Once more we travel the spiral.

Once more, it is the dry season
beige grasses laid to waste on pink soils
dust and gold leaves drifting in gusts of wind

Tree of Life members from the communities and organizations meet at Kufunda to reflect on our journey
It has been a long hard walk
‘where have we been?’
‘where are we going?’

Slender resources  have begun to take their toll
faces in the circle are drawn with the hardships they have endured
they spoke of the difficulties of healing in the continuance of adversity
and of the debilitating effects of lack of funding
and of the first tremors of violence that begin to be felt in their communities as talk of the ‘constitution’ and elections fill the air

and we see  how this paucity allows us to loose our trust
and feel,
once again,
our isolation.

It is the dry season

but the days grow longer
and warmer
and life begins to stir
old familiar patterns….

Small explosions punctuate time
as Masasa pods split
flinging flat round seeds to the winds

The promise of the future forest

In the dry branches, feathers are displayed, nesting material  collected, territories  claimed
and birds of prey sit in the tree tops – waiting

As if touched by magic
the faded bush is lit with crimson flashes of flowering Erythrinas
and Masasas begin pumping underground water into new leaves of red and gold

waiting for the rains

Sitting under the thatch, remembering who we are,
the roots that hold us in this ground
Remembering the moments of inspiration
the magic of what has been done
and been forgiven
and how far we have come
and the faces lightened

Remembering the agreements which hold us together
the connections between us
and the web of people out there in the world who have held us in their hearts

remembering our resources

And at the centre of the circle there is the deep knowing that this is the work we have chosen to do,
the work of nourishing this growing forest
for it is only in healing that we can resist our old fears

Outside the thatched rondavel
the granite rocks echo our laughter
and small insects fill the air with a throbbing hum

life continues

Out there, in the confines of our tiny solar system,
Venus and Mars and Saturn and Mercury
slip past each other at sunset
and move to the other side
of our modest sized star

The rat in the A-frame has discovered a way of levering the fitted lid off the bird seed tin
does he stand on the top and bounce?

everything is everything

Mtunzini is a remnant 40 km fringe of unique dune forest that once claimed hundreds of miles of the Natal coast in South Africa.

The rest has been taken by holiday apartments and hotels, sugar cane farms, eucalyptus and pine forestry, and dune mining and a huge port for sea transport at Richards Bay.

This small untouched forest is where we go to shed our skins and watch with awe

As I write,
and despite the extraordinary efforts of the local conservancy who invite people in to experience this magical dynamic ecosystem,
these remnants are being visibly destroyed by drying of river sources by inland forestry
and damaged by a hotel consortium with chalets in the forest that endeavors to match their resort to meet the expectations of their visitors:

‘snakes/monkeys will get into the cottage if the trees touch the roof’
‘the paths through the forest must be clear of leaf-litter so we do not stand on a snake/scorpion/unseen death threats’
‘and the branches must be cleared above our heads’
‘and the trees that drop leaves and bird droppings and fruit on our cars’

‘Why are you here?’ I want to ask
as holes appear in the interconnections of the forest canopy where new alien plants  encroach
and my heart aches

Monavale is the small suburb in Harare, Zimbabwe, where we have lived for 30 years
It is a magic place – a large wetland enfolded by a strange outcrop of rocky hills with about 60 houses and an old age home.
The growing community has always been held together by a shared borehole (historically we had no municipal water)
For the past 10 years a number of dedicated residents in this community have established Monavale as one of the very few an urban bio-diversity centers in Southern Africa with the blessings of City Council and support from various environmental organizations.

It has been an exciting project which has involved huge work
we have now established  a wetland bird sanctuary,
protection of the unique local tree community,
an indigenous tree nursery,
vermaculture in our households,
community litter collections,
and bi-annual cleanups of dumping that have been left on the vlei surrounding us.

. . . I came home to the sound of cement mixers and banging and trucks

A 45m cell phone base station is being built 40m from our bedroom window
on the highest point at the centre of Monavale hill

no one, least of all the surrounding properties, were notified in advance

the places that I hold sacred
are being moved into that unseeing world
where development and safety and control
lay to waste to the wonder of the nature surrounds us.

This month, my friend and poet, Bev Schofield wrote in her poem ‘BUT’

I ranted and I raved
about world evil, all  the wrong
wrung out in songs and tortured poetry.
“Dear God” I cried “have you forsaken us?
If evil must be wrought then surely justice must be brought…”
“Good,” said God. “Go do it.”
“But me?” baulked I,

and like her, my heart shudders
as once again, I find myself being called to stand
at a time when my soul calls me to the garden and the simple tasks of daily living

BUT

from the first day the construction workers arrived, they were presented with the signed petition from members of the Monavale community
our letters of protest were sent to the cell phone company, to the city council, to the mayor, to every relevant authority,
and we called them in repeatedly

BUT

no legal permit to build has ever been produced
and our last feedback from the Deputy Urban Planner was as follows:
‘you will have to sue both us and the cell phone company to prove that you were not notified’.

the building continues as I write

And I rave at the unstoppable-ness of it all
how do I remember to love in this space of un-loving?

