Life on the Edge

Laurie Duesing has a line in a poem that reads: Now I am rapt and looking for the still point between earth and air.

There is also the line: I want to drive spirit into flesh, a desire often confused with sex.

To me, living at Windgrove is an excercise in doing what Duesing writes about. Whether working on the land or simply meditating on the Breakfast deck, there is a felt energy associated with being “amongst the trees” on a daily basis that aids in this endeavour. The land is infused with spirit. The sacred and the profane mingle easily here. My role is to open myself up to all that is present. Some days this is easy.

However, there are those days when engaging is hard. It was only a few days ago that I went for my first swim since returning three weeks earlier from China. Something held me back from even walking down to the beach and mingling my toes with the sand. (The wave photo of two weeks ago was taken from the cliff top while sitting at the Drop Stone bench.) Considering I recently surfed at Roaring Beach everyday, rain or shine, for over three years, I’m certain Freud or Jung would have a word or two to say about this. For me, though, the timing just didn’t seem right and it wasn’t until after Sally had arrived and settled in that the desire to enter those sometimes languid, sometimes turbulent waters of Roaring Beach returned. Now I am rapt once again.

Roll on life, roll on.

*********************

Wild and Blue

I want to be lifted, to meet the air
halfway—two reasons I can’t forget
that gospel singer in her sassy
middle age. The way she mixed
everything up: black hair, bleached
red; tacky expensive dress; that muddle
of church and sex. But when the voice
of the Lord said, Throw yourself into it,
she did: jumped right into the air
and screamed. I didn’t think a heavy woman
could get so far off the ground.

I want to rise under my own power
but the closest I’ve come
is the afternoon I threw myself
down on the ground and wept.
The scene was the woods and a person I loved.
That day, that place, that man
were not repeatable. Why wait, I thought
and gave into grief.
The ground folded around me. I could not talk
but as I listened,
the earth began to stutter.

Perhaps direction does not matter
but before a woman can descend or rise,
before the universe can move her,
she must show she can pick up
the beat, the way people speaking
in tongues allow another voice to move
through their mouths while their lips
keep time. When I get the blues,
I am trying to show the earth I can reflect
her deepest colors, that I will take
whatever she sends through me.

I want to drive spirit into flesh,
a desire often confused with sex.
I once made love to a man
who had lost the woman he loved.
He sobbed and sobbed but I kept on
to show that when grieving stopped,
he would have something to look forward to.
If we are broken or forcefully
opened, it is only to get our attention.

Now I am rapt and looking for the still point
between earth and air. I am willing
to wait while the world turns red,
to watch while everything comes at me.

Laurie Duesing

Last week I celebrated the 10th year of my becoming an Australian citizen (Australia Day 1996).

Yesterday morning, I also celebrated reaching the end of a huge undertaking to learn what I could about my new country (or, at least, the tiny portion of it called Roaring Beach). With a group of friends gathered at the base of a sand dune to share coffee, cake and a platter of fruit, I walked into the water to mark the end of this particular journey.

Today, I went to the edge of this same water, but didn’t go in.

How strange it felt.

Today, I went to the very same dune at the top of Roaring Beach like I have done for the past 1212 days, but I didn’t descend down to the beach and allow the ocean to grab me with her wild wetness and toss me around. I walked to the top with a yearning to taste, one more time, the salt of the sea in my mouth, but stayed and only looked.

I stopped at the top because it felt important to honour yesterday’s ending of my more than three year surfing commitment with a day away from the water. Some form of closure seemed proper. A day of no swimming was appropriate in order to separate what had been done with what next will happen.

A new moon will rise tonight, and with it, an opportunity for new beginnings.

So, the wet suit has remained hanging in the tree, the boogie board and flippers propped up against the wall and me just feeling odd. 

Storms, sun, on shore winds, off shore winds or no wind. Big waves, little waves, clean sets, confused sets, messy swells, right hand breaks, left hand breaks or dumping straight across. Pleasant times, scary times; big smile days, sore bone days. It was one hell of a ride.

