Luck and Mystery

The impact was sudden. It came from nowhere. Thud! Then a stifled scream from the front seat, shudders, and the car came to a stop. “It’s gone under the car! We’ve hit a roo, we’ve hit a roo. It just jumped out – there was no time to do anything.”

I was in the back and talking to another person when it happened. The five of us quickly got out, shaking from shock, and inspected the scene. The car had hit a male kangaroo, a young adult, and it was still alive though prone on the road with blood trickling from its head. As people fumbled with their phones to ring Help for Wildlife, the animal’s breathing became shallower until, after a minute or two, it passed from this world. We dragged the body away from the road and stared at it in mute silence for a few moments, then got back in the car and drove off to our destination.

Had I and the others decided on a different route to take us to the start of our bushwalk that early autumn morning the young kangaroo, its fur still new and clean, would have been alive. Had we been on that road a few seconds earlier or later it would have bounded across the bitumen and into the bush on the other side. We consoled the driver by saying it was luck, pure luck. All of us had driven along roads in the area hundreds of times and not struck an animal once.

We humans have always sought to understand and explain our world. In the early millennia of our history there was no such thing as a random event because all phenomena were thought to be evidence of some sort of design or intent. In the magical world-view of an early culture, an explanation for the incident with the kangaroo could run something like: the animal was an omen sent by a god to warn us of bad things to come; or the animal possessed a spirit that had done wrong and its violent death was recompense. Rational Western society has abandoned thinking of this kind; as the supernatural has been taken away from this world, randomness or chance has appeared to fill much of the void of the unexplained. According to this view, there are no ulterior motives or meanings to certain events other than the natural variables that lead, for instance, to a kangaroo being on a particular road at a particular time and a car heading towards it.

The one key problem with randomness is that it is impossible to say with certainty what is random and what is not. Meanings of some kind are always, teasingly, under the surface. For instance, we could look at the kangaroo’s death in light of the speed at which the car was going or the distractedness of the driver in a car full of people not being sufficiently attentive to the possibility of animals in the early morning. Scientific inquiry itself only proceeds by asking questions about the unknown, and in the process of gaining more insight revealing other areas of mystery. The uncertainty about what is truly random invites an extension of awareness that can encompass many perspectives for the most holistic understanding possible.

Holistic understanding builds an intimate relationship with mystery. At the same time as it seeks meaning out of the unknown, it leaves ample room for more mystery at every turn, seeing it not as a bad thing that must be overcome but as a teacher and guide.

What we call luck is actually the intersection of mystery and the physical world; and it serves as a reminder of the unknown at work in our lives. Looking closer, we see it everywhere and in everything. All life, indeed the existence of the universe, depends ultimately on luck – not randomness or chance, but the meeting of mystery with a creative spark that produces material reality. What was it other than luck that created you or me? Any number of factors could have conspired to prevent two particular people coming together, for their sexual union not to be fertile, for their coupling to produce not you but some other human being. The same applies to all other aspects of life. Natural and human systems that support life in a myriad of ways do so always holding the hand of mystery and are always beholden to grace, the union of dark and light that set them in train in the first place.

How, then, do we reconcile luck with meaning and purpose? As we enquire with openness into the nature of things, so meaning is gradually revealed to us; meaning that is necessarily conditioned by the culture and time in which we live. The further we progress in this way, the more is there a deep sense of things as they are, as they need to be, an awareness of solidity amid constant flux. The task is then to serve this core or essence behind the appearance of things, to experience and know it more. Serving it is intrinsically about acting in ways that affirm life, that build love and connection, nurturing the multiplicity and variety of forms in the created world.

There is a saying that “you make your own luck”; that is, as you act in the world, so mystery responds by reinforcing and furthering your intentions. That’s right to a degree, but I think there is a more humble position that is closer to the general truth, one of “you make of what luck gives you”. The life we are given, including its slings and arrows of misfortune, is a gift to be nourished and to be given back a thousand times in good acts to all. The Roman statesman and Stoic philosopher Seneca said, “The Fates lead him who will; him who won’t they drag.” Him who won’t disregards the creative life essence as it manifests in himself and others, and as a consequence is “dragged” through a seemingly random world. Him who will responds to inner nature and is therefore led in a purposeful way, in turn furthering its designs and the multifarious beauty that is constantly unfolding all around.

