Life on the Edge

A couple of years ago (16 December 2005) I ran the above photo along with a Mary Oliver poem “Pink Pond”. What I didn’t mention then, but will do so now, is that the pink leafy Duck Weed, although beautiful in its colouring of greens and reds, is considered a pest in most ponds because of its ability to spread over the entire surface of the water and choke out any sunlight getting past this barrier to plants below. The usual method of dealing with this is to periodically rake the pond and keep the percentage of surface area covered by the plant below about 5% because, as it grows exponentially, once it reaches 30% or more of the pond’s surface, it is only a matter of days before the whole pond is covered.

For years I have been diligent in keeping the ponds relative clear of duck weed. This year, however, in a personal attempt to do something positive in dealing with climate warming I have allowed the duck weed to run rampant on the pond. Purpose: to allow the plants to achieve as much carbon capture as possible. Once the pond is covered I rake off a portion to use as mulch and compost in Sally’s and my vegetable garden (a form of carbon sequestration). Nothing fancy, mind you, but it seems to me that this approach is achieving more practical results than all the fancy talk in Bali where, once again, America, Canada, Japan and Australia balk at becoming serious in dealing with climate change. These countries are all obstructionist talk and no action. They keep worrying about “the economy” without seriously understanding the dire economic future of this world if minimal targets are not set now.

Harvesting the duck weed is symbolic of taking a negative situation and turning it into something positive and useful. The garden will certainly benefit and surprisingly, the hundreds of tadpoles feeding leisurely off the roots of the “protective” duck weed not having to worry about Mr. Snake and Miss Heron are enjoying a field day (or should I say “pond day”?)

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.

I know that I’ve recently written about the struggles encountered when planting trees, but don’t get the impression that Windgrove is a barren landscape. Yes, there are former pasture areas that need replanting, but there are other areas that are pretty well full of trees. Walking around the property at any time of the year is a joyfull experience, during late August/early September it is an experience in yellow. And not just “yellow”. I’m talking about “pale yellow”, “green yellow”, “yellow yellow”, “white yellow”; you name it, it is here in abundance.

The top photographs give a hint of the blackwood tree with its masses of very soft, lightly delicate, almost deceptive yellow. I say “hint” because there are hundreds of these trees in blossom now and it is next to impossible to convey the full magic of their presence. To stand next to them or under them or within them is pure delight.

And in cahoots with the blackwood tree there is the coastal wattle. Both belong to the acacia family with distinctive prominent longitudinal veins on their leaves, but their blossoms are definitely different. 

The eyes certainly have a field day, but....

The sound.

Hundreds of little wings are busy propelling bee bodies from flower to flower. 

And the fragrance.

Close your eyes and slowly fill your nostrils up with honey butter.

It is all a sensory extravaganza.

Earlier in the week as I was repairing several hundred damaged seedling trees that were planted last year and the year before and the year before that, there was a moment when exhaustion overcame me and I lay on the ground to recover both my physical strength and the emotional resolve to finish the task at hand. The extended drought had diminished fodder for the wallabies and, in their desperation to find food, they pushed and trampled the bags surrounding the seedlings in order to nibble on the succulent young foliage.

Everywhere I looked, the wounded.

For fourteen years now I have looked upon the destruction caused by fierce, drying winds and the numerous starving wallabies. While wanting the animals to survive, I also want the young trees to survive. Looking at the continuous devastation can, at times, drop me. Coming across a tree striped of all its leaves, when only a month ago it was nearly three feet tall and bursting to reach the sky, forces me to take a breath and find that deep reserve of energy to, once again, re-stake, re-mat and re-bag what is left. Sometimes it is only a stubble, smaller than when it was planted. Though many trees have been planted, each is as a child to me and all their collective tiny hurts can add up to something overwhelming.

Somehow, I get through the day and walk home knowing that I did the only thing I could do: fix the wounded one by one and hope.

Hope for their survival. Hope that they’ll sprout new leaves, new branches and make it through the coming year without being trampled down yet again.

In an odd way, their struggle is my struggle. Their survival is my survival; our survival. Our little group’s survival is the world’s survival.

With the recent war in Lebanon in mind and while pondering how to write the above story of the trees into today’s blog, I came across this Viet Nam war poem by John Balaban. I can’t quite articulate how it relates, but there is a connection here somewhere between the lines and between the lives of the trees, the wallabies, myself and the human family of people in the poem.

WORDS FOR MY DAUGHTER

I want you to know the worst and be free from it.
I want you to know the worst and still find good.
Day by day, as you play nearby or laugh
with the ladies at People’s Bank as we go around town
and I find myself beaming like a fool,
I suspect I am here less for your protection
than you are here for mine, as if you were sent
to call me back into our helpless tribe.

