Humpty Doo, Northern Territory, June 1992
The poet Antler claims, “To learn to die, cut down a tree.” I did that. I killed a huge tree.
In the quiet sanctuary of my heart, in the aftermath of the majestic White Gum’s descent, I grapple with the echoes of my actions. The White Tree, a symbol of growth and transcendence, its roots grounded in the Earth, its branches aspiring toward the heavens—a reflection of psychic equilibrium. Yet, bathed in the soft radiance of my lamp’s glow, I ponder: have I forsaken my essence in the quest for enlightenment?
Here, amidst the solitude of this pocket of rainforest, entangled in a web of guilt and bewilderment, I yearn for redemption, longing to mend the frayed bonds between heaven and Earth. Life beckons me forth, and though I am no weaver by trade, the metaphor of weaving speaks to me. It signals a journey of inner metamorphosis and transcendence, a quest for an all-encompassing identity.
I envision weaving as a timeless art, whispered across the ages, emerging now as a sacred rite of healing for my fractured spirit. I am the weaver of the unbroken whole, piecing together the shattered fragments of my existence, dispelling the illusion of severed connections.
Guided by the whispers of luminaries like Jean Houston and the echoes of Odysseus’ odyssey, I embark on an inward voyage, confronting shadows and trials, seeking enlightenment in the realm of environmental ethics. Inevitably, feminine and feminist energies entwine, weaving a tapestry of transformation. I spin new visions, contemplating the role of planning amidst the looming ecological tempests.
Yet, challenges persist, testing the very fabric of my comprehension. “Weaving is sacred work not to be taken lightly,” warns the voice of wisdom. I sense the imperative to unveil spirituality from its hidden recesses and honor the sacred bonds between humanity and Nature. I recognize that direct communion with the natural world and the spiritual realm must intertwine with the fibers of my learning.
As the fabric of my revelations begins to take shape, a quilt of caring unfolds. Amidst the solitude of the forest, I strive to embody integrity, weaving a tapestry of reverence for Nature. Now, my hands move with purpose, each stitch a testament to the interconnectedness of all things. Through the art of weaving, I pay homage to the Earth, enriching us both with the tapestry of my newfound commitment to honoring her.
Alone in the lamplight, I stare in horror at these words. I killed the White Tree in my pursuit of enlightenment. Did I sacrifice my Self in the process?
How am I to atone, to reweave the tattered web connecting heaven and Earth?
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