Life on the Edge

Sometimes in the mail a letter from the other side of the world arrives whose contents helps put my Tasmanian experience into a global perspective. What I would like to share is excerpts from such a letter plus a poem sent to me yesterday by my friend, Bev Reeler, who now lives in exile in South Africa after having had to leave her home in Zimbabwe because of death threats to her husband. Unlike some of us in Tasmania who would put all our efforts into one issue (refugees or old growth forests), Bev has worked continuously and tirelessly over the years as an activist for both social and environmental justice because she firmly believes that the two are inextricably linked and that to resolve either issue requires the resolution of the other. Bev Reeler’s present work is offering Deep Ecology workshops to victims of torture and social injustice.   November 1, 2003 Dear Peter, During this week’s Tree of Life workshop we were visited by the South African National Intelligence Agency and a local white farmer. This followed two visits during the previous week’s workshop when 5 hours of our precious two and a half days were spent being interviewed by the South African Police on two separate visits: one from the police in Groot Marico and one from Zeerust.  They were responding to the complaint from the farmer who had seen 'new blacks in the area' - they said they were investigating a MDC training camp  (run by 3 grey haired white women!).    Today I have felt overwhelmed by the task of healing in an environment that is designed to prevent it. By the unending attrition that seems bent on keeping the victims, victims.   By the phone call from Qulani telling me of the hundreds of refugees being camped outside the home office last Tuesday, trying to get asylum - their once a week try at getting legal - only to be told that they are taking only 4 people and the office will now be closed till December.   Overwhelmed by the phone call from Nkotaso who had got his papers and had been excited at the chance of a job as a waiter - at last.  He had needed shoes for the interview - I wrote him a reference.  "They said I couldn't have a job because Zimbabweans are dishonest.”   Uncomprehending at the lack of empathy or sanctuary, in a country which was given solidarity during the South African struggle for democracy and freedom.   Overwhelmed by the constant rhetoric from the African leaders that Mugabe is a hero going through a difficult time.   Writing about the workshop in the following poem, “Late October - New Moon in Groot Marico”, has brought me back from my anger, rage and tears - to remember that there is - floating down a river towards the Limpopo, a small spark of hope.   much love, Bev Late October - New Moon in Groot Marico I sit in a circle with a group of young men -some the age of my son young bright faces marred and scarred  by torture and violation   Young intelligent eyes dimmed and darting weary and fearful   Young lives used as tools in another’s battle for power   Sitting in a circle with both perpetrators and victims all in refuge in a foreign country for the same reason   We sit in this circle -with the intention of healing   A silent line of people walking out into a deep green valley following a river of pure mountain water   walking our mother earth asking for healing asking for help in this enormous journey   touching the trees the rocky sandstone cliffs asking for healing for the courage to tell our stories   Back to the circle to remember our roots - our ancestors, grandmothers, totems - our stories of childhood of the hopes and fun and hardships how the small seed grew into this tree   We walk to the river asking for healing the courage to remember and let go the courage to forgive   Back to the circle to tell the stories of the reasons for our leaving our home the mothers, the predawn stars as they let out the cattle   We hear of the torture and the unseen scars of the burnt homes of the violence committed the raiding of townships which housed their relatives the torment the running away   different tribes same tribe different side same sides perpetrator and victim random selection look across the room   trust that they have heard the stories that the suffering was the same that this can change   We sit in a circle reaping the fruits that these young seeds have been able to gather on this awesome journey   They sit higher bodies lighter their eyes begin to meet   they speak of their courage their ability to endure their adaptability their learning to trust to talk to people of other tribes the courage to stand alongside themselves to survive a foreign country of God of hope Hearing their wisdom   A silent line weaves its way down to the river and meets in the tall green forest On a small fire we burn symbols of what we would like to leave behind fear/distrust/abused friendships   A silent line stands by the river each one throws a symbol of our hope for the future ash from our evening fire small flowers and leaves floating down the river one day to join the Limpopo to our home

...."The surgeon had only bad news for the large group of friends who were keeping vigil at the hospital (the surgery took 3 or 4 hours). He said these tumors don't respond to treatment. It sounds hopeless...." Arriving yesterday morning, the above email concerning a friend's brain tumor was not encouraging. Later, on my way over to the Peace Fire to offer prayers, I passed a glance at the emerging spiral from the Womb of the Earth. Supposedly symbolising hope, it didn't seem any too hopeful. A damp, light mist hung in the air and even though the frogs croaked noisily in appreciation of the wet, the thought of a good person dying young coloured me grey. Looking at the seemingly "distant" spiral across the ashen waters of the pond, I wasn't able to draw any comfort with prayers of: "may Paula's tumors dissolve into nothingness" or "may Paula have many more years of happiness". Notwithstanding my belief in the healing power of thought, these prayers seemed inadequate and hollow, somehow pushing falsely against the reality of the cycles of birth, life, death, birth, life, death that I see swarming around me daily at Windgrove. It seemed more appropriate to pray that Paula, while she lay recovering in the hospital, be fully present with each passing breath and that she cherish each second of her earthly consciousness and was not consumed with what tomorrow might bring or not bring. It also seemed more kindly that her friends not pray so much for her future, but that they just love her fully in the moment. Later again while talking with a friend, Elizabeth, about "hope", she presented me with her concept of "presencing hope"; about how, when her daughter was born with a supposedly terminal condition, she learned to live each minute second by second. Here, she held her daughter in the love of that particular moment and did not allow the future, whatever it might be, to push into the day with its distant hopes or fears. Out of this simple, yet difficult task of just "being present", an envelope of hope did emerge to surround each moment. Out of this focused presence, came a hopeful halo that hung delicately in the air with just enough glow to allow those in the darkened room to see the smiling, cheerful face of the baby who shouldn't have been alive. A smile so precious in that instant that its presence was enough to distil any sense of hopelessness for the future into a tiny, yet grounded "presence of hope" that floated ever so tenderly out into the world beyond. By staying present with the goodness of each moment, hope was born within Elizabeth. Although fragile as a spider's web, this presencing hope would continually whisper that at the end of that minute or that hour or that day Hannah would still be with them. And, seven years later, she is. ******************** Smile, Paula. We're all smiling with you.

