Life on the Edge

Yesterday I splashed out on a new pair of cream coloured pants and a green shirt in order to be a little more presentable than normal at an upcoming wedding in two weeks. (My wardrobe of well worn, mostly work clothes, has now been increased by about 20%). Driving home from Hobart with my fresh purchases folded neatly in a stylish Rivers clothing bag, I began to wonder how long it would be before what was so new in the bag would become just another thread bare cloth that carried more dirt than fashion on its sleeves.

The photo shows where some rotten boards were replaced this past week. We constantly build, make new, repair and then throw away. The cells in our bodies do it daily; my wardrobe gets madeover every few years; the house Sally and I live in gets mended somewhere in-between.

Just like the constantly changing physical dimensions happening within and around us, can the same be said of our emotional or spiritual lives? Have any of those fond, happy memories of the past become too faded to keep around anymore and should they be discarded? Are there any emotional decking boards, once solid, now rotten, that need to be replaced? Those spiritual teachings I wrap myself in, are they still giving me warmth or protection from whatever lurks out there?  Do I really want to be so green in my life that I “recycle” and “reuse” whatever emotional baggage I have been hauling around? Probably not.

Looking now at the bag containing my new shirt and pants, I cast my mind back to the time when I sat next to a young girl on a train in Germany in 1990. The Berlin Wall had just come down and I was travelling from the former, more affluent West Berlin to the more impoverished East German town of Potsdam. On the train were many East Germans who had just been, probably for the first time ever, into West Berlin to visit relatives and to purchase whatever they could afford of the many consumer goods available there. The girl was about fifteen, not poorly dressed, but definitely poor. She held a brown paper bag on her lap. Held it tightly, as though holding onto a treasure; possibly fearful that someone might take it from her. I imagined that she had spent whatever little money she had on whatever it was that was hidden in the bag.

She travelled alone. Never spoke a word. But every few minutes the girl would carefully unfold the rolled down top of the paper bag and take a peek at her secret. Then a smile would spread across her face. A very sweet, happy smile. And my heart opened and I felt happy for her too; happy that the Wall had come tumbling down and that the East could once again move freely into and out of the West.

No longer content to just look at her treasure, the girl started to reach in and hold the object for a short while before pulling her hand back out and refolding the bag. And all the while wearing her smile.

My curiosity got the better of me and I began to lean into her a little whenever she opened the bag in an attempt to see what was down there. Every jerky train movement would have my head and eyes fall nearly on top of her, but to no avail. Whatever was in there was tiny and impossible to see.

Finally, she reached in with both hands and pulled it out. It was a little jar of “Ponds Beauty Cream”. She opened it and with eyes closed put the slightest dab on her young face. She was glowing with joy and, although I was happy for her present happiness, I also felt a touch of sadness for this young girl because, to me, she had taken that first slippery step along the path towards living in our “western” seductive consumerist society where advertising dictates whether or not you have the right goods to be loveable. After she went through that first jar of “expensive” cream to make herself more beautiful and nothing happened, what next?

This was 18 years ago. The young girl of then would now be in her mid 30’s. I wonder if she still has managed to keep that sweet smile on her face? Does she do it by walking in the forests near her home or by yet another train trip, but this time to Paris, Amsterdam or London?

I look into my own bag and do feel a little guilty for spending money on some new clothes. I think of the wedding I bought them for though. I think of the young girl again, close my eyes and imagine being at my own wedding when Sally and I get married. A sweet smile comes across my face and I feel an urge to dance, and dance and dance.

Twenty years ago my optometrist told me that because of a mild astigmatism in each of my two eyes I should wear glasses to correct both the near and far “imperfections” of my sight. I took his advice for reading and sculpting, but didn’t care to increase the focal length of “perfect” vision beyond reading because of the hassle of dealing with glasses while being outdoors. Besides, it wasn’t such a big issue in that even with my diminished focusability I could still enjoy all that passed before me. All, that is, except the stars. They just weren’t crisp and pinpoint sharp as in my youth. Nightly I yearned to gaze upon them with focused clarity and marvel once again at their scintillating brilliance where each distinct star was full of planetary potential capable of being home to untold numbers of exquisite life forms.

