Life on the Edge

It was the 5th anniversary of the Peace Fire this past weekend so it seemed important to honour this through all night meditations, cups of tea and quiet conversation while the moon inched slowly across the sky. There was even a tented swag set-up to crawl into when weariness overtook the body in the wee hours of the morning.

Beyond the seriousness of the occasion itself, the best part of “camping out “ was that it all happened in my backyard. It was just plain fun to be able to spend the night camping around a campfire so close to the house. Just like us kids did when we were young and a little fearful of ghosts and other things that moved in the dark.

Knowing a quick cookie run into the house is possible, a little courage (along with the crumbs) finds its way into many a brave seven year old’s sleeping bag.

Now, as I think about kids and backyard camping, I am reminded of a time thirty years ago where there wasn’t a backyard with a safe house within reach.

In the lightly forested area of Roan Mountain on the border of North Carolina and Tennessee and at the end of a mile long spur off the main Appalachian Trail, my buddy, Dan, and I, along with two others, set up camp after a day walk of easy hiking, kite flying and playing with the gods. At sunset, while taking in the beauty of a pollen enhanced red sky (hence, “smokey mountains"), we could faintly hear boisterous chatter coming from enthused boys setting up their own camp back down the trail from us. Most likely they were young scouts on a first camping adventure. Most likely, being off the main trail they were unaware of anyone else camping nearby.

Later, being a bit curious about who they might be, Dan and I set off towards their camp in the dark using only the light of the moon to guide us. Our intention was to just sneak a peek at their camp set-up and then walk back to ours.

Carefully darting from tree to shrub to tree so as not to reveal ourselves, we got, if not exactly on top of the tents, fairly close; enough to hear the many peppered conversations between the 20 or so boys.

Occasionally, one of the adult “leaders” would belt out: “Quiet down.” “Shut up.” “It’s time to go to sleep”.  Following these commands, there would be a few seconds of silence. Then, the first murmuring would begin and within the time it would take a marshmallow to burn, every tent would erupt in giggles and the rapid fire chatter of boy energy all accompanied with any number of flashlights wildly piercing the canvas of the tents not too unlike the search lights of antiaircraft gunners frantically looking for enemy planes.

Then, for whatever reason, possibly because of a boyish nature still resident in the two of us, Dan and I started to howl like wolves.

Big, ferocious wolves. Big enough to eat several boys at once.

Well, a star’s twinkle could be heard in the silence that instantly dropped down upon the tents.

Not one word. From them or us.

Little boy imaginations began to stir.

One minute passed, then two. A total silence with not a single flashlight piercing the dark.

Then came one very soft, yet audible cry from one very scared boy. Then, from a second tent came another cry. Then another. Before long the whole camp and every tent was flooded in teary, fearful crying. Between sobs were the words: “I want to go home.”

Dan and I didn’t know what to do. Reveal it was all a joke? But then the boys might become even more fearful knowing there were two crazy humans out there.

We slunk guiltily back to our tent promising to return to the scout camp in the morning to apologise. But when dawn arrived and we summoned up the courage to face the wrath of the little boys, when we got to the camp it was no longer there. At what hour did they pack up and leave? If it was in the night, there would have been no home to go to just 100 metres from the campsite. This was no one’s backyard.

To this day, I wonder whether or not I so ruined someone’s first camping experience that they never again have ventured outside the confines of their home on a summer’s evening to seek out the peaceful beauty that could be there for them on a mountain top somewhere along the Appalachian Trail.

Then again, maybe there is an ecologist or two with Ph.D.’s still searching the hidden caves of Roan Mountain looking for that elusive creature who is said to be half wolf, half man and who survives solely upon the blood of young boys.

A little orange fire in the ground reaching out to the larger world as reflected in the orange cloud in western sky. The dawn greeted me thus this morning at first light. Fire. Water. Air. Earth. They were all sharply present.

I was up early tossing sprigs of eucalypt, banksia, she-oak, tea-tree, blackwood, coastal wattle and other fragrant leaves onto this fire as a simple honouring of the specialness of today; a day that marks the anniversary of the lighting of the eternal Peace Fire flame four years ago on April 6, 2002

It began as a request from an aboriginal woman to create a healing fire for peace between blacks and whites, peace between men and women, peace between all peoples, and, peace between humanity and the natural world. For four years this fire has been smouldering along acting as smoke signal to a confused world announcing daily that there are yet beacons acting as still small voices promoting the message of peace; that there are people still willing to commit to the maintenance of this peace; that fire and smoke, in this instance, rises from the earth, not as an after-effect of a rocket attack on a defenceless home nor the burning off of ancient forests, but as a potent symbol of hope.

