SUSTAINING STORIES FROM A TOXIC AGE

By Vivienne Elanta

INTRODUCTION: FACING THE DEMONS

Mind over matter. Never mind about matter, because what really only matters is mind. I grew up with such thinking. Most of us grew up with such thinking. We learn from an early age that mind is superior over body and we learn that self is separate from the environment. The cost to such an erroneous view is a sense of disconnectedness from the world.

So if only the mind matters, and dad was never happy with my mind, then I must be not good enough and don’t really matter.

What legacy have you left for your great- grandchildren? What sustaining stories from your life can you tell?

THE TREE OF HOPE STILL STANDS:

REMEMBERING HEPBURN HEIGHTS

It is spring once more in Wadjuk Nyungar country. This is the season the Nyungar call Djilba, which is the “flowering”. I am thinking of Hepburn Heights, and my heart is longing to be there now. This week is the 11th anniversary of the ruthless desecration, the massacre of a large part of this high conservation value ecosystem, and the most beautiful tuart/banksia woodland, known as Hepburn Heights.

Since moving south of the river seven years ago and being car free, I have only been back once. As I turn into the road that separates the left half of Hepburn Heights, which is still pristine and intact and the right half, which is now buried under a heavy blanket of concrete and asphalt, I cannot hold back my tears any longer. I have been away too long. Coming here always brings me great sadness and pain, as well as much joy. As I entered through the gate I called out, “Kaya!” (Greetings! in Nyungar). This is indeed my turf.

As I write my story I am sitting in a circle of elders, a circle of very, very old Balga trees. They stand in an almost perfectly round circle as if in a meeting. I have not noticed them before, but maybe now that I have become a grandmother, I qualify to sit with them and maybe that is why they have made themselves visible to me. I found a large enough gap between a couple of them in which I quietly sat myself, so as not to disturb this many hundred -year -old gathering. Balga trees are sacred to the Nyungar. I am glad to have followed the calling and feel grateful to be here on this beautiful warm spring morning in this sacred circle.

I sense the patience, eternity and age of this part of Nyungar country. I can sense the presence of the ancestors of this place. I also feel the pain this land holds. I was a part of the struggle to protect this land from the invasion of housing development. Here I am today, paying homage to this place, which I was privileged to know so intimately during that fateful spring in 1992. As I sit here on this holy ground, all my senses engulfed by the sensual beauty surrounding me, the memories come flooding back.

I had never heard of this place Hepburn Heights before, until a friend informed me that bulldozers were clear- felling this particular bushland and that all hands were needed on deck, to which I responded swiftly. I was overcome with dismay and horror on arrival. What I saw looked like the scalp being scraped off the head of a living being, leaving bare, raw, aching flesh exposed to the scorching heat of the sun. In that moment I jumped in front of the bulldozer, believing that the driver would stop. Instead he scooped up the pile of sand on which I was standing and emptied the sand and me a few meters further into prickly shrubs. I was hurting and bruised, but continued my protest against this ritual of desecrating sacred ground.

Other activists were present and without wasting any time some of us climbed onto the machine. The bulldozer driver tried to throw us off by rocking and shaking the machine with the help of leavers he was operating, and then proceeded to speed up. Malcolm was hanging off the front-loader and I feared that he would fall off and get run over, but he kept hanging on. The journalists and camera crew were running alongside and filming. The wild ride seemed to continue forever. Malcolm was still dangling from the front-loader, a couple of people clinging onto the sides and I was sitting on the roof with Wade, hanging on for dear life. We were heading for a tree. At the speed at which we were travelling, I did not dare to jump off, so decided to hang on even tighter until my knuckles felt numb with the pain. As we were getting closer to the tree I realised that the branches were low and unless we lay flat on the roof we would have been severely hurt or even decapitated. Eventually the machine came to a halt, bringing the nightmare to an end. The media gathered around us, shouting angry words of disgust at the driver for putting our lives at risk. We felt shaken, but glad to have escaped alive and unhurt. This was my first encounter with a bulldozer and the beginning of my love affair with this place.

It feels good to sit here now, the soft, cool breeze caressing my face, the white-tailed black cockatoos screeching from above and a pair of ring-necked parrots darting in and out of their nesting hollow. I feel welcomed by country, welcomed by the Nyungar ancestors. I feel deep gratitude to know this place, and deep sadness for the pain and suffering my culture has inflicted on country and its indigenous people. The Nyungar are the traditional custodians of Nyungar country and we have failed to learn from them how to look after country.

This place tells stories. The Nyungars always knew how to read country, understanding the stories the land told them. They knew where and when to find bush-tucker. They knew the stories of the six seasons of the year. Country sustained them and they in turn looked after country. This deeply spiritual relationship with place sustained itself for tens of thousands of years. I cannot lay claim to understanding the stories this place tells, for I have not lived and breathed this land long enough to know, to have knowledge of country. But I know that I love this place, that I am kin to this family of beings; the four-legged, the six-legged, the eight-legged, the legless and crawling ones and the winged. I would do everything in my power to protect their integrity and wellbeing.

Since that first meeting here, our activist group returned regularly in a still uncleared part of the bushland. We formed a strong bond with each other and would at times gather in the shade of a circle of trees, to sing to a wonderfully wild and strong drum beat, which always reminded me of my growing up in Africa. That spot to me felt like the heart of Hepburn Heights. They were wonderful times, carefree, celebratory and deeply connecting with each other and to this part of the earth. I can still feel the heart beat of this place, now partly buried under roads and houses. It feels like my heart and her heart beating together, just like that drum beat.