On the Good

When I reflect on what it means to be good my mind takes me to two people in a powerful book I read years ago when trying to learn more about my birthplace, the Ukrainian city of Kiev.

Alexandra and Mikolai appear in Babi Yar, a firsthand account of life under the Nazi occupation of Kiev during World War II by Anatoli Kuznetsov. Alexandra was the young Kuznetsov’s godmother and Mikolai her blind, wispy-haired husband.

The couple is mentioned only sparingly in the book, but always in a light of contrast to some tragedy or horror that the author is describing. Kuznetsov says, “They were such good and inoffensive old folk, probably the most kind-hearted people I had ever met in my life.”

Alexandra worked as a cleaner at the local children’s handicraft centre where she would take her husband each morning and together they would spend hours sweeping the large yard. “When they had finished it looked really tidy and you could see the marks left by the rake, like freshly sown vegetable gardens in spring.”

Towards the end of the book, with the Germans retreating in pandemonium before the advancing Soviet forces and Kuznetsov and his mother left in the practically deserted city with full-scale war around them, Alexandra and Mikolai suddenly appear like strange apparitions.

“The old lady was carefully leading the blind man, keeping him away from the pot-holes and paving stones and talking to him very earnestly ... When they found we were at home they both broke into tears. They had simply been trying to find some human beings.”

The pair had been sheltering in a basement and not eaten for two days. After gratefully accepting some food, they decide to go back to look after what was left of their home. Kuznetsov suggests to Alexandra that she look around the abandoned yards and cellars in the neighbourhood for anything valuable.

“The old lady threw up her hands. ‘In other people’s cellars? To go and steal? The Lord forgive you, my child!’”

He watches them go, fearful they might be shot: “They were very unusual people, really ‘not of this world’. They went off across the square, destruction all around them, arm in arm, chatting quietly to each other.”

For me, Alexandra and Mikolai capture something essential about the nature of goodness: though it exists in life-generative and sustaining acts, in everyday deeds of kindness and generosity, it is ultimately “not of this world”. That is, it’s a quality of being.

While worldly laws and customs are important in defining what is right and appropriate, in the end it is the intangible spirit of the law that matters, the grace that is summoned to affirm life. Some laws are flouted with the consent of the whole society – I think of the way Christian nations nominally living by the commandment “thou shalt not steal” blatantly stole the land of Indigenous people in places like Australia – while other laws become redundant over time and no longer serve the good but for whatever reason remain, and there are many instances of the letter of the law followed to bad ends. Without a healthy link to the spirit of the good, to the quality of being, all attempts at practical goodness go awry. In the way the good is applied in the material world, its spiritual foundations have to be strong.

We all need guidance at times in our life, particularly in our early years, but goodness is not something that can be imposed from outside; we either locate it within and draw from it or we reside in the darkness. A truly good person does not have to work hard at it – it’s simply something that emanates from the centre of their self and reflects their true nature.

There is a lot of uncertainty about what it “means” to be good thanks to the complex systems of thought and institutions that have developed in human society. In our time all of us are enmeshed in social and economic systems designed for exploitation of the Earth, its resources and people. What does it mean to be good when we light our homes with electricity from polluting coal-fired power stations or buy shirts made in China where workers endure horrendous conditions and are paid $1 a day? How do we know the good when we are lost in the mazes of academic hyperbole or religious dogma or following the various types of glamour of mass culture and the media?

Ultimately it’s about what we value and where we direct our attention and energy. If we choose the simple path of life affirmation, our actions will reflect that choice and we will be impelled to act for the good in a multitude of ways because every person and every thing shares that basic essence of goodness and all are one. It doesn’t mean that our choices or actions will always be right or that we won’t be touched by the complexity of the world, but as long as we keep drinking from the well of goodness within we provide it with opportunities for expression in the world.