There were plenty of days, especially in the winter with a southerly blowing, when all I wanted to do was to flop down on the couch by the fire and call it a day. Or, when hail pelted my face walking to the beach, wishing I had never started something so bone chilling cold. But never once in all those days did I “exit” from the water without feeling refreshed, excited or exulted. Sore, possibly, but not regretful. I invariably bounced back up the hill to the house and felt wonderfully alive. This was especially true when I did a 3:30 A.M. swim two winters ago (under a eerie quarter moon with frost on the ground) in order to make it to Hobart for a vigil at Parliament House. Boy, did I greet the dawn all fresh and full of beans.

One big lesson learned, among many lessons, is that inertia stops many of us from truly engaging in life. Once engaged, however, magic happens.

And, after having experienced 1212 magical days in a row, I can only feel lucky.

For three years, the waters of Roaring Beach have been my daily companion. For three years, I have immersed myself into her various moods and, only once, when the waters were a maelstrom of madness, was there a more ritualistic swim when the water was simply scooped up and splashed unto my face as the churning waves sped through my legs on their way up the side of a dune. 

For three years, under all conditions I have maintained the discipline to walk the kilometre down to the beach and throw myself into the waves of the day. Waves that were sometimes languid, sometimes breaking out of reach. In this discipline, I have achieved something.

But although words “discipline”, “commitment” and “goal oriented” might float easily to the surface as descriptors of the third year mark, they are only the envelope from which spring the more full flavoured qualities of this time.

Being as it is that my chosen career is that of an artist, discipline comes naturally, yet it only serves “staying in the process”; something I am much more involved with than product or outcome.

Consistently going to the beach daily is how a potter goes to his wheel with a ball of clay and turns, yet again, towards perfection. I am as a weaver at her loom, daily threading gold into another prayer shawl. I am the poet seated patiently at the desk waiting for the words to spill mysteriously onto the page. I am the Sufi dancer spinning, spinning, spinning out of control in the embrace of God.

And what marks my three year dance?  For me, I partnered and swung most often between “pain” and “gratitude”.

Gratitude for being fortunate enough to toss myself into the shimmering beauty of wave, cloud, sand, salt and wind on a daily basis. Imagine it.

In today’s modern, hectic pace, it all seems so impossible. Did I really manage to be here everyday for three whole years? Did I really manage to organise my life so that schedules and appointments and meetings were so arranged that, for an hour at least within each day, I would be out in the water? Imagine it.

There was no sickness severe enough to keep me in bed (although, during the second winter when I had the flu for three days, I fairly crawled down to the beach). There was nothing that kept me away from Roaring Beach even for a day out of the last 1,096 days. Imagine it.

For this I am grateful. Even in the beginning after just one month of consecutive daily swims, I was grateful. The intensity of gratitude is what has kept growing.

And the pain? No, it is not associated with the numbing cold of the winter months, the dumping off a wave or pulled muscles and cramped legs. It stems from the knowing that my deepening physical and spiritual connection to this earth will have its inevitable separation. It has taken so long to fall in love with this, my existence, and with what surrounds me here on this earth that, although wrapped in gratitude, the pain of losing this gift comes sharp and harsh.

The earth is so much more “home” now. I dwell in it easily, have come to love it deeply and intimately and, especially while in the water, know that I am truly present at the meeting place where spirit and the sensual flesh of the earth reside.

With an embodied understanding I hold up my hand, my beautiful carving hand, and say, “Part of me”.

Likewise, I can now “hold” the wave and call out, “Part of me”.

I am grateful for this awareness and only too aware of its ending.

Then again, as I soar off on the back of heaven’s eagle, just possibly, eternity might be wet.

Some days just don’t go according to plan.

When I awoke yesterday morning, my schedule had me leaving in a quick couple of hours for the drive to Hobart for a series of appointments, culminating in my giving, that evening, the opening speech at an exhibition of paintings by Faridah Cameron. One such painting, “Rock Pool Starry Night”, is shown above.

