Life on the Edge

I had a birthday dance for myself the other night around the Peace Fire. Thought I would have the place to myself. However....

One of my old classmates from Harvard, Tom Wyman, turned up. Hadn't seen him in years ever since he succumbed to Aids about this time sixteen years ago.

He walked into the circle, sat for a while and then began to dance. Boy, could he dance.

He was always a good dancer. Smooth, composed, yet with an inner passion that cried to be released. Elegant, is how the women described him as he moved around the dance floor. Must have been his southern upbringing in Louisiana. I miss Tom's graceful manners. I miss his way with words; his intelligence. I miss that he wasn't able to contribute more of his talents to this world to make it a better place for all.

This world has taken a lot of my friends away before their time. Maybe more of them will visit. As Tom would say: "Y'all come back, now!"

Where Does the Temple Begin, Where Does It End? There are things you can't reach. But you can reach out to them, and all day long. The wind, the bird flying away. The idea of God. And it can keep you as busy as anything else, and happier. The snake slides away; the fish jumps, like a little lily, out of the water and back in; the goldfinches sing from the unreachable top of the tree. I look; morning to night I am never done with looking. Looking I mean not just standing around, but standing around as though with your arms open. And thinking: maybe something will come, some shining coil of wind, or a few leaves from any old tree -- they are all in this too. And now I will tell you the truth. Everything in the world comes. At least, closer. And, cordially. Like the nibbling, tinsel-eyed fish; the unlooping snake. Like goldfinches, little dolls of gold fluttering around the corner of the sky of God, the blue air. Mary Oliver (from Why I Wake Early)

And yesterday, while walking my morning walk; while looking at the dawn of a new day, the world did come closer in the form of a wedge tail eagle (wing span 2 meters/6'6"). Several times it swooped passed. If not the eagle's feathers, than surely the draft from its wings is what I felt upon the nap of my neck when I bent my head to the side as it flew by. An extended arm could easily have grabbed a talon had they been distended. Twice it landed upon the hillside above me around 15 meters/ 50 feet away. Twice I walked to eagle as Mary Oliver would ask of us: "Reach out with your arms open." I am not professing that a great spiritual encounter came with this engagement. In eagle's eyes, I might have only been a possible breakfast. But the knowing that fills me, is that my being "present" every waking hour here at Windgrove is transformative. By walking and looking, by swimming and looking, by constantly "reaching out", I am slowly dissolving into earth; into earth's cycles of life and death. This eagle was no longer afraid of this, my human form. It was, now, checking on my condition. Was my body on offer to feed him/her yet? Happily for me, no. Will my body be on offer in the future? Happily for me, yes. I have taken from the earth all these years to sustain myself. It will be an honour to give back what flesh is left on my old bones. ******************* This solstice eve, I give thanks that, although the dark is at its longest, the light that comes into our lives on even the shortest of days can be staggering.

When I lifted the lid on the Peace Fire this morning, the eternal flame inside had almost gone out overnight and only a thin trail of grey smoke indicated it was not yet dead. Carefully, thoughtfully, quietly, I tended to the fire's needs and made the flame visible once again.

The care of this world is a fragile business. The Peace Fire, environmental awareness or the health of any relationship can so easily be undone. "Fragile" is not too strong a word to describe the tenuous hold that love, peace and the environment have upon people. These are most often, as they say, "off the agenda" when priorities have to be made. It behoves all of us, therefore, to daily do those little actions that collectively keep the flames of hope burning the world over. As seen in the Balkans and elsewhere, peace and love can so easily be dismantled when one's moral foundations are cemented in centuries of fear and mistrust. The same holds true for the environment movement where, because of deep cultural and religious roots embedding fear of the earth into nearly everything, environmental protection can be dismantled as quickly as a spider's web in the wind when fears of job losses or mortgage payments or consumption habits get moved into a zone of uncertainty. Whether it be peace, love, or a healthy world that we long for, none will arrive at our doorstep prepaid or remain for long unless nurtured and carefully looked after.

This past weekend the Green's held an art auction to raise funds for Christine Milne's federal Senate campaign. The sculpture I donated, Five Ancestral Stones (see blog 24 May), sold for $3,100. The total raised from all the donated art was over $55,000. I was pleased, the other artists were pleased, the organisers were pleased, and most pleased was Christine Milne. Compared to the many hundreds of thousands of dollars raised by the major political parties through corporate, union or vested interest groups, $55,000 might seem a paltry amount. Considering the cost of television advertisements, it would probably only buy a few seconds of time. But what it represents to me, and I am sure to all those other supporters of Christine's bid for the Senate, is dignity. Yes.... a simple dignity gained from tending, in whatever way possible, the fragile fires of peace, love and hope for, and upon, this earth.

Six hundred and six days. Somewhere in the middle of last week, bobbing alone amongst the waves, I passed the half way mark of "The Swim". Whether seen as a ritualistic milestone or a ritual turned mill stone around my neck, there is an element of satisfaction for having stuck with it so far. Half Way. Wonder how many gallons of sea water swallowed? Barring any unforeseen calamities or illness, I hope to continue taking my boogie board down to Roaring Beach and greet the surf for another 606 days with late January, 2006 marking the end of three years, three months, three weeks and three days. All up, a total of 1212 days of continuous surfing. Sort of like a "water-downed" version of a Tibetan Buddhist meditation. And I haven't peed in my wet-suit once.