Why is it, then, that we slip from the good so often in our lives? Why do we follow the crooked ways that lead to disconnection and harm? Buddhism identifies ignorance, fear and greed as the motivations for all that’s wrong, pointing to the darker side of human nature. And just as goodness goes forward and reproduces itself in the world, so evil does also. Carl Jung, reflecting on the appeal of Nazism in his post-war essay After the Catastrophe, said: “The wickedness of others becomes our own wickedness because it kindles something evil in our own hearts.” Fear, ignorance and greed become embedded in the norms of thinking and institutions of society, as aspects of the good can be as well.

An important observation here is that human nature is not fixed. Like everything else, it changes. And though good and evil will likely always exist as a condition of life in the temporal world, we can choose how much one or the other influences us. An individual can become more psychologically mature and integrated over time in a process in which their darker side gradually holds less sway. So too collectively – as more people become more whole, reaching for and holding the light of goodness, human nature evolves to embrace the good more fully. As a result, society inevitably changes to reflect this and draws closer to the shining, ineluctable quality of being that is the heart of the good.

Body and Mind

My soul, will you ever be good, simple, individual, bare, brighter than the body that covers you?
- Marcus Aurelius.

On days when I am able to pull myself sufficiently together to accomplish it, when the will is there and the mind quiet enough, I do some simple exercises in the beauty of the outdoors that is my back yard.

I stretch and perform some simple tai chi, some chi gong, and a smattering of kata or karate forms I learnt when I trained in martial arts many years ago.

Sometimes the busyness of life intrudes too much even on this activity, and the brain chatters right through the half an hour or so I spend scuffing up the ground with my moves.

At other times a peace breaks in the flow of the movements. Everything becomes quiet with a graceful simplicity and all seems entirely in its right place, as it should always be. The body is a curtain that reveals a hidden world of wholeness. In Western society, there’s an uneasy relationship between the mind and body. We place highest value on mental activity, many of us spending our working lives in offices in front of computers. Outside the office we tune onto the screen of our smart phone, at home the screen of the home computer or TV. The brain and its associated nervous system are constantly engaged and the rest of the body left aside as if almost invisible. When we do reconnect with the body, it is to the body separated from the mind – in gyms and fitness workouts, aerobics, swimming and the like.

The mind/body duality in Western society can be traced back about 3000 years to the development of the rational mind. As civilisation was becoming more sophisticated, the cruder and more barbaric aspects of human behaviour came increasingly to be questioned. The body’s simple and potentially all-consuming appetites began to be associated with the lowest of human nature – with lust, greed, gluttony, jealousy, power hunger, vengeance and murder. The mind had to rule over the body, just as in the patriarchal culture of the time men ruled over women, who were connected with the body.

So even in ancient Greece, with its celebration of the physical in the games at Olympia, its love of beauty and aesthetic refinement, Socratic philosophy had carved out a distinct hierarchy between the "soul" (the unseen essence of a person) and the body. In Plato’s dialogue, Phaedo, Socrates says that the philosopher’s search for truth is the quest of the mind purified from the needs of the body:

"For the body provides us with a million distractions because of the need to supply it with food; if it gets diseased, that further impedes our hunt for reality. It fills us full of lusts, desires, fears, fantasies of all kinds – in short, a whole collection of nonsense, the result of which is that really and truly, as the saying goes, we never get a moment to ourselves, thanks to the body, even to think about anything."

The philosophical negative attitude to the body, based on objection to human enslavement to animal desire and the need for a higher, better way of being, was amplified in the Christian era that followed the collapse of Greco-Roman civilisation. The body was subjected to greater scorn and denial, covered up and disavowed. Monasteries sprang up as a means of retreat from earthly pleasures so as to be closer to God. The physical world was equated with sin and could only be redeemed by cultivating the soul in Christ and waiting for the afterlife to be lifted up into God’s eternal paradise. Women continued to be marginalised and devalued.

Underpinning it all was a dualistic, either/or paradigm which, ironically, the rational mind would help to undermine over a long stretch of time. The process of reason examining both the internal and external dimensions of reality over two millennia, and turning increasingly to the external through Aristotle, the Scholastics of the medieval period and on to the dawn of science in the 17th century and the Enlightenment, has brought us to where we are now.