For the most part, I have stacked and then carried piece by piece, log by log, 50 tons of firewood and placed them into the now, deeply blackened rock lined pit that is the home of this eternal flame. During all this time of nearly 1,500 continuous days, wisps of smoke and burning embers have worked to keep fear and hatred in balance with love and trust. By any stretch of the imagination, I big task (not for me, but for the fire).

Has it been worth it?

On the down side, surely, one has to question the burning of this much firewood; the burning of which has neither warmed a home nor sizzled a sausage.

To defend the use of this much wood in a “rational and scientific” manner, there are two replies. Firstly, as the stated intention of the Peace Fire is to keep the flame burning for 600 years, if all the tonnage burned was added up over this 600 year period, it would equal what Forestry Tasmania and Gunns cut down in the first three hours of every 24 hour day. In effect, if in 600 years this Peace Fire can slow down the madness currently destroying Tasmania’s forests by just three hours, than the carbon trade off is balanced out. In other words, even at 12 tons per year, this amount doesn’t rate a blip on anyone’s radar. 

Secondly, and more quick to the point, the wood has come from a plantation clear fell and was going to be burnt anyway.

On the up side, however, there is no question that this Peace Fire has worked magic. More than 3000 people from all over the world have stopped, smelled and been witness to this eternal flame. Most have been inspired by what it represents. Most have gone back to their homeland a tiny bit more joyful, hopeful and uplifted in spirit. Most saw this tiny fire as an important component to the global peace movement. Most admired the commitment to start something that won’t be completed for several generations. Most found a new courage to keep walking the path of peace.

I say “most” because some of my closest friends still think this eternal flame is a daft idea. They’re celebrating with me today, though, not because of the fire, but in spite of it. To them, they have honoured and maintained a friendship with me for four years despite my “silly, sometimes incredulous ways”.

The world spins. Let’s all dance.

Meanwhile, a little flame in a remote part of Tasmania does its bit to foster peace throughout the land.

From across the kitchen I can look through the guest bedroom, out the window, down the lane and see the smoke of the Peace Fire curl upwards into the air.

Whenever I do so it comforts me. Wisps of smoke, in this instance, signal that there is a caring in this world. A caring associated with being human and a caring associated with being in the more-than-human world.

This caring prevails, has prevailed and will continue to prevail despite Mugabe’s attempts to tear out the shanty town food gardens of Zimbabwe’s poor, despite the Japanese government’s attempts to slaughter more whales, despite the Australian government’s incarceration of refugees, despite the Tasmanian government’s callousness to ancient forests and, even, despite my own inner demons working within me to create unrest and sleepless nights.

Daily, for over three years I have walked a mini pilgrimage to the Peace Fire and, in the circular walk around it, have gone to each cardinal compass point, faced outward from the fire and said a prayer for peace out over the lichen encrusted rock to the world beyond.

East, North, West, then South. In doing so, over a thousand times my gaze has fallen onto each rock in the morning or evening light. Out of this “attention” has come a knowing and a loving and a caring for each individual rock, as well as for the fire and smoke.

In essence, these stones have become sacred and the smoke is alive. Here, spirit is fused with matter. In return for my giving attention to them, they, now, attend to me. This reciprocity of caring I am grateful for. It sustains me as I sustain them.

Every so often, my solo pilgrimage to the Peace Fire is enhanced by the company of others. Last Sunday, for instance, 16 kids and 3 adults from the Sophia Mundi Steiner school in Melbourne joined me around the fire and around the whole of the Peace Walk at Windgrove. The youngsters were, for being just 13 and 14 years old, wonderfully composed, knowledgeable, aware and just plain nice in their exhibited exuberance for life.

They, along with the wisps of smoke in the morning, give me confidence for the future.