I feel pulled back into the present by the wind cooling and the clouds gathering. I think the story is that it will rain sometime this afternoon or tonight. The pretty yellow flowers are nodding their heads, as if agreeing with me. That gorgeous pardalote in the tree above me has not left my sight all morning, flitting about in search for insects. This is the hight of Djilba. The flowering here is exquisite, the shrubs as well as patches of ground are covered in blue, yellow, orange, red, purple, white and everything in between. I feel entranced by the magic here and I have actually lost track of time. I feel no urgency to rush back to the fast pace suburb I now call home, but home to inner city suburbia I must return to for now.

Three days on and I am back, walking and walking for hours, marking my territory with every step and every deep breath inhaled, soaking up the intensity of colours, smells and sounds all around, below and above me. It did rain that night, making everything fresh and clean. As I quietly made my way through the bush, following the narrow path, I was startled - and so was the kangaroo. Our eyes met. Our gaze locked and became literally glued to each other for what seemed an eternity. But then a noise from behind made her turn her head. A second kangaroo appeared, sat there for a few moments, then the whole spell was broken and they bounced away together, disappearing out of sight. I have experienced this before with Kangaroos and also other non-human beings. When our gaze engaged, it was as if drawn into another time zone, another dimension, entering a different state of being for that moment. But somehow this encounter has effected me profoundly, deepening and affirming my connection to the more than human world. It’s beyond words. Tuart trees, and kangaroos occupy a special place in my life and in my psyche.

I am sitting here again with the Balga elders, the ground still a little damp. Today I need to seat myself in the very centre, right in the middle of the circle. I am asking this circle for support, for I am feeling vulnerable and my heart heavy with remembering the tragic and futile loss of life here.

After that first encounter with the bulldozer any further development came to a halt. My life settled back into the familiar “house-wife routine”, until one morning while still lying in bed, my beloved decided to turn on the radio to listen to the news. I was stunned with what I heard. What? A kangaroo killed at Hepburn Hights and the bulldozers completely clearing that hill this very morning? I flung myself out of bed, pacing the floor madly, feeling the anger and the outrage collecting in my belly. That morning I abandoned the vacuum cleaner and made my way to a costume hire store. When I told the shopkeeper as to what happened at Hepburn Heights and that I needed a kangaroo costume, he let me have it on loan for free.

A friend dropped me off near a cleared spot, from where I made my way to the top of the hill. Looking down the other side I saw hundreds of people gathered near the main road. Panic set in. Sweat poured from every pore in my body and my heart pounded so fast and loud, that I could hear it in my throat. There was no way back. I have learned over the years that the only way out is in, right into the lion’s den. To go where the fear resides lies great power. So I took a deep breath….. and another one, and proceeded to climb into the suit and zipped myself up. Being totally covered with kangaroo, only my eyes exposed, it felt like I was stepping aside and the spirit of kangaroo having a loan of me to speak on behalf of her species. She started bouncing down the hill towards the protestors. My fear totally subsided and I felt swept away by the spirit of the moment. I vaguely remember the kangaroo speaking about loosing her home, sharing her stress and bewilderment of this terrible destruction and the killing of her mate, which was just dumped into a hole in the ground and covered with some soil and forgotten. The protestors, who were made up of mums, dads and their children took the kangaroo into their midst and led her across the main road. The media loved it. I was told that the kangaroo jumped across the TV screen over and over on every channel that evening.

The following day I returned as myself (without the kangaroo suit). On that barren hill top, where only a couple of days earlier tall, wide-girthed ancient tuart trees stood, politicians and other government officials gathered to look and talk. As I looked down the hill I witnessed several bulldozers pushing over trees and turning this pristine bushland into a wasteland. I was struck with paralysis, shocked by what unfolded before my eyes. I was thinking at the time, how could anyone contemplate such mass murder, unless they are totally insane? As I kept staring in disbelief, I heard a voice in my head saying: “Would you be standing here and watching if these trees were your children?” Of course not! In that moment my legs began moving, and I found myself running faster and faster, heading for a bull- dozer. As I approached the monster machine, I remembered my first experience. The lesson I had learned there was not to fight machines, for they are much stronger. So I turned and ran ahead of it towards the tree the driver was heading for. I put my arms around her trunk and closed my eyes. After my first encounter with the bulldozer, there was no assurance that he would stop. Actually he did not stop. He simply swerved and headed for the next tree. I let go of the tree and raced to protect the next, and the next, always only just getting there in time. The bulldozer driver must have been enjoying himself, like a cat playing with a mouse.

It did not take long for me to feel totally breathless and exhausted. I retreated and made my way up to a still uncleared part of the hill. Tired and distressed, I sat under a tuart tree, with my back leaning against the trunk. I wept and wept, overcome with grief. As I sat there feeling the rough bark pressing into my back, through the thin fabric of my blouse, I heard a voice saying; “Protect me!” I was startled. “Who is that?” Again I heard; “Protect me!” I then realised that this was the tree speaking to me. There was no time to think this through, to rationalise with my then logical western mind, the possible absurdity of a tree actually speaking to me. So I climbed into the first fork, wedged in there and not able to climb any higher. In the distance echoed the noise of the seven monsters. I was all- alone. No one knew that I was here, sitting in the fork of this insistent tuart tree, with an aching, sore crutch and a dry throat. I felt the power of this tree, the power of this place speaking through this tree. I knew then that I would be staying for a while.

After maybe half an hour or so, I was surprised by the sound of an engine, and through the shrubs I could see a police car approaching. One of the police officers asked me, “What are you doing up there?” To which I replied, “The tree asked me to protect her and that is what I am doing.” Both officers had a big grin on their face. Then one of them said, “Why don’t you go further in and protect one of the bigger ones?” to which I replied, “It’s this one that asked me.”