Back in October, 2002, I was originally only interested in seeing if I could swim daily for just three weeks. This, however, turned into three months, which led to half a year, then to a year, and now, here I am, at the top of the time curve looking down at a long, wet slide for another nineteen months (or through two more winters). My motivation is simple. When I finish I will be in my 60th year. What I am now doing is a form of disciplinary initiation into assuming eldership of my latter years. Hopefully, these years will be fuelled with a tiny bit more wisdom and compassion than would otherwise have been gained just standing on the shore looking out to sea. I won't say that it has always been easy. Because it hasn't. Swimming in the cold dark on a winter's night at 3:30 in the morning in order to attend the dawn to dusk Parliament House Vigil wasn't all that cheery. Swimming on those days when physically tired while a strong chilling blast of Antarctic air was whipping off the waves, did raise questions of sanity. Getting slammed by a wave with sufficient force to force me dizzy out of the water had its dangers. And always, whenever alone out back of the breaking waves, I would wear the fear of sharks; sometimes lightly, but more often with alarm bells ringing in my heart as I caught the next wave in. But out of this discipline of "doing the ritual" faithfully, has come an awareness that commitment, in itself, is rewarding. No matter what the conditions, there is always a boost afterwards in my physical, mental and emotional state. My body feels charged, my mind more alert and any depressed or anxious feelings are lessened and replaced by a buoyant optimism. If I go into the water happy, I come out happier. If I go into the water feeling confused and negative, I come out happier. Just endorphins? Or, just possibly, the magic of water. More importantly, for every seemingly "bad" day, there are a week of good days when "bliss" is not too much of an understatement. These are the days of smoothed sloped, green waves arching gracefully forward, breaking, not all at once, but either to the right or to the left, allowing an exhilarating ride on a board that is cutting an edge through liquid glass. Think ski slope, but add in a moving snow bank towering above your head. In the end, will I have learned any "secrets" of the land and water? Will I be able to communicate in a shaman like manner with the flora and fauna surrounding me at Windgrove? Does it really matter? More and more, the "journey" seems of greater importance than the arrival somewhere that is still clothed in mystery.

So what does the Christmas Cactus have to do with "The Swim"? Simply put, it gives me the confidence to continue with a swimming ritual that can, on its arduous days, seem slightly ridiculous or an endeavour bordering on the nutty. This particular plant, more than any other, defies the rule book by wildly abandoning accepted protocol and adorning itself with outrageously beautiful flowers when most plants are hunkering down for winter. All my life I have been a slow learner. Still am. Watching the Christmas cactus push out its near florescent flowers is a grand inspiration for people, like myself, about to enter the "last quarter" of our lives; a supposed time of retirement, of greying, of getting ready for death. "Hell no, I won't go" seems to be the mantra of the Christmas cactus. At least, not without a great demonstration of just how audacious one can become late in the year. I, too, believe that my most colourful years are just beginning; that it is never too late to blossom; that it is happening even as I speak.

Trouble is, it is getting more and more difficult to get out of bed in the morning without tripping up.

It started out, as they say, simple enough. I was on the back deck, yesterday, basking in the warmth of a warmer than normal late autumn afternoon sun and quietly contemplating the Gandhian principle, "Sarvodaya". This was because, a couple of hours earlier, a distant neighbour had just buried her dog, an Irish springer spaniel, and I was thinking about the emotional pain and loss Jane was experiencing. Sarvodaya recognises the intrinsic value of all life, human and other than human; all people, all plants, all animals, the entire Earth. All life. No privilege and no monopoly; everything should be shared. It seemed appropriate, therefore, to let Jane bury her friend and companion of twelve years on a plot of land at Windgrove that faced the setting sun and overlooked Roaring Beach. It was a simple sharing and a simple acknowledgement that this dog had been well loved. So, there I was, tea cup in hand, sipping and pondering the goodness of shared love that arises when humans can connect, on a deep level, to the more-than-human world. Then, just as quietly, a Brown Goshawk (a medium sized raptor), glided over the treetops and into view, about ten meters/thirty feet away. It never beat a wing; rather, just slowly moved along sideways, forwards, backwards, all the while looking down. Because of the day's activities and feeling a bit Gandhian and open-minded, I looked at the bird and said out loud: Hey, friend, give me a message. The bird pivoted 90 degrees and came gliding directly towards me. Right at the zenith, with me looking straight up at the hawk, and the hawk looking straight down at me, it stuck it's legs straight down, as if to brake itself, and let loose with a stream of shit. Only because of forward momentum did the stuff not hit me squarely on the head; instead landing on the roof behind. But I got the message. And, just laughed. It really was a funny sight seeing those thin, taloned legs splayed straight out and forward. Maybe this is how they always take a crap in order not to dirty their feet?