Instead of feeling buoyant about the day, I was both slightly nervous about the speech and troubled in spirit because of a current, neighbourhood issue dealing with the noise of trail bikes in the area. Nine property owners in the Roaring Beach community had written letters of complaint, but enforcement by the council wasn’t guaranteed. Without going into the details, there were a series of very early morning phone calls to me from some of the concerned neighbours. To deal with them, I had to cancel my first scheduled appointment in Hobart.

However, I was determined to make the best of it because the next scheduled appointment in Hobart was to have a massage. This was to be in celebration of this day being the 1000th day of my daily commitment to going into the water at Roaring Beach. And, boy, did my body and soul need some caring hands.

This appointment, too, was cancelled.

I was in my house putting on my wet suit for this one thousandth surf when I began to hear a series of “whoooooooo’s”. A lovely, deep, very guttural sound that I had never heard before.

Let me say here that one reason I took on the commitment to surf for three years, three months, three weeks and three days was to learn about the many voices of the land and sea at Roaring Beach that made up the large, communal “Voice” of Roaring Beach. The “whoooooooo’s” were an interesting new addition.

And there they were. A chorus of five humpback whales spread out across the width of Roaring Beach. Yes, five!

I won’t say that they were at Roaring Beach specifically for me, but as it was the 1000th day, I did allow myself the privilege of feeling honoured by their presence. It was as if they were saying: “We have gathered here for the day to support you and the rest of the Roaring Beach community in your efforts to respect and protect this very, very special place.”

They blew, they kept sticking their massive heads out of the water for a view of the beach, they flopped around, they waved their pectoral fins. One of the more frisky whales slapped his/her tail and splashed about repeatedly. They hung about all day. I watched them from every advantage point I could: from the cliffs and from the water. (I have to admit that when I went into the water, in my excitement I forgot to zip up my wet suit and when the first wave hit, my whole wet suit filled up like a balloon with some very cold water.)

But I still had to give the speech.  At four PM in the afternoon, instead of ten AM in the morning as scheduled, I drove off to Hobart feeling fully loved. I opened the exhibition on time with a speech peppered with a passionate, fiery love for this earth and the greater cosmos; where all is a fusion of matter and spirit. My encounter with the whales had me totally reinvigorated and empowered and I throughly enjoyed the evening.

At the end of this month, June, I will have reached the 1000th Day in surfing daily at Roaring Beach.

Or, so I had hoped.

Last Saturday, as I huddled next to a disintegrating sand dune while gale forced winds tried to rip the boogie board from the clinch of my arms and breaking offshore 28 ft/8 meter swells were altering the known landscape, I made the decision not to enter into the water.

This was a tough call for me and it didn’t come easy. I spent an hour weighing up all the pros and cons of any decision, from the rational standpoint, to the emotional, to my feeling of not wanting to break any aspect of this, more-than-three-year, ritual.

In the end, it was not that “sanity” prevailed. Rather, a calm, yet knowing inner voice calmly repeating “Respect and Humility are needed today” became clear enough for me to accept.

Simply put, the ocean was revealing an aspect of itself that did not allow for a land based human to enter into without possible serious injury. Not even for a committed daily ritual whose intended purpose was to experience directly whatever the ocean had in store for me for the day. To enter on this day would have been, not so much foolhardy, as disrespectful to the awesomeness of what was being shown.

And what was being exhibited was absolutely outrageous. Staying in the grandstand and not needing to enter into the main arena was going to be okay.

So, without donning the flippers and heading out into the water as I have done for over two and a half years, and even though part of me wanted to taste the thrill of being thrashed about on those roaring waves, I simply knelt at the top edge of the debris laden beach and when the next foaming wave came rushing up to hiss at me, I cupped its waters and splashed them on my face. This was my contact, my baptism with the ocean on this day.