The mind/body duality in our contemporary world is a hangover from the past even as for some time there has been a maturing of tendencies towards unity and a resurgence of value in the body. The rise of the feminine in our time – seen not just in the feminist movement and the empowerment of women, but in the prominence of environmentalism and concern with nature, the widespread desire to reconnect with the body, emotions and the life of the whole psyche, the social concern for equality, pluralism and the global human community – represents a powerful unifying shift in Western culture.

With great shifts, however, come great challenges as old contradictions and tensions become clearer and demand resolution. When in Plato and Socrates’ time the body and its passions needed critique to find a more refined way of being, so in our time we have to look closely and critically at the mind. For more than 2000 years Western society has overinvested in the mind, overbalanced in the mental domain to compensate for its unease with the body. The result can be seen in the modern techno-industrial civilisation, with its many achievements, to be sure, but also with a profound disconnection from nature, from the bodily ground of the Earth.

Whereas Socrates criticised the distractions of the body in the philosopher’s quest for enlightenment, it is now the mind that is the chief source of distraction. The advertising industry, using the insights of psychology, long ago discovered that the route to profit was not through the simple cravings of the body for food, drink, sex or whatever, but the virtually endless ways that a mind can be stimulated for imaginary needs and desires. The global "information age" in which we live is a vast enterprise of the mind, mobilising industries across the world in inter-related webs of data primarily in service of economic gain. Now and again we are reminded of the "body" of this information age, such as that the rare metals for our mobile phones and computers come from the bloody war zones of the Congo in East Africa; or of the millions of marginalised people who risk everything crossing borders illegally for a share of the benefits of the modern world.

The distracted mind has to be rebalanced with full reintegration into the body. It’s not that the mind or the body is to be primary, but that each finds itself in the other. In work of the mind we have to stay connected to the body, and vice versa. When we find that we have been outside one aspect of ourselves for any length of time, we must return as soon as possible to a state of balance. I think of the practises of meditation and yoga as powerful tools in maintaining mind-body awareness. Ultimately, the challenge for the human spirit is not that of growth, knowledge and achievement but of balance. That is, finding the stable core of our individual and collective being and allowing that to be our guide in action in the world.

Soft Hands

I miss Bill Lawry. Growing up in the 1980s, Lawry and his fellow Australian TV cricket commentators on Channel Nine were as much part of my summer as the heat and long, aimless days. Now, inevitably, age has wearied him to the point he appears only for the Boxing Day test match once a year in his native Melbourne.

Lawry’s excitable manner was a foil for the more emotionally reserved commentators like Ian Chappell and Richie Benaud. Whenever something important happened on the field, like the fall of a wicket, he’d snap out a simple but ebullient response: “Gone! Out! Yes, he’s gone!" An umpiring mistake would elicit, “Dear oh dear, umpire! Dear oh dear!”

One of Lawry’s compliments for a player who had taken a good catch was to declare they had “soft hands”. Of all his commentary, looking back on it, I find it the most interesting. He would say this particularly about a catch taken close to the bat, like in “the slips” when the ball would dart into a nest of waiting fielders.

Soft hands were a prerequisite to field well in cricket – a player had to make sure their hands were not tense or rigid but supple and yielding. You also had to let the ball come to you and not snatch at it, not move too early or too late with your hands but just let the ball fall into them. Someone whose hands were not prepared to receive the ball would likely drop it, which could ultimately mean the difference between their team winning and losing.

Positioning is the other crucial factor on a cricket field. To catch the ball you either have to be in the right position if standing near the batter or be able to move to the right spot once the ball is in the air if you are in the out-field. In the slips, if you stand too close to another fielder you can spoil each other, too far apart and the ball flies between the two of you; stand too far away from the bat and the ball falls in front of you, too close to the bat and the ball is impossible to catch. Being in the right position is critical.

There’s a lot to be said for the wisdom of cricket. We tend to think that our lives need to be forged heroically out of the turbulent mess of existence for us to be successful; that we have to struggle in spite of external conditions to get what we want, elbowing our way in competition with nameless others. I think that’s the wrong notion. The essence of a good life is to be in the right position to receive it and to take it with soft hands.

