Sitting on the deck for a group photo are Roger Ash-Wheeler on the left and Paulus Berensohn in the middle. The average of our three ages is 60 years; enough to entitle us to wear these “Old Growth” tee shirts. Both of these “boys” are recipients of one of the eight Peace Mandala stones. (see Archives/January 18)
In Tasmania, wearing such a slogan would be the equivalent of walking down the streets in Washington D.C. with a tee shirt that read “Bush is an asshole”. Yes, there are those good folk that agree with the idea of saving ancient rain forests, but because being a “spokesperson” for change generally pits one up against the current majority political view (even if corrupt), it takes a consistent will to maintain one’s commitment to change.
And change is what my two friends are about. And why I admire them.
Roger, when fresh out of university, lived as a Tibetan Buddhist monk for ten years until he met his wife,Clair, who lovingly persuaded him to disrobe. Still an agent for spiritual change in a largely consumerist society, he and Clair run a non-profit yoga and retreat center on their beautiful property at Chagford, England. At “The Barn”, besides teaching yoga, Roger also lectures on Buddhist philosophy.
Paulus, a fairy godfather to twenty lucky souls, is best known for his book, “Finding One’s Way With Clay”. As a craft educator, his overriding concern has always been to get people to listen to and experience the transformative powers of the materials of this world. “Whatever we touch is touching us: craft art and a deeper sense of ecology” is his latest monograph.
Needless to say, without these two men in my life, Windgrove would not be what it is today. My gratitude runs deep.
However…… every friendship has its share of challenges.
In one day I almost caused Roger a painful bounce in a rock pool and he almost caused me a painful bounce down a steep hillside. Both unintentional, but potentially full of danger.
The first “friendly encounter” was when we dropped down to look at several rock pools and the marvellous aquatic gardens within each of them. Knowing how the waves break here, I should have been more attentive, but I wasn’t. Too late to move when one rumbled in, all I could see was the tumbling white wash hit Roger from the waist down. He was quick enough to cover his camera (sort of), but any bigger and the wave would have thrown Roger against the barnacle encrusted rocks and, at the least, he would have come away with shredded arms. As it was, it was just an adrenaline rush plus soggy pants.
An hour or so later after a sun drying stay at a pebble beach beneath some sloping cliffs, Roger suggested we take the short way home…. in other words, straight up. I knew that because the 100 foot cliff gradually got steeper as one ascended, much like walking up the side of a mixing bowl, what look easy at the bottom would get very tricky at the top. Since Roger seemed determined to go despite my misgivings, I finally said: “Okay, but you lead.”
What the photo shows is the next day when we went back to the scene of the crime to fish out Roger’s belt that came off his pants; pants that he had taken off to use as a rope to help me up a section when my extra weight just constantly spilled rocks away from the loose soil and my hands constantly ripped out the poa grasses with their shallow roots.
The pants started to rip during my first pull up, so we abandoned them and decided to use his wool sweater instead. With rocks falling away from me, I knew there was no going back the way I had come. With Roger gripping firmly his end of the sweater, I knew I had only one chance to pull myself up level to him and then, using my momentum, carry myself spider like up the remaining ten feet to the top of the cliff.
It took awhile for our hearts to regain a more steady pace.
Looking out from this cliff top down to the rocks 100 feet below and knowing that there was a good dose of luck in the morning, this journal’s title of “Life on the Edge” took on a new dimension.
Friendships, it seems, are about growing old together.
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