Life on the Edge

The above photo of “giant” spiral snail slugs in the tomato patch was originally “set up” in order to post this year’s April Fool’s Day blog in a manner similar to the jokes of last year and 2004. The story line was to have been along the lines of: potent sea weed compost leads to invasion of tomato eating snail slugs never before seen in the southern hemisphere; probable cause being ballast water from ocean going wood chip freighters.

I say “was” because the recent news concerning the antics of our two major political parties (Labor and Liberal) has taken the humor and fun out of the moment and has made me more angry and pissed off than usual.

Late last week I went to a rally in front of Parliament House in a vain attempt to pressure the parliamentarians inside not to vote on the legislation before them—legislation to fast track the building of a pulp mill instead of having an independent environmental assessment—but to no avail. Only the Greens voted against it with all the Labor and Liberal politicians giving it their assent. 

The only bit of good news was that some of the state and national newspapers (who usually side with the government) were hard on the parliamentarians:

.....Something rotten in the Apple Isle

.....In many democracies it would be enough to trigger an independent commission of inquiry. 

And, although not directly related, the best quote came from the national online journal, Crikey:

...the shallow gene pool that populates state politics with drones, dolts, timeservers and incompetents...

Fairly harsh criticisms, for sure, but it hasn’t “undone” the passing of the legislation. Even this morning on the news, the two major parties continued to defend their actions.

So, no April Fool’s blog on April 1st. Sorry. The fools, I feel, are too much in power and it is depressing to contemplate how much damage they are doing in so many areas.

In fact, the fools are in the garden creating as much destruction as they can and munching away without too much impunity, it seems.

When I contemplate on the sound of the word “garden”, I hear within it the sound/word “guard”. This might not be the true etymology for garden, but it rings true to me. We must guard the garden. We must remain vigilant against the slugs and pests—the drones and dolts—that would infest our gardens.

Not always easy. Not always enjoyable. But necessary, none the less.

I just wish there was an environmentally friendly, non-toxic way of getting rid of Tasmania’s slimy, sleazy slugs.

Today marks another equinoctial day on the year’s calendar where night and day are equal throughout the world. Equal, perhaps, between the amount of hours given to either light or darkness, but not so much a blending of the two. Reminds me of the old, discriminatory, “Separate, but Equal” apartheid laws of America. 

Maybe we should abolish the separateness of light from dark and make the whole of the day a fusion of half light, half dark. What would it be like to walk through a noon landscape that looked more moon lit than sun lit? Colors red, blue and yellow would bleed off into soft greys. The grey hairs on my head would be indistinguishable from the dark hairs of my lover. (Hey, I’m beginning to like this, this dimming of contrasts to a soft, muted togetherness.)

Usually, the color grey connotes ageing and death or the slightly sinister. Ghosts, fog, a grey day, battleship grey, men in grey suits. Not exactly cheerful. But, when I sit down to keep company with grey weathered logs nestled among grey weathered stones, I am moved by their sleepy, slow dissolve into each other. This might be the grey of decay and death, but is there not beauty in this final release of differences and the coming together in balanced rest? My eyes tell me there is.

Maybe heaven is but one joyful mass of grey where beauty lies in the greys of the beholder.

After complaining at the local medical clinic this week that my right testicle was constantly sore, the doctor prescribed Voltaren, a strong anti-inflammatory. Well, the drug didn’t do much for my balls, but it sure did wonders for my knees. For the first time in years, I felt totally free and fleet of foot (like when I was a teenager). No joint pain at night, none while working, none hiking with a heavy pack (carrying stones) and none running. Fantastic. What a thrill.

Remember the 1990 movie, Awakenings, where a man (played by Robert De Niro) is brought out of a decades-long, trance like sleep through the use of the drug L-DOPA?  Loosely based on a true story by neurologist Oliver Sacks, De Niro’s character is exuberant with his new found freedom, but eventually realises that the drug that brought him out of his long term semi-coma is not long lasting enough to permanently keep him “awake” and that, slowly, once again, he will slide back into his isolated world. I will admit to crying when he asks one of the nurses to have a last dance with him. Can anyone even begin to imagine what anguish this man would have felt knowing that soon he would no longer be able to hold onto a woman and move freely, confidently across the dance floor?

Certainly not as dramatic as the movie, but my magic pills put me between a rock and a hard spot, as well. You see, the tiny writing on the package warned that I could take the pills for five days only because of the possible adverse affect on my liver and kidneys with prolonged usage. Aware that my testicular pain is tied in with a kidney that has passed kidney stones and that extra precaution has to be exercised when taking drugs, I knew that my knee’s new found freedom would be short lived.

Sadly, reluctantly, I popped one, last pill, did a little jog on the beach, danced a sweet dance on the lawn and then waited for the return of the ongoing daily ache of arthritic knees.

But...... not before I was able to experience once again what William Stafford wrote:

Most mornings I get away, slip out
the door before light, set forth on the dim, gray
road, letting my feet find a cadence
that softly carries me on. Nobody
is up--all alone my journey begins.

(from the poem, Run before Dawn)

Or..... what Marge Piercy writes: 

It is not the running I love, thump
thump with my leaden feet that only
infrequently are winged and prancing,
but the light that glints off the cattails
as the wind furrows them, the rum cherries
reddening leaf and fruit, the way the pines
blacken the sunlight on their bristles,
the hawk circling, stooping, floating
low over beige grasses,....

(from the poem, Morning athletes)

I’m now back to a slower, more careful walk through life’s wonders. Still, it was a blessing of sorts, those few days when I was transported to a time when the body had no wounds and knew no pain. 

I came across an article this week that talked about a proposal before the English parliament for a 4,000 km continuous corridor of clear and well managed public access along the entire length of England’s coast. Such a great idea. Sir Martin Doughty, Chair of Natural England said: “The principle is clear: the public should have consistent and secure access around their coastline.”

I couldn’t agree more. “Power to the feet”, I say.

Ever since reading Rebecca Solnit’s, Wanderlust: a history of walking, I have been fascinated with, and desirous of, creating paths for people to walk along. Surely, the two kilometre Peace Walk is a working statement of this fact.

However, as beautiful and inspiring as it might be, the Peace Walk is still on private land and the public has no legal access to it. This I don’t intend to change.

But, in total agreement with the English proposal above, I have been working with my local council to create a public footpath along Windgrove’s northern boundary (a distance of around half a kilometre) and all legal hurdles were recently completed after I “sold” a six foot strip of land to the council for $1. This now allows my neighbours and the general public legal access to the Roaring Beach Conservation Area.

As well, I am creating and maintaining a continuation of this path along the western boundary (adjacent with the RBCA) and connecting it to an existing path to the beach.

Some would argue that I am giving up control and privacy; that hooligans and trouble makers will descend like vultures onto the land; that the selling value of the land might even be lessened.

I would argue back that, as an owner of a coastal headland, I am morally obligated to provide this access. Growing up in America where wealthy land owners slowly closed off the public’s access to the coastal areas by building “gated communities”, I have seen how the average citizen can be locked out of experiencing the beauty of such areas.

In a way my motive is selfish. I want the earth’s natural treasures to be preserved. The more paths there are for people to walk or bike along the earth’s body, the more they will come to love her and, hence, protect her.

Instead of hooligans, I see kids with surf boards walking along the path, neighbours out for a stroll and gladdening hearts everywhere.

When I wake up in the morning, I want to wake up feeling kindness to all.