They drove on leaving me sitting in the tree. They must have thought I was loopy, up a tree so to speak! About ten minutes later, I could hear another engine noise coming closer and closer. All of a sudden from behind the thicket appeared a bulldozer. It was heading straight for the tree. The driver saw me. There was no mistake about that, for our eyes met. He did not swerve this time. Instead he came straight for us, stopped short and started digging a deep hole, right at the base of the tree, exposing the roots. Terror was rising from my gut, filling my whole body. I wanted to get out, to jump out, but could not do it. My arms were tightly wrapped around the tree trunk. It felt like we were clinging to each other. I found myself screaming with the kind of terror of someone who is going to be chopped up inside a shredder. The whole tree started shaking. The ground too shook with the tremors. Still he did not stop. He worked his way right around the base of the tree, creating a deep moat. It seemed he was out to completely uproot this tuart tree. I remember thinking, “For Earth’s sake! He’s going to kill us! And then, like the kangaroo, just drop me in a ditch and bury me there and then. And nobody, at least no human, will have been witness to this terrible act.”

Incessantly he kept digging and digging into the ground, driving the front scoop deeper and deeper. I remember shouting in vain, “Stop! Stop!” He probably could not hear me anyway from inside his cabin, not that he seemed to care. Suddenly he withdrew and vanishing as quickly as he had arrived. A few minutes later the police came by again. When I told them what had happened, they offered no help and just left again.

A deep silence fell over the whole place. The stench of death hung in the air from the smoke of burning tree bodies. Eventually some hours later I saw a black suit and a brief case coming my way, which I thought belonged to a land shark, until he introduced himself as Miguel. He was taking photos for the “Friends of Hepburn Heights” he explained. After I told him everything that had happened to me, he left to phone my beloved John, who had no idea that I had been sitting in a tree all day. He also phoned the media, as well as my friend and fellow activist Wade.

Wade arrived within an hour or so. His first question to me was, “How long do intend to stay in there?” to which I replied, “For years if need be!” “I’d better go home to bring back material to build you a platform.” With that he was gone and back in a very short time. Wade set to work, with great skill creating me a home up among the branches, while I sat on the ground, eating a bowl of homemade soup he brought for me. I realised that I had nothing to eat and to drink all day. I still remember how tasty the soup was, which I savoured very slowly.

Within about an hour he had a platform constructed. Now it was my turn to learn with the aid of a harness to climb into the tree. I was scared for I had never climbed high up into a tree in my life before. But with practice and Wade there to support me, I finally did it. I told him that I would not sleep in the tree during that night because it was very windy and I was afraid that the tree could be blown over. I decided to sleep on the ground instead. Wade was not able to stay any longer, so I started making a tent for the night from a couple of tarps he left for me. It was getting dark and I crawled into my little make shift tent. I was proud of myself for such a fine achievement. I was lying there for a long, long time looking at the full moon through a split in the tarp. I was feeling cold and wondered how I would survive the cold night. I started praying hard, not to a god, but to the earth, asking her to keep me warm. I finally fell asleep. Some hours later I awoke to humans calling. I did not know if these voices were from friendly humans or from bulldozer drivers, so I quietly crawled out of my tent and made my way through the low bushes to find out who might be calling this time of the night? Well, what a surprise! There was Miguel, his wife Teresa and others coming to visit to make sure I was all right. Most of all they came to bring me a sleeping bag. I wept with joy, and climbed into it after they left, and slept tight all night.

I woke up at dawn and was greeted by two laughing kookaburras, which were sitting already on a branch in the tree. I proceeded to climb into the tree straightaway, using the harness. The kookaburras made no attempts to take flight, and were still sitting on that branch after I moved in with them. We eyed each other with interest across the mere meter that separated us. I made myself comfortable on the wooden platform, which was only as large as a massage table. Wrapped in my sleeping bag and still attached to the harness, I sat still, watching my surroundings. Ears, eyes and nose highly tuned, waiting for something to happen.

And happen it did. I braced myself with the engine noise I could hear coming up the hill. “Please not again!” I held my breath, waiting in trepidation and fear of more danger. Instead I saw a caravan of cars and vans in the distance, winding their way up the dirt track. Suddenly I could make out that it was - the ABC, Channel 10, followed by Channel 7 and 9, and SBS, the West Australian etc., etc. I panicked. Never had I been interviewed before. I wanted to vanish into thin air, but there was nowhere to go. So I took a deep breath, composed myself and waited quietly, pretending to be an old hand at this. They say, “fake it, till you make it.”

One by one the journalists and camera crew stepped out of their vehicles. “We would like to interview you.” one of them called up to me. “With pleasure”, I replied, then taking another deep breath to calm my nerves. They stood at the base waiting for me to descend from my height, which I declined, explaining that I will not come down. I lowered a bucket attached to a rope, into which they each carefully placed their microphones. It felt strange sitting high up in a tree, readying myself for a media conference. Once I sorted the microphones the way I would sort flowers into a bunch, I called down to the eagerly waiting men and women in high heels and suits. “Fire on!”

First question; “How long do you intend to stay up there?” “Indefinitely if need be”, I replied. “You will have to come down eventually”, someone shouted up. “Why?” I said. “Well, everyone needs to go to the toilet sometime?” “That’s easy”, I replied gallantly, clasping the big bunch of microphones between my fingers. “Just send up a bucket and I will fill it for you”, to which they all heartily laughed. They wanted to know why I would sit in this tree? Just like to the police I explained to them that the tree asked me. I voiced my concern, that we treat nature with contempt, turning eco-systems and non-human beings into mere resources to be used as we please. Our wetlands and bushland are unique in the world, and most of them have been lost to development already and need to be protected from any further plundering. It is hard for me to understand, I told them that sixteen thousand signatures, pleading for the protection of this place where completely ignored by the government, which is a total disregard of the wishes of the local community. That is why I was here, to speak for this tree, in fact for all of Hepburn Heights and for the rights of future generations, human and non-human alike.