Sometimes a little forethought can prevent larger problems. Therefore, several seedlings were planted out yesterday in the large circle as a test.

Next year I hope to establish in this 500 foot diameter circle a pentagram made up of 3000 Dagger Hakea and 300 White Flag Iris. As a lot of time will be saved if the seedlings don’t need protecting from the marauding wallabies, it is best to know now whether or not these particular plants are seen as delicious fodder for the wildlife or the equivalent of broccoli to children. Acting as sort of guinea pigs, if they get eaten I will have to erect a wallaby proof fence around the perimeter of the circle; a distance of around 1,500 feet or 500 meters. Not cheap. My fingers are crossed.

Looking at the above photo, it is obvious that I was not the one doing the digging. Because of my bad knee, I got to lie on the ground and bask in the sun. Mind you, watching someone else do all the work, is work in itself.

**********

A helping hand deserves a helping leg in return. Later in the day, I found myself lying down on the job again.

To practice the location of acupuncture points, Sally used me as a guinea pig, as well.

Today in Tasmania and elsewhere around the world, the movie, The Da Vinci Code, opens in countless theatres. I haven’t read Dan Brown’s book, but numerous friends have and I’ve decided to use one of the symbols written about within the book as part of a major landscape feature.

The Pentagram is a five pointed star that must be drawn with five lines to create the interior pentagon. Long associated with the planet Venus and the worship of the goddess Venus, it is thought to have originated from the observations of prehistoric astronomers. When viewed from Earth, successive inferior conjunctions of Venus plot a nearly perfect pentagram shape around the Sun every eight years.

Although historically used in many religious faiths including Christian, it is most commonly used today as a Neopagan symbol to represent earth, air, fire and water plus the fifth element of quintessence of Spirit.

My kind of symbol. Especially as there have been fundamentalist Christian attempts to ban its being worn on clothing in American schools.

I will use a surveyor to plot out Windgrove’s pentagram within an existing circle established a few years ago on the hill behind the Peace Garden. This circle’s diameter is 500feet/150 meters. Nice and large. The pentagon, itself, within the pentagram, will measure 100 feet/30 meters across. Try to visualize the drawing of the pentagram (first image) being laid down onto this hillside circle. 

To fill in the star’s form, I will plant 3000 dagger hakeas. (The photo above shows a similar type of hakea growing next to my house.) This is a rather dense small tree and, because they will be planted just one metre/three feet apart, they will be impenetrable to all but wombats and rabbits. The best part is that in May of each year, this neddle sharp hakea bursts into white flowers.

Obviously, not an easy task. My friends, Dave and Zoe, who run the Frog Hollow native plant nursery, will be gathering seed and germinating the tiny plants. They will be ready next year at this time. Then, somehow, we’ll figure out how to put this many seedlings into the ground.

In around five years time, the first white blossoming pentagram will occur. How magical. I wonder if it will attract three wise women?

Lichens maintain a symbiosis with cyanobacteria which photosynthesise for the lichen in return for safe housing and a supply of nutrients.

Many lichens are extremophiles.

Great word, isn’t it?  Extremophile: lover of extreme conditions. Whether the hottest, driest, wettest or coldest place on earth, lichens can be found. Shows what level of protection living with a partner can provide.

In terms of biomass, the global weight of lichens is greater than all the biomass in the oceans. Must mean that partnered living is the way to go. So why am I still single approaching 60? 

Nothing like a little bubbly out on the point at sunset to celebrate today’s completion of planting out 1,500 trees; around four times the norm. Visiting resident artist, Melanie, joins in with a deserving glass after having taken time out from her studio throughout the week to give a helping hand with over 300 trees. Three cheers.

This was an immense project and my body feels it. Even after four massages, countless mornings with a hot water bottle strapped to my back and 15 hot baths (outside under the eucalypt), I might not be able to walk easily again until the weary body gets a few weeks rest.

So why the obsession? Why put myself through such physical pain?

The simple answer is that I love doing it. There is a positive emotional pay back that far outweighs the wobbly walk back home pushing the empty wheelbarrow. For an obsessive six weeks I have been obsessively smiling (well, almost). I mean, how much more honest can a day’s work get?

This afternoon, when Melanie and I placed the last three trees in the ground in a special triangle configuration, we knew that something special, something of real significance had happened. The land also knew.

And the reason for the large number this year is that I want to have already planted out 6,000 trees when I celebrate my 60th birthday in 2006 in the 6th month.  Something about being able to walk with authenticity as one enters the elder years.

May all the 6,000 trees now planted at Windgrove have healthy, long lived lives and may each “tree being” see many years of sunsets. Knowing that there are two she-oaks on the property that are over 300 years old as well as a few silver peppermints that are considered “pre-European”, I would guess that these young seedlings have a long life ahead of them.

May the pagan in each of us blossom.