To be sure, the right position does require work and knowledge. In life, the work is a journey of self-discovery in which the aim is to reach the centre of one’s being. This centre is the source of meaning and goodness in an individual, the inexhaustible fountain from which their life springs. From it all else comes: a purposeful career, relationships, friendships, indeed a whole life’s work. Most of us have to go looking, gaining it through the rigours and knocks of everyday living, through therapy or some kind of internal practice, through self-examination and understanding. We come to know more about our personality and how it can serve this centre. Of course, many of us don’t take the path let alone come close to the goal.

The paradox in the process, as wisdom traditions tell us, is that you arrive where you started – that is, with the personal and universal gifts you had all along. The importance of the journey is actually in the development and refinement of the vehicle that serves the centre, the body and mind that is capable of using the inner gold for its full benefit. To those of us within its radiance for any length of time, being there seems effortless, the grace of the universe natural and boundless. Yet spiritual or ultimate reality cannot be realised in the temporal world without some process of translation; the right position requires no work and yet it needs the effort of Hercules to get there.

Having soft hands is being able to receive the nourishing grace that is the endowment of all created beings. Religious traditions have always had their eye on grace, always sought to build a relationship with the divine light that is the succour of life. We can open to grace through prayer and religious ritual but equally it can be recognised and appreciated in the many ordinary-special moments of each day: in the red-flecked purple clouds of the sky at sunrise, in the smile and joy of a child, in the satisfaction of work done well, in the kindness of strangers. What’s needed is an openness of heart, eyes attentive to the beauty of the world, soft hands.

The Three Phases of Being

It’s kind of obvious, but you notice nature more when you live in the country. That’s been my experience since I moved to central Victoria last year.

Being in the bush, walking or just looking out the window to the grey box-covered hills, you sense nature’s moving through the revolutions of each day and the seasons; the vitality of birds and other animals in the early morning and before sunset; how settled everything is at noon and in the afternoon; how the night brings a new armada of life into the open.

In summer the hills are brown and baked dry – it’s the peak time of insects and lizards but much else has retreated or hunkered down to avoid the heat. Autumn marks the return of green to the land, the respite of moisture and cool air. In winter the rain brings growth, verdant moss and the flourishing of all that is adapted to cold and frost. Spring is the season of abundance, the crowning time of flowers, the period of animal courtship, birth and rearing of young. And onwards again to summer...

In the grand cyclical drama of this little patch of the world, as in life in general, there are three distinct phases. They are: birth, growth and fulfilment.

Birth is the entry of form into the world from the great mystery of nothingness; arrival propelled by a life impulse that is both universal and unique to a particular being. Carried into the world is the history of its species, its predecessors’ physical, energetic and subtle characteristics. As well, each being has its own life and purpose, influenced by the various material circumstances and relationships in which it finds itself. The specific purpose is most easily seen in humans – different people can live vastly different lives according to personality, interests, drives and aspirations – but it is also true in other species. Every blade of grass, every dragonfly and grey box tree is unique, and though most act like others of their species most of the time, subtle differences are important. Evolution requires innovation: a single dragonfly one day flapping its wings differently could eventually have ramifications for its entire species and others in its web of relationships.

Growth is the expansion of form driven by the life impulse. There are different and distinct stages in the growth phase and nothing is required but that the impulse is free to create what it will. Change is constant and at some point the opportunity arises for the intelligence within the form, whatever consciousness is there, to interact with its own vivifying principle. Human will is a prime example of this: at a certain early age we discover our own ego, saying yes to “this” and no to “that”. Over time we make choices and preferences in our lives, directing the energy within us. This also applies more broadly in the universe. We see intelligence in animals and plants as they channel the life impulse within them to adapt and evolve with the conditions around them. And it’s possible to see this in so-called “inanimate” nature. In such things as rivers, rocks, mountains and stars there are discernible stages of birth, growth, middle and old age and numerous ways in which they influence the webs of life of which they are a part. The quality of their life and intelligence may be very different to our own, but we should never be hung up on the human, never see ourselves as the sole template of being. That would be far too narrow.