The media moved on for the day to hunt for the next newsworthy stories elsewhere. I enjoyed the constant stream of people from all walks of life, gathering here in solidarity with each other for the wellbeing of this place. I was brought everything from food to warm blankets. For a toilet I had a bucket. Wade brought a few tarps, which he attached to make walls on three sides and one for a roof. Having walls meant having a little more privacy when going to toilet or washing myself. I felt very challenged and a little uncomfortable when someone offered to empty my poo bucket and yet such very acts helped build a sense of family and community in the coming together for a shared purpose. I felt humbled by people’s generosity and caring for one another and this place. I especially appreciated their caring for my wellbeing.

By the afternoon my human friends had left to attend to their own lives, and I was left to attend to mine in my new household. I actually welcomed the silence and solitude, for I felt exhausted from the lengthy interviews, posing for the cameras and talking with so many people. After a hearty meal, which was lovingly made for me I lay down for a late afternoon snooze. It was just after sunset when I was woken up by the two laughing kookaburras, which were sitting right next to me again on the branch within an arms reach. I think they knew why I was sitting in their tree. I sat up, still tucked up in my sleeping bag, watching the moon make its way across the sky, while reflecting on the day’s events. It all felt like a dream from which I would eventually wake up for its not the kind of activity of an ordinary day.

The following day more media arrived and many more people came to visit before taking their children to school or going to work. Teresa was with me that morning when another bulldozer charged towards us. The tremor that went through the tree trunk had an intensity I can still remember with every bone in me to this very day. The tree trembled and shook again, and this time it was more intense than the first attack. I remember fumbling with my shoes, trying to put them on so that I could jump out of the tree, but the tree would not let me. The trembling became so intense that I clung to the edge of the platform. I felt terrified. I looked down and saw Teresa looking up at me, who was wedged in the forking of the tree lower down. The front loader was being driven deeper and deeper in the ground around the tree. After several attacks the metal monster disappeared down the hill, leaving us exhausted and trembling for a long time.

Towards lunchtime I found myself without human company once more, which allowed me to be more present to the non-human world. I was so shocked by the desecration of the land. The beautiful native orchids were all gone. The ground charred and barren. Penetrated. Raped. Dead baby- birds, squashed rare duck eggs and dead lizards lay strewn around. It looked like a battlefield. This was a battlefield. I was witness to the raping of the land all around the tree, leaving bare overturned soil. Sitting in the last tree, I wept and raged for a long time that afternoon.

Then the most amazing thing happened. Only a few meters away from my branch landed a pair of male and female scarlet robins. Western culture presumes that the male is active and the female is passive. What poppycock! To my delight and fascination the female wriggled herself eagerly underneath the male. She took a strong lead. It was a great honour to witness such an exquisitely beautiful mating ritual. I felt somewhat bewildered though, that these two lovers would plan for new life in this wasteland. What is the point, when there are no more trees to nest in? Looking at these very beautiful and lively beings so eager to produce new offspring, when only yesterday their trees were pushed over, made me marvel at life’s fecundity. It is in this place that I began to develop a sense of billions of years of tenacity.

Towards sunset many people arrived to set up tent to share their love for this bushland and commitment to save it from development. A fire was lit, which drew people together to share cups of tea and coffee from a billy-can. The sound of many voices and laughter filled the cold night air. I felt a little isolated sitting on my own in the tree, while everyone was mingling and talking with each other. I thoroughly enjoyed the sense of community, which grew so quickly around the campfire and revelled in the people power present here.

My most memorable experience of that evening was of a woman in her senior years, and despite walking difficulties managed to make her way up the hill. Standing at the base of the tree she called out to me and said, “I saw you on television tonight. Thank you for your courage. I could not visit until now, but I was with you in spirit all this time. I brought you some muffins, which I made especially for you.” She held them in her cupped hands and reached them up towards me. I was so touched by her sweetness and love, and the power of such an act of caring and connecting through a handful of muffins. I hoisted them up in the bucket and carefully lifted the little bundle of muffins held in a serviette in the palm of one hand. I slowly opened it, took one out and with closed eyes took a bite of what tasted like heavenly blueberries. The tears spilled down my face. I found myself choking on the muffins with emotions. I nodded down to her and thanked her for this precious gift. I came to learn through these simple acts of kindness that deep down people do care. Sometimes it looks like we humans don’t care, but what we are really doing is shutting down due to overload and fear of feeling our pain for the world and feeling overwhelmed with the enormity of it all. I arrived at this understanding in the years to follow through the teachings of Joanna Macy, an eco-philosopher, writer and activist.

The next morning people packed up their tents to head home, to work or to school. Teresa and Cate stayed with me. The media paid a short visit and left. Then the police arrived, followed by the terrifying droning of a bulldozer. One of the police officers walked towards us and called out, “Come down Vivienne.” To which I replied, “NO! This tree asked me to protect her and that is what I am doing.” He replied, “Look Vivienne, you have had good media coverage and you made your point. Please don’t make it hard for me, because I will have to come up and arrest you if you don’t come down voluntarily.”

After my final refusal, the police officer signalled the bulldozer driver, then jumped into the front loader and was lifted into the tree. I clung to my beloved tree as tight as I could, but he grabbed me by the arm, which he pressed hard, pulling me into the front loader, which immediately lowered us both to the ground. I was taken to the police van and held captive there, only to witness an intense struggle at the base of the tree. Teresa and Cate flung themselves into the tree. Teresa was taken out, but Cate straddling in the lower fork could not be pulled out that easily. Being a strong and heavy person the police had their hands full. Eventually she was pulled out, her legs still stuck in the fork of the tree, while the bulldozer started pushing the tree over. I was horrified that they would undertake such a dangerous operation. To push the tree over while Cate was still stuck in it was unbelievable. Have bulldozer drivers become unfeeling machines? I was so angry. I felt this assault on my human sister and my tree sister in my own body. It was unbearable. Cate was finally pulled out just seconds before the tree hit the ground. My murdered tree sister was then pushed across the ground and dumped onto a pile of other dead tree bodies. Both Teresa and Cate were charged and pushed into the van and I was released, because they said that they did not want to make a martyr out of me. As the police van disappeared in the distance I sat on the ground weeping, feeling grief struck beyond words. My kookaburra friends flew over and sat on a branch on their tree. They did not make a sound, they just sat there in silence for a long time. I was sure that they were mourning with all of us.

