Life on the Edge

Good Friday and Easter are reminders, even for non-Christians, of the importance of allowing oneself to venture into the "cave"; into darkness, mystery and the unknown. Three days seemingly dead and then a rebirth. Just like the moon when it disappears from view for three days only to reappear as a thin crescent of hope waxing, yet again, into fullness. Do any of us avail ourselves to this call? Do we allow ourselves to enter into the dark well of our being? Why are we so afraid of this part of nature's cycle? To be born requires gestation in the womb; any womb. For adults to be born again, this might require an entrance into Earth's womb before an exit into newness is possible. Maybe it just isn't possible to always be in the light if one truly wants to see.

Once again I have found reason to smile at the appropriateness of the naming of this blog journal, "Life at the Edge" and to draw analogies from all that surrounds me in order to guide, inspire and instruct me in how I might gain a modicum of wisdom from the many small lessons thrown up here at Windgrove. Yesterday, I went up on the roof to repair a leak in one of the three skylights that are in the ceiling of the living room (something that I have been meaning to do for over a year). Being a rather sunny and pleasant day, even if a bit windy, I sat down on the gently sloping corrugated metal roof beneath the shade of an overhanging eucalypt branch and pondered how best to fix the leak. Technically fairly simple; just squeeze out three tubes of silicon around the skylight, make a hugh sticky mess, but shrug one's shoulders knowing that no one but the birds and possums will see the total lack of craftsmanship in the application of the silicon. Job done, I then became more philosophical and considered what it might mean to "open up" any protective covering; punch a hole through to allow light in. In other words, what happens when we punch a hole through our chests to bring light to our hearts? Is it a fail safe operation? Or will this action inevitably offer an opportunity for melancholic waters to seep into the safe surrounds of our innermost sanctum? Most likely the latter. But who wants to live in the safety of a dark room? Or where the light source comes from artificial means? Although knowing the RISD students and I would be together for only five days, I allowed myself, my heart, to be totally open. By being so open I knew I was exposing myself to a potential future wet. And now that all are gone my heart does cry a little. A tear drop here. A tear drop there. Nothing major, but drips nonetheless.

The second incident yesterday happened after I finished "patching up" the skylight. Because the rain gutters were full of leaves and a potential fire hazard, I decided to clean them out. This requires kneeling down and crawling along the "edge" of the roof while reaching into the gutter with one hand and scooping out the leaves. When this is done there is invariably a bit of mud and gunk from decaying leaf matter that has to be washed out (remember, my drinking water comes off this roof). So, I climbed down the ladder, started up the fire pump and brought up the hose to clean out the gutters. This requires a little extra care because with water spraying everywhere the roof is now very slippery. But I'm aware of this and creep along carefully. Job done, I toss down the broom, rags and caulking gun and, holding onto the ladder with one hand with the hose in the other, I begin my descent. Little did I realise that the now wet deck would be like ice beneath the ladder. One step with my full weight onto the ladder and it shot out from under me. Fortunately the wind had earlier blown the ladder over and I had tied it off to the rain gutter so this prevented it from completely slipping down, but the quickness of the short fall was enough to spill me back onto the roof and twist my back (making sitting here this morning a bit painful). I could have fallen the other, more dangerous way, onto the deck below, but didn't. Life at the edge has its perils, but the view is fantastic.

I stood at the top of the path to the beach this morning and reflected how tricky it is to be on "any" path. It seems that no matter how, when or where one starts or is along their life journey, someone, whether friend, family or foe, will be offended. The details of my latest offense need not be made public, but as I stood looking down the path and out over the ocean, a Mary Olive poem came to mind: The Journey One day you finally knew what you had to do, and began, though the voices around you kept shouting their bad advice -- though the whole house began to tremble and you felt the old tug at your ankles. "Mend my life!" each voice cried. But you did not stop. You knew what you had to do, though the wind pried with its stiff fingers at the very foundations -- though their melancholy was terrible. It was already late enough, and a wild night, and the road full of fallen branches and stones. But little by little as you left their voices behind, the stars began to burn through the sheets of clouds, and there was a new voice which you slowly recognised as your own, that kept you company as you strode deeper and deeper into the world determined to do the only thing you could do -- determined to save the only life you could save. Mary Oliver

The simplistic beauty of waves washing up on a beach can provide enough inspirational material for any artist for a lifetime. Beyond this, in the lulled space between washing waves, it offers time to mull over thoughts that might normally get lost in the hurly burly of city traffic. A couple of weeks ago someone criticised my online journal as sometimes being "too spiritual; too full of sermons". This comment threw me about for a few days because, on the one hand, it is possibly true. On the other hand, I'm not so sure this is a bad thing. Why have a journal if I can't write what I want to preach? This morning I read the following passages from David James Duncan's book "My Story as Told by Water". It seemed to sum up how I feel about the subject of nature and spirituality. "It's a prickly topic, spirituality. Sloppy and pedantic talk about God is obnoxious and dangerous, and those who parade such talk have knocked the religion clean out of a lot of us, with no sense of loss. But reverence for life is not religion. Reverence for life is the basis of compassion, and of biological health. This is why, much as it may embarrass those of us trained in the agnostic sciences, I believe every life-loving human on Earth carries a far-from-agnostic obligation to remain primitive enough, and reverent enough, to stand up and say to any kind of political power or poll or public: Trees and mountains are holy. Rain and rivers are holy. Salmon are holy. For this reason alone I will fight with all my might to keep them alive." "...If we put our full conviction in such [spiritual] belief, if we feel no embarrassment over it, if we stand up and stand by it again and again, we might begin to discover a spirit-power in ourselves that moves from there out into our friends or kids, or into our scientific research, our art, our music or writing..." Or onto a web blog.

