Various unidentified bugs scatter as I pick up the small log. The underside is moist and dark. The perfect hiding spot when you don’t want to be found. In seconds they are hidden in the long grass, and I think to myself I should probably be wearing boots instead of Birkenstocks. There are most definitely snakes out here, as well as many other things that like to bite. Several ants have exacted their vengeance on me already today.
The wood itself has been sitting here for a while, the remnants of several trees that had to be cut down. Borers ran through our yard a couple of years ago; small little creatures destroying the large gums that had been here far longer than my family. I look at the stumps now and can’t really make them out through the new growth that has sprung from them. Green, healthy and wild. Hell, I can’t even see the house through it from this spot in the yard.
Other trees were just dead and had been long before the borer apocalypse, and they were not going to return. Sometimes that just happens. For a few years, they remained in place, black amongst a wild tangle of daisies. Their branches crossed over an old wire fence that marked the boundary between us and the neighbour. I have a new neighbour now, a new imposing fence.
I look at the dirt where it stands. It’s still a startling white against the rich black topsoil, revealing the secret that just under the soil are layers of hard limestone. It is near impossible to get through without heavy equipment. To the frustration of the new neighbour putting up the fence last month required the extra cost of a rock drill; there was no other way to create holes deep enough for the posts. Even with that, it was still a struggle for the lone contractor. Out loud I say to the bugs: “They really don’t get it, do they?” To myself, I think: “Sucker.”
“Do you have a second to talk about the dead trees?”
I seem to be invisible as the neighbour talks to my husband, Bear, that morning. They won’t meet my eyes and ignore my awkward attempts at small talk.
“If we put a new fence in, they will probably have to come down. don’t want them to come down on the fence in the wind!”
The neighbour had bought the house a couple of months prior. The original ones had been here long before my parents bought what they lovingly call “The Cottage”. When my parents downsized and we took over we were never as close with them, but I kept an eye on their chickens, feeding them scraps over the wire fence.
The new neighbour was different.
They wanted to rent out the property, as they already did with a neighbouring house, and were planning on subdividing the huge yard. When they approached us about putting up a new fence a few weeks before, we agreed to get some quotes.
Bear and the neighbour come to an agreement about the trees: the neighbour will cut them back today. He has his farmhands with him, he says, his “boys”. It won’t take an hour with the extra hands. Bear is slightly thrilled that this job he has been avoiding is being done for us and we can enjoy a rare day together.
We pull into the driveway hours later, still glowing from our winery date.
“Ummm, Bear? Is the neighbour ripping up the fence and daisies?”
I watch a front-end loader lift a significant portion of fence and flowers into the air and toss them aside. My husband turns to me, looking confused.
“I’ll go speak to them.”
I panic and call my parents, who are still the legal owners of the property, while Bear goes to speak to the neighbour. He is calm in a way that is slightly terrifying to watch. Normally he is smiling and carefree, the epitome of a gentle giant. Now he is controlling his temper, speaking quietly and politely. My father and mother are not; they have played this game before and have come out losers. The neighbour is defensive, arguing that they were doing us a favour; the fence was going to have to come down eventually and they had the loader here from the farm. I am upset about my wild daisies that the bees once feasted on and mildly embarrassed that I had to ask my parents to step in to help me in this fight. I should be able to deal with these things myself by now. Could I be any more spoiled?
Then the neighbour says something that immediately gets my ire up.
“It’s not like you are doing anything productive with it anyway.”
“I needed to tell you right away!” Bear’s voice sounds rushed, and I can hear that he is outside. I worry that he has been in a crash. “When I ordered your vegetarian fried rice the woman asked, ‘so, only prawns then?’”
He can’t contain his laughter.
I smile. This is not the first time I’ve heard a question like that. I have been a vegetarian on and off since my early teens. The reasoning behind it has fluctuated, but honestly, cows are cute, and a healthy environment is a good thing. I’ve always been a bit of a bleeding-heart hippy like that. Or utterly rebellious to the norm of things, depending on whom you ask.
A week after the comment from the neighbour, I am again. This time, it’s environmental.
Whether or not I am making a difference is another matter. Large amounts of land is cleared to harvest soy, which is a staple in vegetarian diets, making it seem like my attempts at ethical consumption are more damaging than eating meat. The truth of the matter is, like everything, far more complicated. A lot of this soy is actually being used to feed livestock rather than humans, in fact, around 80% of it is. On the other hand, livestock, as cute as they may be, accounted for 14% of greenhouse gas emissions in 2016.
To be honest, though, I have often failed at vegetarianism. Sticking to your convictions is hard when the modern world is working against you. When everyone around you eats meat, you are short on cash, and meat tastes good, it can be extremely difficult to change your lifestyle, despite your convictions.
When I’m standing in the supermarket at the end of the day, I don’t have the mental energy to worry about where my food comes from. Tired and hungry after working all day and a two-hour round commute by car, the first thing I want is something greasy and quick. I have a penchant for cheese and pizza and my laziness in the kitchen would be impressive if it was not slightly concerning. The last time I was vegan I was very, very sick. Apparently, you can’t survive on hummus and potato chips and still be healthy, despite my best efforts. Everything, when you don’t eat meat, has to be so planned out in order to still be healthy, even more so if you are trying to lessen your environmental impact.