People gathered again and made a signboard saying, “The Tree of Hope still stands”, which children placed next to the crater, where once this strong tree anchored its roots deep into the ground. Many of my friends arrived to support me. For me this was a time of double grief, for I was brought news of my father’s death. I felt that I needed a memoriam for this place and all the beings who suffered and died here because of human greed. My friends gathered with me in a spot over the hill and further in. The rape and pillage was even worse than I could see from the tree during the past 3 days. Huge murdered 500+ year old tuart trees where lying on their side. Their bodies hollowed out from burning for days, the intensity of the heat drying the skin on my face. My close friend Skye brought me an old African cloth doll as a gift. I pressed the doll against my belly, and then without thinking I threw her into the gaping red glowing insides of this tree body. It felt like an offering to the earth, and to the beings, which were about to return to her womb. The air carried the sound of our wailing across this wailing land. It was also a time of saying good-bye to my dad.

The day after a large number of people gathered for a vigil. Many trees were planted that day. My grief was just too great to remember too much of that event. At times I regretted not staying and fighting on, but I had no energy left.

Only months after the struggle was over and I was able to reflect on the string of events during those fateful days, that I understood that the attempts to shake me out of the tree was to prevent any media attention on this issue. Hepburn Heights I learned was a political issue in a marginal seat, just before an election. Hepburn Heights was promised to become Homes West housing for the elderly. We were conned once more by the fat cats and their friends, because Hepburn Heights became an expensive walled estate instead.

Although the politicians and developers murdered a large part of this place and covered it with concrete, they were not able to murder the spirit of the people, for “The Tree of Hope still Stands” in our hearts. And the Spirit of this place can never die, for one day, when the buildings crumble with age our great-grandchildren will read our stories and will offer this place to the seeds, which slumbered for so many years under this concrete blanket.

Sitting here in this circle of Balga elders, I rejoice having been a part of the struggle to preserve Hepburn Heights alongside so many passionate and caring people, who love this place as fiercely as I do. This tree-sister will always have a place in my heart, her spirit giving me strength and hope for a tomorrow. I have learned that trees can and will teach us about things like patience, persistence, courage, and compassion for the healing of this ailing and confused world.

May this place be protected from harm and continue to be cared for with love, for all the children – the four-legged, the six legged, the eight-legged, the legless, those that crawl, and the winged and the two-legged also. May we all understand that we are one family and that country is our mother. Without country we have no existence. May the very ground we walk on, help us to Re-member!

A PARTY BRANCH

About six months after my tree sit at Hepburn Heights, I received a phone call from the West Australian Greens, asking me if I would like to stand as a candidate in the Lower House for the seat of Marmion. I felt overwhelmed and shocked with such a request, a bit like being asked to become the next Prime Minister. Although I knew that I would never win this seat, the thought of standing was outside my comfort zone. I responded by asking the Greens to phone me the next day to ask me again, hoping that they would forget or change their minds. No way would they forget, for I received a phone call the next morning at 7am. I still had not made up my mind, so I simply said, “Yes”. Being a member of the Greens and strongly believing in their stand for a just and sustainable world I wanted to help in this election. And with that a new adventure began.

The following day I was walking down Fosten Drive in Duncraig, to visit Alan Lloyd, who was the president of Friends of Hepburn Heights. Alan who was a local resident informed me that a 200 –year- old Tuart tree was to be replaced with housing for the elderly. He thought that since I was standing as a Greens candidate for Marmion I should do something to stop the development and save the tree. I told him that I could do nothing until after the election, which was only five days away. He insisted that if I did not do something by Thursday, which was closing day for submissions, all would be lost. As I was listening to his pleas I proceeded to walk down the street towards the tree.

As I got closer and closer the tree grew bigger and bigger and by the time I stood next to the trunk I realised how big and majestic this tree actually was. I looked up marvelling at the generous outreaching of branches. Then it hit me like lightening. Yes! That’s it! I could have my very own party branch up here. A political platform with my own little office, which would be open every day, just like that of a candidate. I called out to Alan, who had followed me, “Yes Alan, I will take it on.”

I called my trusted friend Wade to my aid. He arrived with a bow and arrow, a fishing line, climbing equipment and lots of building material. I stood there mesmerised watching Wade shoot arrows up the tree. Finally after about twenty minutes of failed attempts the arrow made its way across the air and over a strong branch, pulling the fishing line with it. Wade then tide thick rope onto the fishing line, which was pulled over the branch. With a very strong rope tightly fastened to the branch, he could now climb into the tree, and begin the process of hoisting up the timber for the platform.

Then came the time to move into my new office. The journey up was a challenging one, because I had to literally walk through the air with the climbing gear, like climbing a ladder. This tree was much bigger and taller than the one at Hepburn Heights, and the platform was placed a lot higher up amongst the branches. I had to promise Wade to stay attached on my harness day and night, just in case I rolled off the platform in my sleep, which was again only the seize of a massage table. What surprised me most was how cold the air was 15 meters above the ground, while on the ground the temperature measured about 40 degrees. I had to use my minus 8- degree sleeping bag for the night and put on my tracksuit, a woollen beanie and gloves to keep me warm.

