Tree Changer

Tree Changer

Foreign eyes see ‘the country' - green meadows feeding herds of strolling meat on the hoof, a homey house perched high on a bald hill, defensively exposed to all it surveys.

The Cold Wanderer arrived in the Great Southland some decades ago and asked the Prince, "Why is it that they always put the house on a hill and kill everything around it?" They were reclining on the side of a gravel highway, soaking up the pre-ozone hole Sun.

"They say it's for fire. But if fire was their fear, the top of a hill is the worst place to be," the Prince replied.

"So why do they do it?"

"They're afraid of the Aborigines."

"But they killed them all, didn't they?"

"You never know. If you leave a tree anywhere, one might hide behind it and spear the sheep."

"And they're the lords of all they survey..."

"Aye... in their minds."

Foreign eyes see verdant simplicity where native orbs see desert wearing a thin feathering of bumfluff. They can still sense the vanished mighty Edenic Garden of Nature's Creation that the cowpeople, the termite people, destroyed. Here the ancient rainforest strove a hundred metres into the sunlight, millennial trees carrying water up to the sky and preserving it for centuries, drop by drop, a vertical lake. Here the lives of literally thousands of unique, living, dreaming, conscious species intersected only a heartbeat century ago, as they had for a million generations.

To move into this despoiled landscape, shorn to its bare skin and bones, is the paradoxical dream of many Termite People. The reality for the real Tree Changer, the genuine Deep Ecologist who inhabits the damaged ‘Real World', is to peel away the layers of self to approach the core of being, beyond the interwoven skein of culture and society, language and linear logic.

Either regeneration or rejection await those who would live with nature - depending on whether you're in touch with your own nature or merely trying to perpetuate crazed urban fantasies of control over the natural dynamic ordered chaos of existence.

The world works with those who work with and listen to it, those who can follow their instincts and accept and adapt to subtly expressed rhythms, harmonies and cycles. Being a musician helps, if you want to be a magician.

The White Ant homes of urban humanity are made of Earth, as we are made of clay. Dirt is good for you. Soil doesn't soil. And earthworms are immortal; it's good to get top know them in their native habitat.

If you move to ‘the country', cover it with trees - rainforest trees that won't burn.

- R. Ayana

author's images - http://www.flickr.com/photos/new-illuminati/218145081/

http://www.flickr.com/photos/new-illuminati/143913300/

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