For a few brief seconds, with eyes closed and as the water dripped off my face and the rocks hummed beneath the retreating wash of wave, I felt as though I were in the surf along with the dolphins riding those wondrous wet walls of power.

Two days ago I had written to a friend: "Just came out of the water. Love being constantly humbled by the waves, constantly being thrilled. I will sorely miss this human existence." Little did I expect that this human existence could have ended earlier than planned as today the surf got me. I was definitely humbled, but the thrill wasn't there. Close call.

There were no decent breaks happening; mostly dumpers across the width of the beach. I thought that if I could get out past the breakers, I just might catch the odd good one. Getting there proved hard. A good rip got me out most of the way, but it then disappeared, leaving me to negotiate how best to get past the bigger breakers a little further out. A lack of luck meant that a large set rolled in before I was able to do this. The first wave broke just in front of me. Not something desirable, but easy enough to duck dive under and roll with the force of the churning water. Hold the breath until the wave passes, regain the surface, grab hold of the body board again and resume swimming. Within seconds the second wave broke. Also in front of me. Curse my luck to be in such a bad spot. Hold the breath again. Get tumbled. Feel the immense tug of the body board strapped onto my elbow as the wave tries to snap it off. Find my way to the surface. Grab a breath and summon the energy to make it up and over the third wave before it breaks. Didn't quite make it. Was at the very top when it spilled me over backwards causing me to fall upside down about eight feet crashing simultaneously on my body board as the waves full ferocious weight hit. I felt my left leg twist in a way that it normally wouldn't. If this wasn't bad enough, while still being tumbled I realised that the cord holding the body board to my right elbow was knotted tightly around my waist and my left leg making it impossible to disengage myself quickly in order to get to the surface before the next wave came through. I don't normally swear, but in this instance I thought: "Fuck me. This is serious". The waves were breaking about ten to twelve seconds apart. Usually enough time to get through a wave, regain one's composure and decide the next move. After about ten seconds and still under water (the breaking wave had moved past, but I was still fumbling with the cord wrapped around me), I began to worry that if the next wave were to break on me before I had a chance to get to the surface and get some air, the situation could deteriorate. Worse yet, I didn't want it to break just as I broke to the surface. The blessing of the day was that there were no more breaking waves. The third one was the last one of this particular set and I was able to free myself after about fifteen seconds and come up to a sea that was, thankfully, relatively quiet.

My knee hurts tonight as I write this blog, but I'll "live" with this pain. And tomorrow I'll hobble on down to the beach yet again.

Today, October 6, is the day when, two years ago, I began to surf at Roaring Beach daily. Not that everyday has seen the water as benign as in the photo. Nor has it always been easy to get into a wet suit when a southerly is howling or when I had the flu this past winter. But go I did if for no other reason than to honour my commitment to swim everyday for three years, three months, three weeks and three days and to experience what a disciplined, daily ritual such as this might bring. So what have I gained so far? Well, besides being in better physical shape than when I started, I have certainly gotten to know "the path" down to the water; what tea trees, coastal wattles, native currants and other flora grow there; what wombats, echidnas, wallabies, cockatoos, oyster catchers and other fauna frequent there. As for the water, I now know where the rips can be found even as the sand shifts their channels. The waves, too, speak a language that I never understood before; nor even knew existed. And the water's moods, whether fierce or calm, each has its own beauty with which to tempt me. Never is there a day when the ocean is too big or too small to enjoy. I have found that communion comes in many forms. But the ocean still remains a mystery and when I enter into it I know that I am entering into something way over my head; something I will never ever completely fathom. And, on those days when there is no other human around, which is most days, there lingers close to the surface a fear that has not diminished in the two years of being with it. I am not just talking about sharks. There is a deep, possibly archetypal fear that bubbles to the surface when one is bobbing alone out in the darkening swell. What I have learned to do with this fear is simply to live with it. Not suppress it or feel bad that I haven't overcome it; just quietly acknowledge its presence when it comes around and, at the same time, continue to ride the waves with joy. The one emotion that washes over me most frequently is the exuberant, almost childlike delight in having a wave, or the white face of a broken wave, shoot me towards the beach; sort of like tobogganing down a snowy hillside with just a modicum of control. What will the next 412 days offer?