The first day I spend my time writing press releases. I was especially concerned that Wanneroo Shire Council was determined to cut down this tree, when only six months earlier they praised my action at Hepburn Heights. In a letter to them I suggested that they could build the houses in a semi-circle around the tree.

On the second day the media found its way to the foot of my tree. A journalist was calling up to me, almost yelling to be heard, while a helicopter hovered around the tree with someone inside trying to film us. I could not hear him very well and had to repeat myself many times. Sitting in this tree did not have the intensity of the Hepburn Heights experience. It had a different more subtle quality. I spend my days watching the neighbourhood and all its doing. In the mornings the roads were busy with parents taking their children off to the local school and in the afternoon the reverse would play itself out.

While all the humans were busy the birds were going about their business also. I realised how important this tree was to the birds and the insects. The loss of this tree would mean more habitat loss. Most of the local residence seemed to have little or no awareness of the wider, ecological community and its needs. I think that politicians should practice tree sitting for a week or two at least once a year to get in touch with their local community and spend time listening to the ecology. This would empower them to make decisions on behalf of that community, rather than for their own political interest.

Three days later it was time to descend from my lookout, leaving behind the most interesting birds eye view. Most of my friends heard about my tree-sit and wanted to help hand out how to vote cards. That Saturday was a very wet day. I spend my time darting from one venue to the next. My enthusiastic team covered all twelve polling booths scattered throughout the Marmion electorate.

Some people felt that I was nuts to sit in a tree for they believed that no one would take me seriously and I may loose votes. History showed that it was the right thing to do, because I actually won more votes for the Greens than any previous Green candidate standing in Marmion. I was told of a woman who wanted to vote for “that woman who sat in the tree”, and to do so she had to find out my name and what party I stood for.

During the following week I spend my time door knocking, asking people to sign a petition and write letters to the Wanneroo Shire Council asking them to not cut down this tree. It proved to be a massive task encouraging people to produce the amount of signed letters needed to make a difference. The Council did come to the party and built the houses in a semi-circle, just like I suggested. The tree looks so majestic in its place in the centre of the courtyard.

Trees are sacred in most parts of the world. Some indigenous cultures believe that spirits live in mature trees. There certainly lives a powerful spirit in this tree at the corner of Doveridge and Fosten Drive, who made sure that its tree was left to live. To have such mature trees in our midst is a great blessing in our daily lives.

SITTING UNDER THE BODHI TREE

One day the news of a month long blockade deep in Western Australians old-growth forest was announced far and wide. I heard about it a couple of weeks before my birthday. During the past two decades many people had worked hard on a series of campaigns to stop the clear felling in our forests, but to no avail. Every elected government was deaf and the wider community had no idea at the time of the rape and pillage in these unique and rapidly dwindling eco-systems. We were going to change that and I was going to be a part of it.

So I decided to have a big birthday party, which was also going to be a send off for me, a kind of “going to the forest party”, to which I invited all my friends. And what a party it was. Everyone brought me a special gift to keep me warm, such as a raincoat, woollen underwear, thick socks, boots, a scarf, a beanie, and a pair of mittens. To the sound of drums and didgeridoos I was blessed for my journey ahead.

A week later I arrived at the blockade campsite with my beloved, who stayed for the first week. Many of my friends were there also. Hundreds of people were moving about, setting up tents, cooking, washing, playing with children or just sitting around and talking. There was a real sense of community and camaraderie in the air. Yes, this was certainly the place to be.

FROG DREAMING

When our children were in their teens, we decided to rent a house with a swimming pool, so we could cool off during the hot summer days. We all agreed to share the cleaning of the pool. When autumn arrived and the weather became windy and cold the pool was neglected. So a slightly green swimming pool would gradually turn darker and darker in colour and richer in nutrient by the day from lots of leaf litter. And still no one bothered.

Then one fine, sunny spring afternoon, when the air was filled with the sweet scent of orange blossoms I looked out of the window, when suddenly my attention was drawn to something in the pool. There in this green brew I noticed a long trail of little wrigglers moving alongside its edge. On closer investigation they proved to be tadpoles frolicking in this primordial soup. Not hundreds, but thousands of them. At first I was shocked, which soon turned into excitement and delight, until 3 days later when we received the three monthly inspection notice from the real estate agent. My goodness! What were we to do?

Out came the net and the bucket. Hour after hour, day after day I scooped out the little critters. Six hundred and forty seven… I was giving them away to whoever wanted them. Buckets full we carried to the local lake and a lot were warmly received by friends, such as Carol, who created a beautiful home for them in bathtubs filled with waterlilies. This fishing expedition seemed never-ending. One thousand and seventy one…. My back was aching. I felt that I could not go on any longer. Two thousand and twenty eight…. I felt like crying from exhaustion bending over the pool day after day, meticulously fishing for each individual passing by. I began to feel a sense of panic, as there were only two weeks left before the house inspection. Two thousand and ninety one… three thousand. On the day of inspection the pool sparkled, and over three thousand taddies found new homes, a process that would repeat itself every spring for several years.

Every winter, especially during the night, we would hear coming from the garden a call which sounded like,..whoop,….whoop,….whoop, which we thought was an owl. Many times we went outside in into the dark, cold and rainy night with our torches to find this owl somewhere up in a tree, but every time to no avail. Years later this mystery owl eventually revealed itself. We discovered that the hooting did not come from a tree, but from holes in the ground, which were occupied by moaning frogs. We were pleased to know that not only did we have a summer breading frog, but also a winter one as well.