Yesterday I picked up my new “star gazing” glasses and when I first put them on back at Windgrove to look into the huddle of trees near the house, well, it was nothing short of a miracle. Such clarity. The peelings of bark and each individual twig with each individual leaf stood out clearly in all their radiant selfness as though a dirty window had been washed clean. I could see more “into” the tree than ever before and I felt like a scientist with some giant high resolution microscope able to differentiate the numerable parts of the whole. All afternoon I stared in awe at the squeeky clean highly defined world before my eyes.

Slowly, though, I began to feel like some sort of peeping Tom peering into the inner workings of the more secret private life of the tree. The increased clarity was certainly welcome, but thinking about it now, maybe I don’t need to see so clearly and with such individuation each of the component parts that make up the whole. Maybe I only need to wear my new miracle glasses just occasionally like on cold nights to view a pointillist Milky Way. Maybe I bit of fuzziness to fuse the world back together into a single tapestry of color and light is okay. Like a Monet painting. Like the following poem:

Monet Refuses the Operation

Doctor, you say there are no haloes
around the street lights in Paris
and what I see is an aberration
caused by old age, an affection.
I tell you it has taken me all my life
to arrive at the vision of gas lamps as angels,
to soften and blur and finally banish
the edges you regret I don’t see,
to learn that the line I called the horizon
does not exist and sky and water,
so long apart, are the same state of being.
Fifty-four years before I could see
Rouen cathedral is built
of parallel shafts of sun,
and now you want to restore
my youthful errors: Fixed
notions of top and bottom,
the illusion of three dimensional space,
wisteria separate
from the bridge it covers.
What can I say to convince you
the houses of parliament dissolve
night after night to become
the fluid dream of the Thames?
I will not return to a universe
of objects that do not know each other,
as if islands were not the lost children
of one great continent. The world
is flux, and light becomes what it touches,
becomes water, liles on water
becomes lilac and mauve and yellow
and white and cerulean lamps,
small fists passing sunlight
so quickly to one another
that it would take long, streaming hair
inside my brush to catch it.
To paint the speed of light!
Our weighted shapes, these verticals,
burn to mix with air
and change our bones, skin, clothes
to gases. Doctor,
if only you could see
how heaven pulls earth into its arms
and how infinitely the heart expands
to claim this world, blue vapor without end.

...... Lisel Mueller

"We are travelers on a cosmic journey—stardust, swirling and dancing in the eddies and whirlpools of infinity. Life is eternal. But the expressions of life are ephemeral, momentary, transient. Gautama Buddha, the founder of Buddhism, once said,

This existence of ours is as transient as autumn clouds.
To watch the birth and death of beings is like looking at the movements of a dance.
A lifetime is like a flash of lightning in the sky,
Rushing by like a torrent down a steep mountain.

We have stopped for a moment to encounter each other, to meet, to love, to share. This is a precious moment, but it is transient. It is a little parenthesis in eternity. If we share with caring, lightheartedness, and love, we will create abundance and joy for each other. And then this moment will have been worthwhile.”
Deepak Chopra

In last week’s blog, we read that the poet, Kabir, found god in a ceramic vase. In this week’s newspapers, we read that Paris Hilton has found god in jail. The “bearded one” certainly abides in mysterious places.

What about a lump of wood?  Why not? To say that someone is “as thick as two planks of wood” usually connotes a high degree of stupidity. But, if one regards wood as having special characteristics, such as intrinsic value or that God resides within, well, then, just possibly, we could be giving the “two planks” person a fairly high compliment; a compliment usually reserved for the pope or the Dalai Lama.

Take the above close up photo of a piece of split firewood, for instance. With its nice rippling waves and golden color it makes me think of the curly hairs of the goddess, Venus. Definitely sensuous. Lots of places to hide in; certainly better than jail. Moreover, this piece of wood can be inhabited by whomever or whatever I want. This is the artist’s prerogative. Or, the poet’s. Or, the shaman’s.  Or.... the child’s.

As a kid, my understanding of God was defined in the basement Sunday school class beneath the Christian Science church (not to be confused with Scientology). Here, the “Father/Mother” god of founder, Mary Baker Eddy, was gently hammered into our formative brains as being, along with Truth and Love, “Mind”. 

God as mind. Very abstract; very Buddhist.

As a creation story, taking a bit of dust and blowing one’s breath/spirit onto it and creating something that can walk is, to my way of thinking, rather impressive. So, seeing as how kids play with sticks, dolls and anything else and can animate them—i.e., bring them to life in the Biblical sense—it would appear that to be godlike one has to have the mind of a child. Or, at least, the imagination of one; a mind that can easily connect with the greater, sacred whole. Therefore, as adults, since we all have minds, we’re also capable of transforming objects into subjects, nouns into verbs. All it takes is a bit of imagination.

