Life on the Edge

After a long trip away, how does one reconnect with home? After speaking in broken sentences for weeks in a foreign language barely understood, where does one relocate the language common to one’s self of well being? Tongues in trees as Shakespeare said?

I ask these questions because it has been just over two weeks since returning to Tasmania from my stay in China and time enough, I would have expected, to have gotten back into some form of rhythm here. Not so.

It was easy enough to open the door and walk into the house that is nestled in the grove of trees on the hill that overlooks the ocean.  Harder, though, has been opening and walking into Windgrove’s larger house: the one that is the hill and the ocean itself.

So daily I venture out of the one house to try and familiarise myself with the other house. Some wanderings start off totally aimless. Other times, I have taken several groups of people around Windgrove’s Peace path or have worked clearing a new footpath through the scrub. But, in the midst of all this, I have kept searching for some clue, some hint, some hook to finally bring me back to this place; this land called Windgrove. My home. Something that will ease me back into a comfort zone of recognition.

Colour, oddly enough, is helping with this process.

And the colour is green. Or, more precisely, lime green.

Yesterday’s evening sun reflected in breaking waves produced such a green.

During recent rains, the wet eucalypt bark cracking off a branch revealed such a green.

The colours I associated with China were red and gold. Here, the signature colour of the land—the fresh perky quality of new green/ spring green—is bathing my spirit with a welcoming home coming.

How marvellous to reunite with such vibrancy.

This calls for a gin and tonic. And, a slice of lime, for sure. 

I’ve been back for over a week now from China and have found the process of settling back into a “normal” routine is taking longer than expected. For sure, I am more than happy to be back on home soil and tending to the Peace Fire and such, but like the photo above, a partial fog hovers over my mood like a soft blanket of sadness.

For the past few days I have been mulling over what this feeling is about and from whence it comes. This morning I received the following email from my partner, Sally, who, after three months of living in China, is leaving in a couple of days to return to Australia. What she writes points towards this difficulty of adjustment.

I am sad to be leaving. Ready for a change from the hospital hours, but there is a part of me that would like to stay and enrich the relationships that have been slowly building, learn the language and get to know this nation’s people a little more. I will miss their friendliness and their gentle innocent humour. There is such a softness to the people here, and a softness between the people and an ability to live so easily amongst one-another, or on top of one-another. There is a basic acceptance of human nature and survival that I’m not sure exists at home. Less ego. Less toes to be stepped on (even though there are more toes around.)

Wandered through the streets. Lots of activity, different smells, red lanterns, street stalls cooking meat, flute music here, rock music there, handbags and high-heels, cars honking, bicycles, people. How will Australia feel after all of this?? I will miss this crazy place.

What she writes encapsulates clearly the pain all travellers experience (must experience) after immersing themselves into another culture and then choosing to move on to another place or returning home. 

And “home” is never quite the same again. When I returned home last week after dark and after a 30 hour flight, two things stood out: the total lack of sound and the unpeopled sense of emptiness. No wind, no waves hitting the beach, no animal noises. It was as though the land had fallen quiet out of respect for what I had left behind. Eerie, it was.

So, we do the simple things to stay in touch; to rekindle the memories.  Mornings still find me carrying on the practice of learning the Chinese language. I’m also looking into taking Chinese cooking lessons. More importantly, though, the stone from Taishan Mountain that I swapped with the Roaring Beach stone is now nestled among the other stones on the Ancestral Midden (it’s the brown and white one near centre bottom of the photo).

It gets a special pat on my daily visit to the Peace Garden.

A fitting ending to my month long stay in China was to climb Tai Shan (Peaceful Mountain); the most climbed mountain in China and the most revered of its five sacred mountains.

Getting to the base of the mountain for the start of the climb provided the usual minor hassles – taxi to bus station, bus to Tai’an, find a bank when we realized we didn’t have enough money and then a 2nd taxi ride to the trail head.

Once walking, everything changed into a lovely, quiet, winter stroll up the mountain past shrines, temples, old cypress trees, tea shops and idyllic scenic spots. Truly wonderful. Actually, stroll isn’t the correct word to use because it was a steady uphill walk till we reached the mid-way point (about a 800metre/2500 foot rise in elevation over five kilometres). 

The second half was shorter in length, but much steeper. Being the weak kneed coward that I am, the cable car ride proved a god-send and I was able to arrive at the summit with enough energy to walk around it and explore things a bit more. Looking down upon the stairs from above was certainly less tiring than looking up at the cable car from below.

The cable car didn’t quite go to the very top and there were still plenty of stairs to climb. And I mean stairs. From the base of Tai Shan to the top there are supposedly 6660 of them. The amount of work that would have gone into the cutting and laying of these many granite steps and paving squares boggles the mind. They were certainly built to last. Winding their way through the trees and, more or less in an upward direction, their beauty added a another aspect to the walk.

One very important aspect of coming to Tai Shan was to place a Roaring Beach stone in some out-of-the way, protective spot. Just below the summit, in a sheltered, sunny location I both hid the stone and picked up another to bring back to Windgrove. For whatever reason (conscious or unconscious) there was in doing this “swap”, it felt plain honest good and I look forward to placing the Tai Shan stone on the Ancestral Midden back at Windgrove.

At the summit of 1,545 metres, a sense of closure to my Chinese adventure and a profound good feeling towards the Chinese people came into my heart.  They have their problems, certainly, and the land is suffering greatly, but my overwhelming sense of the people (at least, in ShangDong Province) is that at their core there is a selfless sense of well being that exudes a generous kindness to all. If the world is to have 9 billion people living on it, the Chinese will be the most capable of living together.

And once any summit is reached, the only alternative is to turn around and find your way back down to where you started. In my case, Australia.

Winter came briefly to Jinan this past Saturday. Exciting, but at the same time a bit of bother as this was supposed to be the day Sally and I were going to the town of Qufu, the birthplace of Confucius. After sitting in snarled traffic for nearly an hour and only getting half way to the bus station, we told the taxi driver to turn around and take us back to the hotel.

Changed plans, however, meant that we were able to climb the hills back of Jinan and visit two Buddha sculptures carved into the cliffs. Following narrow trails, we got (almost) lost, but seeing these two, relatively unknown Buddhas in the snow and silence were a welcome change from the usual din of a noisy city.

On Sunday we took another chance, caught the bus and headed two and a half hours through the mist south to Qufu.  Here, we were able to spend the day (although cold and wet) walking through the Confucius Temple, the Kong family’s Mansion and the Confucius Forest (a 200 acre cemetery where the Kong descendants of Confucius are still being buried today; Confucius being a romanization of Kong Fuzi, meaning Master Kong).

As a sculptor, what most fascinated me was the exquisite carvings and attention to detail that was evident everywhere. Although a bit weary with age, the technical mastery and former grandeur was still evident (with a slight squint of the eyes and a bit of imagination).

In the vast cemetery, the lightly falling mist provided a gentle, mysterious aura over this ancient site. Couple this with limited people around (alive, that is) and being able to walk around by myself, my sense of time was transported back two thousand years and more. At times, I truly felt as though I was with those very Chinese sages and peasants who walked this land those many years ago.

Finding myself alone with a 1,500 year old cypress tree, I did the old tree hugger trick and wrapped my arms tightly around it. Within a few moments of meditative prayer, faint whispers came through the trunk. I pressed my ear against this certainly wise old tree. I distinctly heard: “Confucius says: Baseball all wrong – man with four balls cannot walk.”

Upon returning to Jinan we were able to catch a bit of New Year’s fun and bring in 2007 with a night out on the town.