Today.... April 6... the third anniversary of the lighting of the eternal flame here at Windgrove. Over a thousand days of feeding wood into a black, sunkened hearth now powerful with its own legacy spread throughout the world. Over a thousand days standing before it offering prayers of peace.... This morning was no different than any other morning. Lift the lid off, add three to four split logs to the flames, do salutations at each of the four cardinal points facing outward, finishing back at the East stone, but now facing inward to speak prayers into the fire, sometimes audibly, most often silently. I feel quiet. No more need be said about today. Except to offer up this poem by Pattiann Rogers: Trial and Error The right prayer might be a falling prayer spiralling down in the throats and raised wings and white warmth of tumbling pigeons, the joy of a beseeching abandon, or a crossing prayer in the fingers of oak branches over themselves, their display of a hopeful wind, or a drifting prayer in the cerise petals loosed and dropping from a stalk of wild betony, a proclamation in dissolution. It may take two every night, maybe three every dawn -- prayers offered of one fact against another -- milkweed against winter, reflected face against water, rapid barking against fear. I can compose any kind, prayers wrapped in seaweed, rolled in grape leaves, prayers sent spinning tied to butterfly kites crackling in the sky over the sea, prayers in wax bound to stones sunk past coral cliffs or ice canyons to the ocean floor, prayers delivered with moans or howls, rattling gourds or timbals, prayers in the cadence of rain, prayers in the absence of breath. I'll send them out in signs, lanterns on rooftops, candles on cairns, backward prayers like the dark side of the moon, prayers hung upside down by the knees, prayers beginning with praise, beginning with "Our Father", with "Darling Mother", with "Darkling Son", fading off fast to "In the beginning..." I'll become by myself, I swear, whatever prayer it takes, teeth, eyelids, ears, beatitude of knuckles, invocation of spine, a solid skeleton of the perfectly linked linguistics of prayer, hands pressed together before me, my whole body speaking, waiting.

It started out as just a quick patch job; one, maybe two wheelbarrow loads of soil quickly raked into the hollows, throw a little grass seed down and done. Ha! How about the equivalent of one wheelbarrow pushed a total of three and a half miles uphill full, and back again three and a half miles empty. It took me 25 trips to get the dirt from the far side of the house to the Peace Fire. Early on, I realized that the job was a lot bigger than originally thought. Early on, I realized that I could save a lot of time and energy by using my truck. But.... being the apprentice monk I am and being more interested in process than speed, I decided to take a zen approach to the work and slowly pace out each shovel full and each step with a prayer for peace. Sort of like, "walk and work my talk'. By trip number 11, I was into it full swing and cheerfully talking my mantras. By trip number 21, I was dripping with sweat, shirtless and singing out loud. By trip number 25, and six hours later, I could hardly move. My knees, weak at the best of times, just about caved in. My arms could just about hold the rake. My body just wanted to lay down. But it got finished. And, it looks good. In a couple of weeks, when the new grass sprouts, there will be a lovely, shallow green dome coming off the stones surrounding the edge of the fire pit. Very sculptural; very Zen. Now, if I can just find someone willing to push me in a wheelchair to the local pub so that I could sit contently with a strong stout and reflect on the meaning of life.

For the past two weeks, the wood ashes that were taken from the fire pit of the Peace Fire on its first year anniversary, have been cooling. Today, Easter Sunday, I have begun sifting these (still warm) ashes to create sacred "white ash" that can be used in ceremonies or any other way people wish. Several bottles filled with these ashes will be sent around the world to help spread the notion of Peace. One might be sceptical of the power of these ashes. But consider this: over ten tons of firewood went into the making of this small pile of ash. If nothing else, the mineral content will be quite high. Beyond this, and more importantly, I and others meditated and said prayers around the Peace Fire twice a day for a whole year. These ashes carry the goodness of these prayers and wishes. As well, when the Peace Fire pit was dug, we came upon an ancient charcoal midden and some stone tools demonstrating that this site was used for many hundreds of years by the original occupants of this land. This ancestral energy would have to be present in these ashes. Consider this: the amount of wood consumed by the Peace Fire (15 tons per year) over six hundred years (9000 tons) equals what Forestry Tasmania and Gunns Ltd. cut down in Tasmania during the first "four" hours of each day. Therefore, if the thousands of people who will visit the Peace Fire in the next six hundred years can stop Forestry Tasmania from cutting down our old growth forests for just one week, the amount of fire wood consumed by the Peace Fire becomes insignificant. On this Easter Sunday, may a just and lasting peace visit all the lands and people of the world. May there be born within humanity a new awareness of the sacredness of "all" life. May every religion of the world preach this.

Sometimes even a Peace Fire has to suffer getting wet. Hopefully, underneath the galvanized cover that acts like a slow combustion wood heater, a few logs are smoldering away, sheltered from the sprinkler, just waiting their chance to breath a little more oxygen. However, since there has been a Total Fire Ban across the whole state of Tasmania for the last two days, and I have chosen to honour this ban by not putting any new wood on an "exposed" fire, the Peace Fire's eternal flame might be reduced to just a few warm embers by the time the ban is lifted late tonight or tomorrow morning. No worries. If need be, there will be a ritual re-lighting.