Six hundred and six days. Somewhere in the middle of last week, bobbing alone amongst the waves, I passed the half way mark of "The Swim". Whether seen as a ritualistic milestone or a ritual turned mill stone around my neck, there is an element of satisfaction for having stuck with it so far. Half Way. Wonder how many gallons of sea water swallowed? Barring any unforeseen calamities or illness, I hope to continue taking my boogie board down to Roaring Beach and greet the surf for another 606 days with late January, 2006 marking the end of three years, three months, three weeks and three days. All up, a total of 1212 days of continuous surfing. Sort of like a "water-downed" version of a Tibetan Buddhist meditation. And I haven't peed in my wet-suit once.

Back in October, 2002, I was originally only interested in seeing if I could swim daily for just three weeks. This, however, turned into three months, which led to half a year, then to a year, and now, here I am, at the top of the time curve looking down at a long, wet slide for another nineteen months (or through two more winters). My motivation is simple. When I finish I will be in my 60th year. What I am now doing is a form of disciplinary initiation into assuming eldership of my latter years. Hopefully, these years will be fuelled with a tiny bit more wisdom and compassion than would otherwise have been gained just standing on the shore looking out to sea. I won't say that it has always been easy. Because it hasn't. Swimming in the cold dark on a winter's night at 3:30 in the morning in order to attend the dawn to dusk Parliament House Vigil wasn't all that cheery. Swimming on those days when physically tired while a strong chilling blast of Antarctic air was whipping off the waves, did raise questions of sanity. Getting slammed by a wave with sufficient force to force me dizzy out of the water had its dangers. And always, whenever alone out back of the breaking waves, I would wear the fear of sharks; sometimes lightly, but more often with alarm bells ringing in my heart as I caught the next wave in. But out of this discipline of "doing the ritual" faithfully, has come an awareness that commitment, in itself, is rewarding. No matter what the conditions, there is always a boost afterwards in my physical, mental and emotional state. My body feels charged, my mind more alert and any depressed or anxious feelings are lessened and replaced by a buoyant optimism. If I go into the water happy, I come out happier. If I go into the water feeling confused and negative, I come out happier. Just endorphins? Or, just possibly, the magic of water. More importantly, for every seemingly "bad" day, there are a week of good days when "bliss" is not too much of an understatement. These are the days of smoothed sloped, green waves arching gracefully forward, breaking, not all at once, but either to the right or to the left, allowing an exhilarating ride on a board that is cutting an edge through liquid glass. Think ski slope, but add in a moving snow bank towering above your head. In the end, will I have learned any "secrets" of the land and water? Will I be able to communicate in a shaman like manner with the flora and fauna surrounding me at Windgrove? Does it really matter? More and more, the "journey" seems of greater importance than the arrival somewhere that is still clothed in mystery.

So what does the Christmas Cactus have to do with "The Swim"? Simply put, it gives me the confidence to continue with a swimming ritual that can, on its arduous days, seem slightly ridiculous or an endeavour bordering on the nutty. This particular plant, more than any other, defies the rule book by wildly abandoning accepted protocol and adorning itself with outrageously beautiful flowers when most plants are hunkering down for winter. All my life I have been a slow learner. Still am. Watching the Christmas cactus push out its near florescent flowers is a grand inspiration for people, like myself, about to enter the "last quarter" of our lives; a supposed time of retirement, of greying, of getting ready for death. "Hell no, I won't go" seems to be the mantra of the Christmas cactus. At least, not without a great demonstration of just how audacious one can become late in the year. I, too, believe that my most colourful years are just beginning; that it is never too late to blossom; that it is happening even as I speak.

Trouble is, it is getting more and more difficult to get out of bed in the morning without tripping up.