Life on the Edge

Beautiful

You’ve got to get up every morning with a smile on your face
And show the world all the love in your heart
Then people gonna treat you better
You’re gonna find, yes you will
That you’re beautiful as you feel

Carole King came to Hobart last night and gave all of us “oldies” a thrilling concert. (Of the 4,000 people swaying and singing nostalgically in their chairs, maybe 50 were under 40.)

A true elder, she carries her message of love for each other and for this earth to many appreciative people. She reminds us that there is no age where one retires from activism or gives up on trying. And the words from her many songs that held us together in the 70’s are just as relevant today.

Obviously, the above photo is made up people who are not in my generational age group. These are some of the 31 fifteen year old Steiner school students from the mainland who were waiting for me this morning when I arrived back from my overnight trip to Hobart.

I greeted them with:  “You’ve got to get up every morning with a smile on your face and show the world all the love in your heart.”

Beyond that, my close aboriginal friend, Harri, led the students in a day long ritual of talking up mother earth and finding the specialness and beauty that was unique to each one of them. They were sent out in search of seven objects representing: “who they were, happiness, sadness, love, fear, peace and conflict”.  Then, using jute, string and other fasteners, they bound the seven gathered objects together into single talisman.

Simple, yet powerful and meaningful. Just like Carole King’s music.

At one point we gathered around the Peace Fire and, just like last night, we raised our hands to the sky in appreciation for the love that surrounds us constantly. The words spoken and sung by Harri might have been different from those of Carol King, but the message was universal.

Harri spoke about what the Earth sings to us each and every day.  Let me try to translate:

When you’re down and troubled
And you need some loving care
And nothing, nothing is going right
Close your eyes and think of me
And soon I will be there
To brighten up even your darkest night

You just call out my name
And you know wherever I am
I’ll come running to see you again
winter, spring, summer or fall
All you have to do is call
And I’ll be there
You’ve got a friend

Carole King— You’ve Got A Friend

This morning I shared half of my breakfast mango with a pademelon and her little joey. For anyone familiar with addictive mango behavior, this was a genuine sacrificial gesture.

This is spring time when the land should be abundant with luxuriant, green growth; a time when mothers feeding their young should have an easy time finding the food required to turn the green stuff into milk. However, this land hasn’t had a deep soaking of rain for over 13 months. When I walk around Windgrove, the desperate search for food by the animals is clearly evident. Sagg grasses, normally unpalatable, have been pulled up out of the ground and their base stems eaten. Low hanging eucalypt branches, coastal wattle and blackwood are striped of leaves leaving spare denuded twigs for branches.

It is tough to watch. Hence, the giving of the mango. Well, half of it, anyway.

A superficial gaze over the landscape and one might think that things are okay as there seems to be sufficient “green” covering the ground. This, the result of sprinkles of rain falling casually, periodically over the past 13 months, has kept the top inch of ground moist enough to promote little bursts of grass.

The term I use for this is “desert green”.  A condition where, even though the land seems to be promoting growth, the actual soil is desperately dry. Punch through the thin top layer and the soil comes up powder dry.

Alison Croney and Matthew Mosher were here for five days this past week. Recent graduates of the Rhode Island School of Design, they are in Australia researching and gathering information on sustainable architecture and living. Like all motivated, wide eyed young adults, they are searching for clues to answer the questions: Is there a future for humanity on this earth? If so, how might they contribute?

When artists and others come to Windgrove, I usually ask nothing of them other than they use their time here in a way to nurture themselves. I won’t pretend that a week here will give anyone anything more than a sprinkling of inspiration. In order to leave Windgrove without just a “desert green” glow on their faces will require a lifetime of furthering the watering of their souls by embracing the diversity and constantly challenging aspects of life.

Allison left a gift of a small, painted totem that she placed at the top of the path leading down to the ocean.
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Matthew wrote several Windgrove poems. One of these is:

Desert Green

It’s called desert green
When the rain lasts just long enough
to wash sea salt off she-oaks
The grass grows just enough
for the wallabies to cut it back to stems
but the moisture in the soil
falls and falls away
The she-oaks thirst for thirteen months
as waves rumble on Roaring Beach,
spray sea salt in the air.

