Life on the Edge

I can’t begin to tell you, dear reader, how much satisfaction I receive out of the sensate quality of nature. Every time I split open a long bean pod and find within an encased row of beautifully packaged beans all nestled together, I marvel at the wonder of it all.

Nor, can I begin to tell you how much satisfaction I receive out of trying to mimic, through my carving, these sensual, organic forms of nature. Today, when the seed like spiral myrtle wood was snugly eased into the enveloping fruity womb of the huon pine, it was a magic moment. 

Measuring in length only 750 mm or 31 inches, it is not a large piece. But the sensual nature that exudes from the freshly oiled “skins” of these, rather intentional, organic beings, commands attention. Though small, they entice with an allure that can be overwhelming.

Rather than feeling elated by the birth of a creative idea taking final shape, the elation comes from a sense that here is a consummation of a marriage between two birthed forms. They do fit together like peas in a pod. And I’m happy.

However, this piece is only half finished. The next (somewhat courageous) step is to take the huon pine base and place it outdoors and let the wind, rain and sun do their thing for a year or more. The unblemished quality of today’s piece will age substantially in the next few months. That smooth “skin” will crack, will become blemished and will “age” a weathered grey.

As with my own life and as a matter of principle, I will refuse to “botox” away the cracks, exfoliate the blemishes or bleach out the greying process of life.

Next year at this time this sculpture, with its patina of “elderness”, will be even more beautiful than it is today.

Eros does not only shine through the eyes of the young. Firmness of character and perky maturity does wonders for love.

Now, if I can only figure out a way to keep the possums from chewing on the wood.

Even though I have been planting the equivalent of a tree every day for the past 13 years (4,500 to date), there are still sections of Windgrove that bear the scars of inappropriate land management. This is especially noticeable near the cliff face on the southern side of the property where grazing sheep and the plowing of the infertile top soil 50 years ago led to bare patches still visible today even though the last sheep were taken off the property 30 years ago. Relentless winds and literally tons of salt spray swept up over the cliffs from crashing waves below have made it particularly difficult to re-establish any sort of new growth.

Earlier attempts have failed, but I keep trying to devise new strategies to overcome the past arrogance inflicted on this fragile landscape. What was planted thirteen years ago died. Last year, boobyalla (Tasmanian coastal shrub sometimes wrongly confused with coastal wattle) had mixed results. They survived the wind in their protective plastic bags, but the wallabies learned to reach inside the bags and browse the tender leaves.

Therefore, last week, at one tiny section of the cliff top, a small, woven circle made from entwined tree branches, limbs and logs was built to form a protective barrier from both the wind and the hungry wallabies. For two days I hauled six truck loads from one spot of the property, where I had felled three small trees, to this other location (transfer of wealth?). Besides acting as a circular wind break and small fort from marauding wallabies, the branches will help replenish the soil with nutrients as they decay and they will also act as a net to capture wind-born seed and other debris.

In a way, I sacrificed living trees in order to get something started in this more barren section of property. Whether or not I can “kick start” the regenerative process in this matter or whether or not it is bio-ethically responsible, who knows?

I can only try and do what I feel is best for the health of the whole of Windgrove. Life and death and rebirth issues are always complex. 

Ah, the delights of living alone.

After two months of steady visitors, this week has been quiet; especially the house at night when the only sound track playing is the soft, repetitive murmuring of Roaring Beach.

Like a bear retreating to his den, I have sought out the house’s inner sanctum for time alone. No guests or resident artist means no hosting responsibilities, no extra dishes to wash, no extra food to cook, no children to put to bed, no engaging conversation, no nothing.

“No life!”, some friends would say. But the stillness of silence suits me in a way few people living the urban life or being in relationship could ever understand. For the past five evenings I have dwelled in the company of just myself and found it very satisfying and very nourishing. Unlike the bear, I have not slumbered when sitting by the fire; rather, my mind and senses are alert and sharp. I look around the room and focus upon object after object. The clarity within me is as crisp as the night air outside. The whole place is alive.

And, if I choose to do so, I am not without a pleasurable activity or two.

The Scrabble board comes out, places are set, score card is at the ready and letters are drawn. I (Pete) play against myself (Repete).

House rules: 
“Floating” blanks are allowed (they can be replaced with the actual letter and reused).
Dictionaries are permitted to be used at any time (what better way to learn new words).
Combined higher scores are preferred over defensive lower scores.
Whenever three of the same letters are drawn, one can automatically be redrawn without losing a turn.
Cookies, chocolate and tea must be available to all.

Last night, however, instead of playing “against myself”, I thought it would be interesting to see how high a score “my partner” and I could achieve, thereby necessitating playing “with myself”. 

No cheating was permitted, but each of us helped the other by opening up the triple word score, positioning words for the other person to take advantage of and, most importantly, agreeing (between us) to keep throwing in letters until we got the ones we needed (this meant losing a lot of turns, but since both of us were doing it, the advantage seesawed back and forth).

It was fierce and it took a lot of strategy on both our parts, but by putting our heads together we got to the final tally of 1153 points.  Six times all the letters were used (worth 300 points in itself). Each of us had one score each of 212 points ("watching" and “requital"). Thanks to the free use of the dictionary, the two most interesting words were “jugum” (a pair of the opposite leaflets of a pinnate leaf) and “poxing” (infecting with syphilis).

Officially, Repete won with 600 points with Pete coming in second with 553, but who’s counting winners or losers?

I went to bed exhausted from all the excitement.

Over the past three years plus, John Kent has delivered around 40 tons of wood for the Peace Fire. He fells and splits the tree by hand. Hard, honest work.

This morning he jumped out of his truck with a gift of gold in his hands. For me. Seven juicy apples.

“I just thought you might like these” he says, in the pure, simple generosity of people who work close to the earth.

Normally, I would take such an act of unsolicited kindness in stride and not give it too much attention other than just a moment of genuine gratitude. However, a recent visitor to Windgrove, who stayed five days, yet contributed next to nothing (work or food) and only seemed to take, made John’s offering that much more appreciated by me. 

Windgrove gets a lot of people passing through. Most are welcome. The hardest to take seriously are those spiritual pilgrims who pride themselves on the years of zazen they have sat or the amount of yoga workshops completed; who lavish plenty of praise upon Windgrove, yet are seemingly unaware of the importance of a work or gift ethic.

For me, these people should stay in California. They buy the best clothing to wear when meditating, and I’m certain they burn the finest incense, but money spent on self or given without humility and respect is a false use of money.

Spiritual arrogance and pride is as rampant as material consumerism. The true pilgrim eschews both.

I’ll take a worker like John Kent any day over a “spiritual” warrior or born again shaman.

Here’s what Marge Piercy says:

To be of use

The people I love the best
jump into work head first
without dallying in the shallows
and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.
They seem to become natives of that element,
the black sleek heads of seals
bouncing like half-submerged balls.

I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,
who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,
who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward,
who do what has to be done, again and again.

I want to be with people who submerge
in the task, who go into the fields to harvest
and work in a row and pass the bags along,
who are not parlor generals and field deserters
but move in a common rhythm
when the food must come in or the fire be put out.

The work of the world is common as mud.
botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums
but you know they were made to be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
and a person for work that is real.