Fulfilment is the point at which a form has reached its peak and the conclusion of a particular cycle of being. It applies to physical bodies as well as to the more subtle forms of the psyche. Generally speaking, humans reach their physical apex in their late 20s, after which there is gradual decline and ultimately death. But even as the body deteriorates over the years past its physical prime, there may be multiple peaks internally in subtle form; multiple internal births, periods of growth and fulfilment inside one person. The cyclical drama of being occurs within and without. The height of a form is its ultimate power and capability but also the point at which it begins to anticipate its own transcendence, presaging the birth of new form. For example, a person may have reached a deeply fulfilling place in their professional career, or have discovered the joy of bringing up children. These “sweet spot” positions are rarely inhabited long before there is an internal shift towards another place, for transcendence or renewal in some way. There may be little or no external sign of change, yet form is always dynamic, always moving. How a person responds is, of course, up to them. Collective structures and systems follow this pattern too: empires rise and reach their peak, then are faced with renewal or inevitable decline; so too governments, institutions, religions, ideas, modes of thought and action. Whatever is creative and dynamic in a form will find its apogee then dissolve unless new forms are created to hold it. In this process what is most important is the life within the form and not the form itself.

What happens, then, in a situation of stasis or when growth is hobbled or inhibited? The complexity of being is such that when the flow of life is dammed in one place, it appears stronger in another. Bats living in dark caves become blind but evolve extraordinary powers of hearing. A person without the use of their legs develops powerful functioning in their arms. At any blockage life energy is being diverted elsewhere, whether we are aware of this happening or not. Sometimes the blockage is unavoidable or unforeseen, like when restrictions are forced upon us by sudden illness or disability, and what remains is to discover the new directions in which life is flowing and to commit fully to them. In other circumstances the reason for stasis has to be met head-on and its knots undone, otherwise corruption and deadening set in. The dammed energy has to be liberated so that life can go forth fully.

What can be said, then, about decay? There is a natural attrition and also a type of decay which is harmful to the overall spirit of life. The first is the expression of non-being working upon being, the negating principle of the universe acting to dissipate form in order to create new form. The second, the “unnatural”, is the result of human action against the dynamic flow of life. There are many institutions in our time that reek of decline. One could point to the Catholic Church, a monolith with falling authority and power stuck in the values of past centuries. Then there’s the democratic political system, in some places in the world energised and hoped for, in many others foundering on apathy and instability. Perhaps the biggest and most important example in our time of harmful decay is the very relationship that we humans have to our planet. In ages past our self interest of carving a human niche amid the wild fitted because our lives were shorter and we took from the land largely only what we needed. Now, as a result of overpopulation, unchecked industry and technology, we are profoundly changing all life on Earth. We need a new, more evolved consciousness centred on the interrelatedness and interdependence of all things.

With proper attention, decay can be a prompt for action in service of life. Here in central Victoria, as indeed anywhere else, when you inquire with an open mind and heart into nature, a simple truth is revealed over and over again. Through the turning of seasons, the comings and goings of birds, bugs, trees and people, there is an irresistible, inescapable flow that is the essence of all. At times it is breathtaking, at other times – like in the middle of a powerful thunder storm – downright scary, but always new, always fresh and alive. We act appropriately when we return to this life, sensing its movement and helping it on its way.

In memory of Doug Ralph

Doug Ralph passed away suddenly at his home in Castlemaine, central Victoria, yesterday. I had heard about Doug's good work as an environmentalist and mentor for a while but only known him for about a year. What struck me most was his kindness and profound connection with the bush. I was privileged to interview him for the Spring 2014 issue of Earthsong Journal, the interview republished below.

A warrior for the earth and gentle soul is welcomed back. Rest in peace, Doug.