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Just as I was finishing writing today’s blog, I received via email the poem below from my African friend and long time warrior for the earth and social justice, Bev Reeler. I feel compelled to offer it alongside Matthew’s poem and Alison’s totem as a way of honouring all three people’s journeys. For two of them, the path to awareness and wisdom is just beginning whilst Bev’s path is well and truly trodden. 

I offer the best of wishes to Matthew and Allison. May they never lose sight of their, now, fresh and youthful desire to foster peace.

I offer the best of wishes to Bev for staying true to her path. May her elder years be filled with an inner peace.
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Holding the Focus
to all the unseen heroes
November 2006
 
for so many years they have
been witness
to the process of destruction
 
they have given their lives to counting and recording
 
numbers .....
of baton marks on the soles of feet
of AIDS orphans
of deaths
of hungry mouths
of rapes
illegal arrests
torture victims
 
they have stitched the wounds
filmed and photographed and told the stories
and have held this mirror
to the world
 
How does one carry the witnessing of so much pain?
is it still possible to turn the gaze
and watch the planet turning
is it still possible to rest your souls?
 
we thank you
 

 
 

You’re looking at the two structures I have had to build over the years to protect the vegetable seedlings so that they can reach their highest, fullest and most delicious potential.

Yes, protect them with a covering of chicken wire from munching possums, wallabies and the larger birds.  Protect them from the drying effects of winds out of the north and salt laden winds from the south and west with a covering of clear plastic around the sides.

It’s interesting that “protect” comes from the latin protegere—the cover in front; the shield.

Here, though, I’m protecting more than just the front. The whole dome is covered.

And, if dome comes from domus (house), than I am protecting my house.

The treasures being protected inside this house are beans, spinach, pumpkins, parsley, rosemary, squash and six varieties of tomatoes.  At the end of the growing season I’ll harvest around $100 worth of vegetables.  The cost of the domes to date is over $1,500.

Worth it?  You bet.  Because I’m also protecting, besides my health, my sanity. I will remain more sane whenever I enter these two domes to water, weed and nurture.  Self serving?  Possibly.  But I intend to share the wealth.

Just ask this little bird perched on the edge of its own swimming pool.  It looks straight at me and chirps a big thank you for protecting its little life with plenty of fresh water.

Two stories— somewhat related

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One:
Nothing like returning to the teat for a bit of nourishing milk..... while one is still young?

Years ago, while living on Cheju Island in Korea (1969, 1970), I was told the folk tale about the father who went up to his son’s wife, pulled down the top of her dress and began sucking on her breasts. When the son angrily confronted his father, the father said: “Years ago you sucked on my wife’s breasts; I’m just calling in the debt”.

The story was a Korean morality tale about filial responsibility.

For how many thousands of years has Mother Earth looked after us adolescent humans? For sure, we owe a hugh debt to her. Is Climate Change a signal for pay back time?

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Two:
Nothing like returning to the womb..... at any time?

This week, in preparation for my trip to China, I have been reading an autobiography by Kong Demao, a 77th generation direct descendant of Kong Fuzi (or, as we know him, Confucius). She relates this story:

.......In the tall grass to the south-west of Confucius’ tomb, there was a slanting cave which was narrow at the mouth but which broadened inside.  The servants and old nurses, who wouldn’t allow us to go near it for fear of us falling in, told us the story behind it. The cave was called the Oil Basket Tomb or Cattle Pen Grave and was a relic of the Qin dynasty (221-206 BC). At the time, old people who lived past the age of sixty were buried alive. Filial sons were naturally loather to treat their parents in this way, so they dug “oil basket tombs” for the old people to live in. Each night they would lower food and drink to them in bamboo baskets. Many such tombs were used by the Kong clan at the time.

In the end, Mother Earth receives us, yet again, back into her womb.  From dust to dust, as they say. From earth, back into earth.