It might be considered child’s play, but to imbue life into the inanimate is certainly the work of a great mind.

Life here at Windgrove gives many opportunities to practice using one’s imagination to see the inner reality of seemingly lifeless objects. Trees do have tongues, stones exude wisdom and teddy bears are compassionate. Grass, clouds, firewood, vases, whatever...... they all hide fantastic personalities within and they all speak from the one Mind. 

And, they can be a great comfort in times of loneliness. 

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
 

 
 

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.

I find it interesting that when I focus my attention on one thing, it reappears in another form elsewhere.

For the past few days I have been painting steel pickets with a white paint. In the full sun they are bright. Painting them forces me to squint. Painting them also forces me to think.

The white stakes were made to mark out the new boundaries of the land being sold.  As I was punching them into the ground a few hundred meters apart, not only did the “whiteness” of the stakes stand out strongly against the background, I also began to think of the color “white” as synonymous with “territory”. 

Walking home, “white” and “territory” popped up everywhere. 

The blossoming native currant bush with its hundreds of tiny white flags beckoned the busy bees to enter into their territorial space.

Out of the blue green ocean the white flag of the cascading wave emerged to beckon surfers into its territorial waters.

After having seen more white in one day than I would normally see in a week—even though the white was always there—I began to think that how a person views the world influences what they see in the world.

Today my focus was on white pickets and marking territory; hence, I saw more of this everywhere than I normally would. Likewise, when a fireman goes home, his senses are more in tune to see fire (or its potential) than mine would be. A police officer has better antenna to notice crime. Lawyers see defamation in every word (and money). 

The Dali Lama? Because he meditates on loving kindness constantly, is he more capable than others in finding the love that resides in everyone and everything?

In other words, given that there is probably an equal amount of joy and suffering in the world, to have more joy in our lives it is not a matter of inventing it or working desperately to create it. We don’t have to do much more than just start seeing it. It is there already. Instead of focusing on the pain of life, squint your eyes and learn to see the abundant beauty that is everywhere, now, calling out to us to come suckle on the sweetness of its nectar. 

And one last thing.

Walking out onto my deck lately, I have noticed the beautiful white, painterly markings left by the tenant kookaburras marking out their territory in the branch above.

While lying in bed this morning, I looked out the window and saw “two lovers” floating in the branches of the eucalypt tree. From being horizontal myself, and from the perspective of the dreamy, newly awakened, this “couple” put a smile on my heart, charmed me into the day and helped heal the pain I was feeling after having slept alone in the window seat/bed while my lover slept in the bedroom.

No, we did not have a fight. We went to bed together (as one is wont to do in any healthy relationship), but early in the night, the aches in my legs and lower back made me squirm so much that I left the bedroom to protect the sleep of my partner, Sally.

It’s the knees. Despite the several, almost daily acupuncture treatments from Sally, a massage in Hobart on Wednesday and continuous heat treatments, the old bones are showing signs of wear and don’t respond so quickly anymore to anything but rest.

But, gosh, there is so much to do. As soon as the ground soften ups with winter rains, there are trees to plant and track maintenance work to be done. On a daily level, fire wood has to be split and wheelbarrowed to the house from the wood shed. The Peace Fire has to be tended to and the Peace Walk has to be walked. Windgrove’s one hundred acres of land have to be looked after and this requires lots of walking and functional knees.

More to the point, even if people came to do all the chores and manage the property, there is still the important act of me “looking at the property”, observing it and listening to it in all its many temperaments and moods. This, also, requires lots of walking and functional knees.

For instance, the photo below was taken yesterday during the running of a large swell. The salt spray moving into the hills was simply, softly beautiful, but to see this I had to walk out to the “Point”, even as my legs hurt, in order to photograph it. Who wants this sort of activity to be curtailed?

Last night, during a dark moment, I cursed at the frailty of my body and worried about the length of time left to be physically active on this earth. A time, possibly short, just when I have entered into the most loving and tender of relationships in my whole life. 

To this morning again.... Seeing “the couple” in the tree allowed me to hold to the thought that, even confined to a window seat, there is always a way to interact with nature and behold its wondrous qualities. As the morning light danced on the branches, I waited in quiet anticipation for the moment my lover would wake and come to join me.