When we moved to Gaia House in East Victoria Park, I was keen to build a community in my street. I went from house to house and introduced myself in the neighbourhood. What we all had in common were untidy verges, so I proposed that we beautify them together. People liked the idea, but were too busy to join in with me. So I spend my weekends weeding and revegetation the neighbours verges on my own with native plants, gradually transforming the streetscape. I felt somewhat disillusioned with community building, as it seemed too hard. Consumerism and individualism dominates our western culture so much. We don’t know how to be in community any more. Although most people love a particular place somewhere out there in the wilderness, many do not have a sense of place where they live. Certainly the street verges, which are shared by all of us, are not seen as “the commons” any longer. Privatisation seems to be the current trend. Walling in what is yours and the rest “belongs” to the Shire Council or some other government department. This made me feel sad.

So instead of trying very hard to build a sense of community with my fellow humans, I proceeded in creating habitat for wild life and building frog ponds in my own garden, a most nourishing activity. It all began with a visitor, actually a total stranger, named Peter, who happened to discover a drawing of a frog pond pinned to my message board in the kitchen. When I explained what it was, and that maybe one -day I would get around to building it, he asked me for a spade. He started digging straightaway, with me as his assistant. We used a tractor tyre, which was lined with strong plastic. After it was built, we dropped a few coins into the one- meter deep water for a blessing and named it “Peter’s Well”. It just so happened that Carol had to move house, and decided to give us all her tadpoles, which were the great-grandchildren of the frogs from our swimming pool days. I used to sit next to the pond every morning watching them dart around looking for food. I enjoyed sprinkling spirulina powder (an edible alga) on the surface of the pond. It did not take long before hundreds of little mouth, like vacuum cleaners surfacing from below to greedily suck up their breakfast. They seemed to grow by the hour. Within a few weeks they grew into beautiful, little froglets, with green and golden stripes, known as Golden Bell Frogs or Motorbike Frogs.

Once our little friends reached maturity, the males started calling for the first time, which was such a thrill for John and myself. They actually sound like motorbikes changing gears. Then on the night of the spring equinox, which was also a full moon, it began to rain. Slowly one by one the males started calling and soon a whole chorus exploded in that small, round pond, the sound being carried through the cold and wet night air. Eagerly frogs were piling on top of each other in two’s and three’s. The mating croaks were accelerating, becoming faster and faster. John and me were dancing in the rain and celebrating such fecundity, by joining in with their chorus. Now and then we would hear low rhythmic grunts coming from this amphibian orgy. Such raw lust was very infectious, so we eventually retreated into the dry, warm house, an environment more suited for our own species for expressing fertility rituals.

As the frog population increased, more and more ponds were needed until finally we had ten of various seizes scattered throughout the garden. In one of my dreams the frogs let me know that they needed more wet places, so I phoned some of my friends and passed on the frog’s message. Within a couple of hours I had enough money raised to buy the material to construct a larger pond surrounded by three sides with a wetland. Today it is the most popular spot for the majority of the frogs to hang out on a hot summer’s day.

As the colony grew, they spread throughout the neighbourhood, totally disregarding fences and making themselves at home in places like on top of the neighbour’s hot water system. Reports of frogs in people’s gardens came in from all direction. Neighbours talked to each other. I quickly came to understand that it was not me who was building community, but the frogs, indeed a very humbling realisation.

During the weeks and months to come I fell more and more in love with these beautiful beings. All I wanted to do was to be in service to them. And that is what I did. In the front of the house we created a native garden with lots of leaf litter and ground cover, to give them protection as well as a source of food.

Then the frogs began to appear in my dreams more frequently. Frogs are a symbol of transformation in several cultures, probably due the fact that they metamorphose from tadpole into frog. The messages of some of the dreams were quite clear to me. I was called to embark on my own transformation towards an integrated sense of self, menopause was central to this journey.

During the months to come many people in our street also fell in love with those froggy friends, and soon built ponds in their gardens. But not everyone loved our frogs. One day as I was tending to our front verge, planting more native shrubs, a local resident I will call Bill came across the road to have a chat with me. I learned that his son built a beautiful native garden with a large pond. I offered him tadpoles, but instead he said, “I hate frogs!” I was taken back by such a severe reaction and wondered if this was connected to a childhood trauma, such as someone putting a frog in his bed when he was four. I did not dare mention the word frog again…

…Until about a year later, when he hurried across the road to tell me about a documentary he saw on TV about the disappearance of many frog species all over the world. He concluded by saying, “ I am very concerned about our frogs”. Did I hear right? Did he say, “our frogs”? I got so excited. After we spoke for quite a long time about the plight of the frogs and the state of our environment, I cautiously repeated my offer from the year before, to which he replied. “Well…. They will find their way into my garden eventually”.

I happened to see him leave his driveway that afternoon, taking his dog for a walk. Being the dedicated ambassador for the frogs that I had become, I wasted no time. I fetched the biggest jar from the shed, dipped it into one of the ponds and hauled out hundreds of little wrigglers. I dashed across the road, stole my way into his garden and carefully lowered the jar into the thickets of reeds of his pond. Yes! It is amazing what can be achieved with a little helping hand. He did say, that they would eventually find their way into the garden. And that they did.

A couple of months later I went across to borrow a hammer. His wife opened the door and instead of responding to my request she grabbed me by the hand and pulled me across to the pond, pointing at the little fat tadpoles, and exclaimed excitedly, “Isn’t it a miracle?” To which I replied, “Yes, what a miracle!” Indeed it was a miracle that the frog hater became the frog lover. He proudly introduced his frogs to every visitor. Once Bill and myself even posed for a photo together in front of his frog filled pond for a newspaper article on frogs.

Some time later a friend told me about a privately owned wetland not far from Albany Highway, which was destined to become another housing development. So I packed my net, buckets and Wellington’s into the car, in anticipation of an adventure usually only four- year olds and crazy scientists get to enjoy. The wetland was small but filled with several species of frogs. The chorus was deafening. I was glad to know of its existence, even though my acquaintance with it would be short lived. The bulldozers doing preliminary work had left deep tyre marks in the clay soil, which had filled with rain during the past weeks. The frogs were quick to deposit tens of thousands of eggs in these temporary breading places. At that time I could not tell which tadpole belonged to which frog species, so I just took home whatever found its way into my net, which included dragonfly larvae and many other, then unknown to me wetland creatures. I spend many hours wading through the shallow waters, totally immersed in this amazing place, which was teaming with such an abundance of life. Bucket loads of this rich, thick chocolate coloured soup were poured into our ponds, vastly increasing the number of different species within their ecosystems.

