of steak knives You can't hold that against me, can you? At my age of nearing 60 I wanted to wallow in luxurious linen, not guilt. It just so happened that at this exact moment, our multi purpose Forestry Tasmania was wanting to expand their "chip" market with a supplementary export item. And talking about synchronistic, someone high up in the inner sanctum of political power also felt that if I could be bought out they could kill two birds with one stone (so to speak) both by silencing me and, using my design capabilities, gain a valuable commodity for consumer consumption. I gladly listened to their inspired deception plan and decided to go for broke. Money greased my conscience and I was in the winner's circle, designated chief scientist/ construction engineer under the auspices of projects of extreme state significance.

Working undercover with FT's leading forward thinkers (the same talented, imaginative folk who gave us Southwood and selective clearfelling), we came up with a cutting edge, visionary product: growing the "Pre-Salted Tomato" to slice into the profits of the world's hamburger franchises. Immediately (behind closed door approval), I went straight to Monsanto and received their blessings and their expert advice on how to do things in secret. The result was that this summer I was able to produce a small, but ground breaking crop of tomatoes grown entirely with salt water drawn directly from Roaring Beach. Yes! Salt water!

But now my dog and I are hopping mad because all this significant research is in peril because of the Greens. You see, just as I was laying the final length of pipe to augment the salt water delivery system (desperately needed if I am to expand the business and make mega tomatoes and bucks) the Greens and Tasmanian Conversation Trust have slapped an injunction on my taking any further water from Roaring Beach, a listed conservation zone in their cosmology. To them, salt water can't go any higher than the high tide mark. Don't they know about the wonders of modern petrol pumps?

What a rotten thing to do. Especially when a lot of work was already accomplished without bothering anyone with plans or need for bureaucratic, time consuming approvals. Using hard earned tax payer's money (from you know whom) and a 38 ton excavator taken off a forest coupe, the above photo shows the construction of the massive large holding dam. In order to uphold confidence-in-trading regulations, a government advisor told me to tell my neighbours that what was being built was an Olympic outdoor salt water community swimming pool with wave machine for those days when there wasn't any surf at Roaring Beach. (Our government is truly clever in ways of "necessary" deception.)

And aren't the aesthetics of the curving pipe beautiful? I took great pains to achieve this. This photo shows the actual start of the attractive pipe line from Roaring Beach to the holding dam. Salt water was to be pumped up to the dam and then gravity fed down to irrigate a massive under cover hydroponics greenhouse (yet to be constructed, but several prominent overseas investors are in the pipeline). But alas, those Greens. I despair. My "meandering pipeline" to the dam just won't do for them. In my defence, a senior media consultant from the government's enterprise sector said: "Relative to the size of the ocean, the amount of salt water taken from Roaring Beach by senior tomato researcher, Mr. Adams, is negligible". A cabinet level spokesperson further added: "Not one tomato workers job is negotiable". In my own defence I said: "I desperately want to receive next year's Federal "Export Hero Award". If John Gunn can receive it exporting chips to Japan, I want to receive it for exporting Roaring Reds (copyright) to every MacDonald's in the world. My motto: "Better Red than Green" should win all sorts of international political and business acclaim. We'll just have to see how this story ripens. Check back on April Fool's Day, 2005, April 1.