Prawns are the least of my problems.
The fence has been up for months, and we have had little to do with the neighbour since then. We have watched them gut the old house and tear apart their yard from a distance, critical of every decision they are making, while we prepared ourselves for winter. I’m still stewing over the comment.
Why does my yard have to be “productive”? What does “productive” even mean? It’s productive to the bees and birds that live in it, the possum that lives in our ancient stone shed and feasts on our peaches and apples, and the trees that grow wild here while their relatives are progressively removed. Why can’t a place just be?
I’m distracted from my rumination by the Hilux bouncing along the track as we pull up to the tiny eco cabin we have rented.
“Wow.”
It’s perfect. For a moment I worry that the owners will judge us if they see our beast of a vehicle at their well-thought-out eco-retreat, but that fades as soon as I open the glass doors.
It is so… warm. There is no other way to describe it. The tone of the wood, the hand-picked, one-of-a-kind rugs that cover the floors. It reminds me of the homely warm feeling of gingerbread, of the soft spice in a ginger kiss. It is everything that is missing in the places that I go to these days, which are decorated in light wood and white. I can tell without reading the information book that everything here was deliberately chosen with care and love. Hand-made and upcycled. It’s what I want my own home to be like.
I cross in a few steps to the small but well-equipped kitchen, the sight of a gas stove making me feel like I’m living in luxury for the weekend. It’s not really available in my town unless you opt to have a cylinder at the side of your house, so I have been cooking on an electric stove for years. The lack of fire while cooking makes it strangely impersonal. Perhaps that is why I don’t bother much with it. That and I don’t have the time to give attention to it before I am off to the next thing.
I am here because I need a break. I need to disconnect. The last couple of years have become so demanding on my time that my routine only consists of sleep, work, study, and the occasional date with Bear. When I get a spare minute, I am doing something mindless like watching the same show over and over again. I am expected to be busy and time-poor. The iPad is at home, and I am in a spot with not-so-great phone coverage. I am disconnected and can be one with nature. I have brought my books and there is plenty of wine to be had by the small wood stove. The inside of the cabin is toasty while a mist of rain falls outside.
Perfection.
I cook dinner on the luxurious gas stove, struggling to keep my temperature right. Vegan meatballs with organic pasta and organic pasta sauce, a meal that has cost me a small fortune to buy the ingredients for. This is not usually an option for me, or for others. My usual budget, despite my somewhat decent salary, is often too stretched to exclusively buy organic. I had to go out of my way to get the ingredients, the fake meat in particular not readily available in my local shops. I could just use vegetables, but honestly, just because you don’t eat meat doesn’t mean you miss the taste of it.
I pull out the plates for our dinner, both individual and handmade, and look at the back of the packet of fake meatballs to figure out where they come from. Despite being clear that the goal of the company is to lessen the impact meat makes on the environment, it doesn’t really say where it is made. There is just the type of sticker importers put over the original, with a small note that it is imported to Australia. Is this really better for the environment? I’m going to have to learn to cook veggies properly. I schedule it into my calendar.
We sit quietly in our cabin, eating what is a rather delicious plate of “meatballs” and drinking our favourite wine. It feels weird. I am not used to this. Normally we are watching something. I miss my iPad.
“Bear?”
“Yeah?”
“You know the composting toilet here? What do they do with the straw when they empty it?”
Bear is smarter than me when it comes to practical things.
“Probably put it on their garden.”
“What!?”
“Lucy, what did you think compost was?”
From the window next to the loft bed, I watch the wallabies roam around the cabin. A loft bed is cute until you need to pee in the middle of the night. Still, I will miss this place.
As we wind through the country roads home, I think back to a random episode of The Good Place. The basic premise of this episode is that a stoned teenager figures out that to get into “The Good Place” when you die, you must accumulate points for being good and ethical. Every choice they make from then on is the ethical one, and yet, due to the complexities of the modern world, they never have enough points, and they are generally unhappy. It’s kind of like real life. Every decision you make, as ethical as you try to make it, has a global consequence for both other people and the environment. All the things that we think of as “bad” for the environment are inherently linked to how we live our lives today, and even the notion of “buying green” is used as marketing to consume more. While the weekend at the cabin was ultimately relaxing, I am left with more questions about my impact on the environment. Is my “unproductive” garden and vegetarianism enough?
Bear is singing along to the music in the car. I envy his carefree nature.
I resolve to be even more conscious of my choices. I can’t live with myself if I know better but still live the same life. I make a note to read What we owe each other, which plays a large role in the show, but has sat on my shelf, dust-covered for years.
The fence has been up a year, and though I still kind of hate its imposing nature, it has just become a part of my landscape. The daisies are returning, thriving. In the months since our time at the cabin, I’m spending more time on my quiet hobbies, upcycling what I can and using what I have until it can’t be fixed any more. I am still a vegetarian. I enjoy the quiet moments and my oasis of green in an increasingly urbanised small town.
Right now, though I am stressed. I’m sitting in traffic trying to get Bear to work on time. There are protesters: Extinction Rebellion. I fully support them and their cause. Normally I would cheer, but right now, I’m late for work. I’m not a daisy.
Lucy Irene 
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