God flies past on butterfly wing
peeps over the windowsill  in a new-born bright-eyed gecko
whispers beauty in falling orange leaf
touches my coldly shedding skin with the warm sun

what is my place in all this?
is it in the stopping?
or learning to love before we have lost everything?

Tony and I are setting off for 10 days in a log cabin in a dune forest in northern Natal. Ttime to stop and breathe and watch the sea.

A preliminary to this trip is to get police clearance for your car to cross the border (all Zimbabweans who drive across borders have to meet this challenge).

I park in a queue (surely illegal) outside the station
on a dusty foot path
in the face of oncoming traffic
Banana vendor outside my car window
sharing the footpath
sharing the greeting
‘did you sleep well?
I slept well if you slept well’

slowly edging through the gate
policeman points across the dusty pitted space where I join the next queue

alongside the car, a man dressed in rags merrily burns the piles of rubbish he has gathered
odorous black fumes of burning plastic fill the air
he chats happily to an unseen audience
waving a stick and smiling

slowly edging towards a open shelter
the man who has to check the engine number complains of being sick
‘sick enough for a woman to help?’
‘yes’
I open the bonnet

A newly painted red sign tells you to proceed with the signed corner of torn- off paper to room 19

‘Do I go to room 19?’  (just checking)
‘no, 18’

I wander across the dusty gravel to the line of prefab. rooms with asbestos roofing
man in room 18 looks up
‘I’ve come for clearance’
‘Room 15’

ok – it is, after all, next door (?)
man in room 15 looks up enquiringly
‘I’ve come for clearance’
He hands me a sheet of grey photocopied paper with the printing barely showing

I look around
no other stick of furniture apart from his huge ancient desk
‘do you mind if I lean on the corner of the desk?’
‘you have to go to your car’

I cross the pitted ground and lean on the car to fill in the form
the fire maker has replenished his fire with more plastic and unnamable detritus
smoke

Back to room 15
signature
across yard to room 20 (in open shelter of the first stop)
boxes ticked

re-cross yard to room 21 back in line of prefab.
The man queuing in front of me smiles a greeting
yes, we both slept well
‘bit chaotic, this procedure’ I offer
‘Ah – this is easy – you should see what happens when you lose the papers – that’s chaotic’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Zambia – I am doing some work in Lusaka now’
‘Where do you cross the Zambezi?’
‘Both at Kariba and Chirundu’
‘I hear the river is full now’
‘Aaaahhh you should see it, the gates are open at Kariba
shaking the wall
it is steaming down
magnificent’

we share dreams of the Zambezi in a dusty, smoky yard

Man in room 21 has slept well
signs and fills in form
‘go to room 18’

(I know where that is!)
In passing, I notice that room 19 is closed – no sign on the door
man in room 18 stamps
tears up my first scrap of paper
and I am free to go

Back through the traffic of Southerton
fumes, vendors, commuter busses, hooting, speeding
with the memory of all these people
who through different shifts in their lives, different families, different threads, different chances
have ended up on this or that side of the fence
the banana vendor, the policeman at the gate, the fire maker, the man in a suit who stamps the forms

and me
in my own car
driving back to my trees and butterflies
planning to drive to the sea.

living with the contradictions in our lives

This last year was one of magic and challenge. Watching the Tree of Life healing workshops begin to unfold at grass roots where people with scant resources began to take up the role of healing their communities. Seeing the integrity and self respect that allows people to carry the responsibility of this healing without reward or recognition. And it has been hard, and many have had to give up – but there has been this strange sense of knowing that ‘we can be better than this – wider than this’.

I have found it both inspiring and hard to watch.

But harder to watch, has been the edge where funder and grassroots activist meet. (The first world and the third world?/ old thinking and new thinking?). The world of checks and balances, of project proposals and programmes, and promises, and signed agreements and collecting receipts for the bus fare to town for the woman who was recently raped. The world of black and white, right and wrong, operating at the slow pace of the last person who has been on holiday, and has had a week to recover.

And seeing what happens to the people working in the  risky places living on a few hundred US$ a month or less – and who are made to wait two and a half months on a three month contract before any payment is made. Who have to leave their accommodation, and take their children out of school, but who carry on going.