Box-ironbark country, in the foothills north of the Great Dividing Range, stretches in a belt across central Victoria and into the north-east of the state. Doug Ralph was born in this country at Castlemaine and has lived there nearly all of his 66 years. His descendants came to the area in 1851 during the gold rush. He stood for the Greens in the seat of Bendigo in the 1996 federal election and was a founding member of the Friends of the Box Ironbark Forests in 1997. Passionate about the environment and local history, he leads bushwalks and is something of an elder and mentor to young artists and environmentalists. He spoke with Sasha Shtargot.

Doug, there seems to be a flowering of environmental awareness and alternative lifestyles at the moment in the Castlemaine area. How do you explain it?

Well, there’s been a huge change in attitude towards the forests around here, mainly in the last 20 years. People used to be far more interested in the (gold mining) heritage of the area than the natural environment. We started the Friends of Box Ironbark Forests to gain recognition for the forests – we thought they needed a political voice. One of our victories was in the early 2000s when a section of the Calder Freeway was planned through a beautiful forest at Malmsbury. We campaigned against that and the authorities ended up changing the route of the freeway. They put a bend in the freeway away from the forest, put wildlife underpasses for animals, made changes to the designs of the freeway. I’m proud to say that I helped save a forest.

Something special is happening in central Victoria. There are now 2000 people in environment and Landcare groups in the Mount Alexander Shire, which is probably more than any other comparable area anywhere in Australia. There’s a spiritual element to it in that people are feeling a strong connection to place, a sense of belonging, and like-minded people are being attracted here. Really great people are coming all the time and I love being around them.

What do you think is special about the land here?

There’s something about the light here. I don’t know how to describe it – you just have to experience it. Once people learn to see it, the light has a big influence on them. You notice it especially when it’s wet, in the morning until about 10 or 11, and before it gets dark. In winter there’s a kind of horizontal light as the sun is going down and you get amazing light shows – the whole landscape sparkles with light.

I was deeply moved by a book about the Yarra River written by Maya Ward (The Comfort of Water, Transit Lounge 2012). In that she mentioned a story of some monks at a monastery who drew their water from one river all the time. They experienced the river, in a way they became the river. If you are drinking water from a particular area you are that water, you are the food of the area. Aboriginal people understand that – you just become part of the land.

I go for walks in the bush. It’s my way of meditating and sometimes afterwards I don’t know where I’ve been, I just blend with the landscape. One day I was walking in this way in a trance and all of a sudden I stopped – three wallabies were sitting nearby, eating calmly. Normally wallabies run away when a human is near, but these just sat there. I stopped and looked at them and they looked at me. It was a special moment.

Doug, the land in central Victoria was deeply scarred by mining and logging. Then cattle and sheep farms had their impacts. How has the land regenerated after all that?

In the last few decades, farming became unviable around here. Once the farming stopped, the trees started to come back. It’s been like a resurrection – something that was dead coming back to life. Historically, the early white settlers described the land as “park-like” – the forests had big trees with space in between. That’s what (British explorer) Major Mitchell described when he came through this area. But they cut down the big trees and when you do that you get a denser, coppiced, multi-stemmed growth. After all those years the forest is opening out again.

There’s a lot of regeneration going on and you are getting trees coming up in some places that haven’t been seen since the days of the gold rush. Once grazing stops, life comes back from nowhere. Where I live there were cattle for over 100 years, but the land is repairing itself. Even where you’ve had the worst impacts of mining, like where the land has been sluiced, it’s regenerating. You can strip the land bare but a seed will still germinate, a blade of grass will still come up.

People talk about active “revegetation” of the land, for instance planting trees to mitigate climate change, but you’re not really a supporter of that, are you?

The Government has this idea of a “green army” of people planting trees, but they need to get their head around changing the way the land is managed. We don’t have to plant 20 million trees – if we leave the land alone and let it regenerate we’ll get 100 million trees coming back. Bob Brown said that if you want to tackle greenhouse gas emissions, take all the cattle out of central Australia. If you did that, all the regrowth would be a huge carbon sink.

In America where they have stopped farming, they’ve seen the land go back to forest, and in Europe people are talking about “re-wilding”. Regeneration is happening in a big way all over Australia, especially in the southern states. After all the rain that we had (in 2010-2011) there’s been massive growth and that has been huge for storing carbon. Changing the way you manage the land is about changing your attitude to it. It comes down to respecting the land – the earth is capable of repairing itself.