By studying books on frogs, I learned that each species has different requirements. The sand plain froglet for instance lays its eggs on the bottom of shallow waters, as it is not strong enough to dive into the depths. Banjo frogs on the other hand need a lot of overhanging reeds for successful breeding. Having created these new habitats, there was not much more I could than wait patiently and observe what would unfold in this jungle garden of ours.

One morning I happen to sit at the large pond when suddenly one of the frogs snapped up a smaller frog. It gulped several times, the struggling legs still sticking out from its mouth. I heard the victim’s desperate screech, but was helpless to rush to its aid, because it happened all in such a flash. This is life! Eating, and being eaten. Every living creature enters its life through the process of birth and eventually meets its death, which in turn makes space for new life. Just as this young frog met its end, the dragonfly larvae I brought back from that swamp started to metamorphose into beautiful adults. Several hovered over the pond every day and to my excitement one of them deposited its eggs into the water. The interconnectedness of all life is so profound. The dragonfly larva lives off tadpoles and the frogs live off dragonflies.

A couple of seasons passed, when one January day the sky gathered clouds, which built into a massive thunderstorm. The heavens split open, thunder crashed and a torrent of rain came gushing down. Then during the night I woke up by this noise. Bonk, bonk, bonk… I heard myself muttering, “What’s that?” To which my already awake beloved, replied, “Banjo frogs”. “Wow! Our family is growing”, I shouted with excitement. A few days later I discovered a large mount of froth on the water surface under a clump of overhanging reeds, which looked like whipped egg white. It proved to be banjo spawn, gifting our ponds with again thousands of tadpoles. Our place was becoming a wetland and sounding like one too. Our frog population numbered in the hundreds, which was spread over the whole neighbourhood, with an estimate of up to 20,000 tadpoles laid in our ponds every year alone.

Our neighbour Pat could not stand it any longer. One morning she charged across her front yard and confronted me at my gate. “ I have not slept in days” she snorted at me like a steam engine. I did not know what to say. Eventually I said, “I am so sorry that you are having sleepless nights”. I listened to her anger and frustration. And then she said, “Well, what are you going to do about this?” After a long pause I said, “ A hundred years ago we would have slept peacefully with frog calls and would have been distressed with engine noises. Today we sleep soundly with cars screeching past our bedroom windows and get distressed with nature sounds. What have we come to!” I left her with these words.

The next day her sons told me that their dad was fixing the cracked concrete pond and wondered if I could give them a few water plants, which I gladly did. To my surprise they came running back two days later, calling out, “We have tadpoles, we have tadpoles!” I was a bit suspicious of such a miraculous birth. This pond was dry and empty only the day before. The only possible explanation was that tadpoles were trapped amongst the roots of the plants I gave them. So I checked my own pond and found that it was filled with tadpoles. We had no more complaints from our neighbour since that confrontation about noisy frogs. Then one sunny morning while gardening, John heard Pat, like a proud parent call across the road to Bill, “Have your tadpoles got legs yet?”

As I sit here in the shade next to one of the ponds, I acknowledge with immense gratitude the healing these frogs have brought into my life. They have taught me so much about the interconnectedness of all things. They truly are medicine for a culture that has become alienated from the natural world. The frogs are bringing us back to our senses if we only let them show us how. I believe that frogs have the power to help us in our transformation from a consumerist society driven by greed, towards a life sustaining society, which acknowledges our interdependence with each other. It is in our own backyards as well as in our own psyches that we must tend to pond building for our collective healing. Sitting on one’s verandah and engaging with frogs in a conversation in their language helps us enter into frog dreaming, something that cannot be learned from books.

For many indigenous peoples frogs occupy a special place in the order of things. The indigenous Nyugar people of the area of Pinjarra and Australind were known as the Pinjareb – the people of the wetlands (Pinjar = wetland). These people lived sustainably within this region, which was rich in food sources. The first European massacre of indigenous people in Western Australia was against the Pinjareb custodians of these wetlands. This massacre did not stop with the people, it has continued with the killing of the land down to the present day.

At the time of contact the coastal region from Yanchep to Busselton was dotted by coastal lakes within wetlands, and separated from each other by lines of sand dunes. Distinctive vegetation covered this region. Paperbark trees covered the wetlands, banksia heathlands covered the shallow soils of the foredunes and mixed tuart/jarrah forests covered the thicker soils of the hind dunes. This environment has become the most damaged ecosystem in Western Australia and is amongst the most damaged on the Australian continent. More than eighty percent of this natural vegetation has been lost to development. Around Perth wetlands and swamps have been filled in for housing and industrial development. An Indian Proverb says that, “The frog does not drink up the pond in which he lives”. That is precisely what we have done through excessive use of groundwater, the water tables have dropped, which is killing the tuart trees and eliminates the wetland habitat of many seasonally breeding species of frogs. Fifty years ago suburban wetlands were filled with the dawn and evening chorus of many species of frogs. Today these places are largely silent.

A frog’s diet consists of a variety of different kinds of insects and in turn larger predators eat them. Scientist refer to them as keystone species, which means that if they disappear in our gardens and wetlands, many ecosystems will suffer and may even collapse. Frogs, just like the canaries, which used to be kept in the mineshaft to warn the miners of toxic gasses, the frogs too are indicators of the state of health in our ecosystems. If they are ill or are dying due to pollution, so will we.