This relationship is made all the more unbalanced because it is delivered as a gift from the knowing to the unknowing, from the benevolent to the victims. It is not support for the work of the warriors for peace.

There is no dignity in this!

Walking the grey clouds, wondering where  these two worlds meet.

And then towards the end of this year we began to be touched by magic – when amazing individuals acted with love and trust – and we were held in place by their contributions – and we made it through – to another place where we may get funding.  We are blessed.

Magic doesn’t fit in boxes
it streams in clouds

flowing with our dreams
not  our control

it is not held in place by our rules and regulations
but in  the trust of our common intentions

a place without boundaries
in a web of shared resources

living in a moment
- never re-gathered
soaring  the edges
on outspread wings

magic doesn’t fit in boxes
it comes from circles of love

For so long now, Zimbabwe has held me in its challenging grasp
watching the unbelievable madness and violence take reign
feeling my soul shrink
perhaps there are times when we connect too deeply
in too narrow a field
and we forget we are part of an astonishing universe

as if with scales over my eyes
I stand waiting to see
living with grief . . .

I sit in this newly born, newly bathed, sun-slanted morning
Listening to the almost-silence

In a small pool on the rock
ephemeral lives dance this microscopic magical moment atop granite mountains
a breathing, procreating, creative memory of last night’s rain

do these minute fragments remember the stars?

There are times when we need to climb the mountain,
for the story catcher to listen to the distant stories
and weave this vision into the threads that cross the planet

‘ama poto, ama poootooo, ama poootoooooi, ama poto’
a chanting echo down the suburban street
a man with his hand-held welding machine
advertising his skills in mending what has been broken

The sekuru with two young nephews churn their battered truck down pitted dirt roads in rural Motoko
buying mangoes
with sheer willpower, they drive the old car the 150k to Harare
and camp on the side of the street till the mangoes are sold, or rot
8 mangoes for US$ 1

Tawanda brings bananas from Chimanimani
tied to the top of a smoking, crowded bus
In Harare they are arranged in neatly piled rows in his brothers’ barrow
and sold down Chiremba road
12 bananas for US$1

Mai Chipo sells the mealies and tomatoes she has grown in a small piece of wasteland
arranged in meticulous patterns on old tyres
outside her small hut

Tichafa slogs his way home with thirty pillows tied to his back
To sell at a small profit, to a distant rural store

From early morning purchases at Mbare Msika
vendors sell fruit and vegetables on the suburban roadsides
Straw hats made in China
old cloths sent in bales from Europe
windscreen wipers, seat covers, plastic watches, shoes, ironing boards, cell phones
that have been brought on overloaded mini busses from South Africa

Sekuru Peter has a sign on his  bike
and a very old camera in the basket
‘go fast photography
best service’

there are signs on the side of the road:

‘Tree cutting – best experts
Cell:0912 000 000’

‘anaconda worms
take me fishing with you’

‘honey’
bottles arranged in golden rows outside Marondera

‘voulantery work.
plse help’
three young men carry buckets of mud and stone
making their best attempt to fill up the huge potholes
long abandoned by the city council

Mike runs his small business
roasting mealies on a small fire on the side of Quendon road
- fast take-away hot meals for homebound workers

Tafadzwa opens her hair plaiting business in a small nook under the masasa outside the local store

Umbuya Moyo stands at the door of her hut
watching the 12 grandchildren left in her care
their parents dead or lost or fled to South Africa
now her work of love

Nhamo and Rodgers and Jane and Mike and Abby
dedicate their lives to healing torture victims like themselves
taking their workshop into rural communities

what resilience is this?
what echo is it, that threads through the bones of this land
bones that tremor and shake
then stand firm in the wake of the storm
shorn of their outer shells
their homes and livelihoods

finding a way to survive

In the green-filtered sunlight through the closing canopy
the rain washed garden sparkles with joy

Today
people standing on the freezing streets of Copenhagen
hold candles of hope for the planet
whilst the world leaders haggle about responsibility
in warm lit rooms

candles burning on the streets
for a belief in a planet and a spirit of caring that is wider than themselves

This has been a long year in Zimbabwe
walking the steps of survival
at a time when the work of healing and community building and empowerment
has been handicapped by lack of funded support
and the stark reality of giving up /closing down
has had to be faced
or to try to continue their work
holding on to the web of good intentions

For the last months of this year,
in the face of disaster
the Tree of Life was held in place by a web of love
of witnessing and donations from individuals from all over the planet
who dared  to care . . .

without them we would have lost our step

to all those people we would like to express our deepest gratitude
for caring about something that is wider than yourselves

With these donations we are able to keep the rural workshops going.