Exactly a year ago today, on October 6, I began the simple ritual of going into the surf daily. When I first wrote about this to my dear friend, Debra Frasier, she sent back an email all full of worry. I replied, in part, with the following: "I am standing on the beach looking out across Storm Bay and into 2000 miles of open ocean. I am thinking of what you wrote in your email; about dangers and needless risks and the need to exercise good judgement. I question myself on why I am down here, on this Sunday, in this weather, standing like a clown with my blue flippers and tiny green, blue and white boogie board with its four foot black cord strapped tightly onto my wrist. It all looks so ridiculous. But only in the same way that a devout atheist might look upon a Muslim kneeling down to pray on a crowded city street in the middle of the day and view this as ridiculous. I am here to pray. It is a very physical manner of praying and it is guiding me into a deeper relationship with life. I am here on this Sunday to receive the sacrament from the most holy of waters. The breakers coming in are not fearsome; they are a chorus of white angles rolling in the aisles singing their praises of this world. Before joining that great hallelujah chorus in the pews out back, I pray a simple prayer asking that we humans learn to revere, once again, this wonderful and incredible planet we all call home. I walk into the baptism willingly and with a hugh love welling in my heart. I take a moment to acknowledge my humble gratitude to this great body of sacred water by dipping my face into her wetness fully. I come up kissing. I come up praising. So don't you worry about me, Debra. I intend to be around for the complete unfolding."

This morning, both in honour of the completion of this first year of surfing and of my long standing friendship with Debra, I planted out a friendship circle of trees. Look closely at the photo above and you will see a tiny whitish circle with a tinier red wheelbarrow next to it. The deliberately chosen site is out in the open, exposed, with infertile soil, prone to salt spray, intense winds, drying summer heat, cracking earth and rapacious rabbits, wallabies and even currawongs hungry for anything. I figure that since our friendship has seen tougher times and survived, these trees will grow just fine. Around the circumference there are 27 tree placements; one for every year we have known each other (since 1976). Inside each of these 27 protective bags, two she-oaks have been planted side by side within the single dug hole. (How's this for a symbol of a close friendship?). All up, this makes for 54 trees or about the half way point between our respective ages of 57 and 50 (sorry for the public outing Debra).

As the seedlings are only about six inches tall at the moment, it will take fifteen or more years for each set of twins to grow large enough to embrace and interlink their branches with those next to them. Whether I'll get the chance to sit inside this tight circle of woven friendships, we'll just have to wait and see. In the meantime, I'll keep watering. In the "after"time, I'll be around watching and helping out where I can. Forever flying in with friends to check out the sunset.

Twelve years ago today on 25 February 2001, the house that I had designed and helped build burned to the ground in an arson lit bushfire with a total loss of everything; and I mean everything. One of the first friends on the scene was Robyn Eckersley (pictured in the background waving) who, along with two other friends, Lorne Kriwoken and Nel Smit, enclosed me with hugs and tears, joyful that I did not go up in smoke along with the house. Robyn's partner, Peter Christoff, stands beside a small grove of she-oaks that were planted out in 1992 after I purchased Windgrove with the insurance money. So far 3,600 trees have been put across the land. Instead of lamenting my loss back in 1991, today I celebrated the growing beauty of these new trees with a walking recitation of the following (slightly altered) poem from an unknown author: "Where the morning sees the shadows Of the she-oak grove, there was nothing eleven years ago. Where the dry wind sowed the salted cliff top We brought water, planted seedlings, now the she-oaks grow."

I went to my open air studio early this morning to continue carving a sculpture for an upcoming exhibition, but the mood of the flies (because of an impending rain) was so bad, their continual harassment of my face drove me back into the safety of the house. This turned out to be a good thing as two friends were in the meditation space softly singing and making my being inside quite enjoyable. Krista Bernard (with guitar) has recently completed a solo, four year bicycle journey from Indonesia to Egypt. Her intent was to travel inwardly as she moved through her outward experiences and changing landscapes. Her "Bi" or double travels are worthy of publication. Any publishers out there? Katie "Ginko" Stackhouse (on the floor making garments) is a legal guardian of Windgrove's future and visits often to replenish her soul. An excitable spokesperson for the earth, her youthful vitality and artistic talents (music, printmaking, cake baking and dance) always enliven and contribute to the healing atmosphere of this place.