The Meaning of Nothing

I eavesdropped on a fascinating conversation the other day. Four people – an older couple and a younger one – sat down not far from my table while I was having lunch at a cafe and began discussing the meaning of non-being. It went like this:

“It’s amazing to think where you were before you were born,” the older man said. “Where was I? I was nothing.

“All these things were happening – all these events, world events – and where was I?”

“I find that really disturbing,” the older woman said. “I don’t know why. It just makes me shiver that I was nothing and that there’s nothing out there – that we go back to nothing.”

“I don’t think we go to nothing when we die,” the younger man chimed in. “I think there’s something there.”

“What do you mean?” the younger woman asked. “Are you saying that we go somewhere, to heaven?”

“I’m not religious. I just think that when we die we go to a place of love, of deep love and light.”

I enjoyed their discussion, a parley on subjects so immediate yet so deep. It gladdened me to hear people talk about such things and my own mind was stimulated to contemplate that “nothing” about which they spoke and the existence, or otherwise, of life after death.

There’s a classic Zen koan, or instructive riddle, that asks: “What was your original face before you were born?” The student of Zen meditates on the koan until its essence seeps into their soul. Its aim is to guide a person past the material layers of existence, past the rational everyday mind, and into a whole experience where being and non-being (my face when I was born, my face before I was born) are one. That experience of “just is”, beyond human delineations and conceptions, is said to be the heart of reality.

Accepting that, I wonder if non-being deserves more credit than it gets. As the cafe discussion progressed I began thinking that nothingness was more than some great cosmic pit out of which we emerged and into which we vanished at death. Paradoxically, it is an active presence or principle. Non-being and being are inseparable – to be, something has to come into existence, and if it does it must eventually die. These are the very basic rules of temporal reality. So in essence non-being is highly productive and deeply interwoven with being. It is the rich compost that gives birth to form and that receives form back to be remade, continuously to the end of time.

The idea that death is necessary for life has been understood since the early millennia of human thought. Hunter-gatherers and later crop and animal farmers lived close to nature, the cycles of life and death experienced intimately and everywhere to be seen. Various communities around the world made ritual sacrifices of crops, animals, and even sometimes people to ensure the proper cycles continued. Death was to be propitiated, non-being given appropriate reverence so that the fertile compost would keep producing new forms. Only recently in history, with the advent of modern Western culture, has a disconnection appeared in the human mind between being and non-being. Urbanised, industrialised humanity has lost the balance of the two, focusing almost exclusively on material existence, and denying the vital, essential role of non-being.

More than an empty abyss that bookends our life, non-being is a fundamental and constant part of everyday living. If we look closely, we can see its three variants or phases. Firstly, it is potential; it is the darkness that holds the ground from which everything is born and in which all is latent. When forms appear, potential is with them as they grow and change, continuously carrying possibilities for what they may be. Secondly, it is the decay that works upon all forms and their eventual death. And finally it is regeneration, the transformation of all in the great turning of the cycles of life. Here’s one simple example of the working of the three phases of non-being: A single fly emerges from potential into life. It lives and breeds, carrying its potential forward in its offspring and decaying as it nears the end of its life. One day it is caught in the web of a spider. Choking in the web, it is eaten by the spider. The fly in death is transformed into food and regeneration for the spider, into energy that becomes a part of the spider itself which in turn propels its life and eventual death.

The interplay of being and non-being is the basis of temporal reality and its product is change, constant change. When we meditate on this process, it can be immensely healing and comforting. There is a wild beauty in the processes of life and no part is out of place, nothing that is isolated or alone but everything has a reason and purpose. Seen in this way we cease to be angst-ridden by existence, but are active participants in a dynamic and creative Whole. The only danger is in thinking and acting as if somehow disconnected from this, as if the reality of life, its intimacy and integrity, doesn’t matter. Unfortunately, there is much of that presently in our world.

I think the young man in the cafe was right – we do go to a place of love and light when we die. But then we are in this place when we are alive too, even under the heaviest weight of suffering. We just have to open our eyes and look.