Part of the lyrics to a song by Ben Harper are: "With these hands I can change the world". This invocation is open to all of us. As individuals, we have much more capability than we allow ourselves to have. Only our fears keep us powerless. Last Friday, after meditating at the Peace Fire, a vision came to me to ask the Premier of Tasmania to bring all 25 parliamentarians outside on the day of the Parliament House Vigil (August 19) and make a circle of joined hands. It would be seen by the public as a simple, yet powerful symbolic gesture that this government of Labor, Liberal and Green politicians are committed to working together with dignity to resolve Tasmania's forestry issue. So..... I sent off an email to all our state parliamentarians requesting this act. Well, within my circle of friends all fear broke out. There was even a call from Sydney wondering if I had gone crazy. The media would make me out to be a complete fool, all my integrity would be put into question and the success of the Vigil itself would be placed in jeopardy. All this because of a circle of politicians holding hands? My response? Rumi writes: "Start a hugh, foolish, project, like Noah. It makes absolutely no difference what people think of you." If we don't have vision after vision in how to create a better world -- a world different than the present reality -- than we might as well go back to sleep. Our unfaithfulness to love is destructive. Visions are fragile. They exist when one believes in their existence and disappear when there is fear. When Martin Luther King had his dream was he worried how the media or politicians of the day might ridicule him? Of the two, which is more preposterous: Black people being allowed to sit at the front of the bus, or twenty five elected parliamentarians holding hands?

The hill behind the house climbs to 500 feet before levelling off as a ridge that extends for a couple of miles in an easterly direction parallel to the coast. This evening I took Tim, my cellist friend, up to the top to catch some of the beauty that only height can bring. Looking south straight into the Southern Ocean there was only one land mass between us and the Antarctic. This was the wind shaped speck of land called Wedge Island floating two and a half miles off shore. Blue black clouds of a distant storm front were the back drop, but right on cue the setting sun peaked through to cast a lone beam of light upon the island turning its westward side into a glowing beacon of..... Of what? Hope, maybe? Like a lighthouse for storm wracked sailors? This evening, Wedge was such a symbol. After a hectic day at the computer and on the phone working to organise the Parliament House vigil and feeling overwhelmed at times with the immensity of the project, not to mention its importance to the trees, it was soothing to my soul to see such an exquisite and reassuring guiding light. "Yes", was it's simple message. "Yes." Back at the house, I reflected on those friends of mine who, in their far off lives, are a Wedge Island to me. Who give me encouragement, permission, guidance, to be who I am simply by their being just who they are. For all of us, even though we might literally be cut off from the mainland of city life, or emotionally feel adrift in the dark vastness of everyday life, we each can still beam light, love and compassion across the divide. Even in our aloneness, we can each sing out our own unique island voice and, in so doing, reach unknown shores. Whether we know it or not, someone on some distant hill top just might gather in our distant "smoke signal" of love and find themselves refreshed.

While at the Peace Fire this morning I spent a good deal of time pondering, as I have all week, the question of where anger fits into the peace process, if at all. Last Saturday, the day before I set off to attend the Styx protest march, I received the following email concerning my blog of July 10: <.....When I read the bit where you launched into judgement of "men in grey suits with double chins", I felt you contract. Are you sure you want to give up your peace in this way? Our brothers, whatever they are up to, need our LOVE, always. That is what heals. .....> It is hard to know sometimes whether my responses are written out of defence or wisdom, but today, while looking into the fire, it occurred to me that the name “Peace Fire” was made up of two, possibly opposing words: peace and fire. Somewhere in all this, fire or anger has a roll to play in fuelling protest in order to create a sustainable world of peaceful coexistence between all living beings. Healthy anger (not violence) surfaces when one's deep love for someone or something is called upon to defend them. Yes, everyone needs our love, but I don’t want to just float along on light. For me, “contracting”, as long as it is only half my existence is welcomed, because all of “life” depends upon contraction and expansion to survive (think of the heart). It might be said that a rainbow is the result of light (love) shining on the storm (anger). True, but not the whole truth. What I say, is that both love and anger are equal partners in the making of the rainbow; one without the other and it is a non event. Anger, when used in conjunction with love, can create miracles.

During winter it is not always easy to find a comfortable place to sit for the morning meditations at the Peace Fire when the ground is near frosty cold or my favourite tree stump perch is butt damp. Might as well climb on top of the cover that slows down the rate of fire wood consumption. If the fire beneath is not too hot, lying back on this piece of heated metal is rather pleasurable and affords an easy way to gaze at the sky’s navel if not one’s own. Today, I was mulling over an article in yesterday’s newspaper that questioned the Wilderness Society’s use of actors and other artists to promote the message of stopping the clearfelling of our old growth forests. “If I want scientific, empirical evidence on the state of forests in Tasmania, I wouldn’t go to any of this lot for information!” stated the author of the article. My unscientific opinion is that the world might be a safer place today if artists, women, people of color, shamen, children and animals had more say, not less, in the great debates of this world. What would have happened if the development of the nuclear bomb was tempered with discussion by the Kogi indians of Columbia; a tribe of people who would have asked how might this bomb affect the seventh generation of children into the future? Radiation and its long term consequences might have been given more serious consideration. I love science and the insights it has brought me into understanding the particulars of this world. I also know that the bird chatter in the bush to my left has a message that is just as important to understand if we are to make this world a safe place for all beings to live and prosper. The question is whether or not science can decipher this message without the honoured participation of a reverential heart.