1 December 2000 -- Settling in for some weather
I have returned to "my" place up here in the hollow, and I'm just "hanging
around" inside on another featureless grey day. The clouds look ready
to deliver some real snow, and the scene outside the front window actually
looks a little strange without it now. It will be such a different
world, of course, when there is a sizable layer over the surface of the
yard and the clearing. Life with four seasons always makes the opposite
season seem so unbelievably remote in its character, especially with the
additional difference of six months' time. Months on end spent in
a single basic weather environment create an illusion of permanence that
provides its own unexpected comfort, even when it's cold.
As I settle in for still more time in my refuge, I do what I can to
achieve the state I enjoy the most; the one where my mind is "at rest".
Some would call this "complacent", perhaps, but I can think of no better
condition than not needing to pick up and be off to something else.
I understand full well that concerted effort is rarely the best way to
bring this about, but then I'm too impatient to wait out a span of time
that is, by definition, not defined. I should really have
faith in previous successful trends that are bound to repeat themselves;
a trust in the order of my "chaos". I have certainly come by my share
of settlement and ease in the past, though admittedly not according to
my terms.
I get the feeling, as I stare out at the stark forms of so many trees
awaiting the snow, that I am being made to bargain with some one
or thing for a valuable good or service. This implies that my many
hours of being on edge are the result of poorly-considered offers.
I know, however, that it is not a matter of simply raising my price.
I am dealing instead with those shadowy wares of the "spirit", the kind
that are valued in terms of the strange contradictions that confront many
a casual reader of Scripture. I am first told of the basic "laws"
of proper living, only to see a little farther on that there is a "more
excellent way" for those who profess a newer understanding of how satisfaction
is earned and how it is given. On the one hand I am told I can make
my own way, but then it's only if I meet the proper intangible criteria.
Since I am presently at a loss to understand how I can have and not
have at the same time, I begin looking for other angles. Why should
I think anything so grubby as "the marketplace" should serve as a model
for what I'm currently up against, anyway? Commerce and trade are
passing, time interval-specific manifestations, and what I am after is
the peace that comes and stays; the one that arrives but then has the grace
to stop and grow from within. I am reminded of how many times I've
"been there", only to conclude that what I had wanted was with me all along.
I stand to stretch in front of the fireplace, and I begin looking towards
myself, rather than at some magical chute down which my joy might come
sliding. It's with me and it's in me, just waiting for the "authorities"
to give it a chance.
I turn now to glance out the front window, and I see that the snow has
indeed started. Obscuring my view of the hillside and the ridge,
it looks heavy and determined, though I would not call it a true whiteout.
I take a seat on the sofa and begin to call upon my curious internal reserve
of goodwill, the one that increases as it is given forth and used.
Ultimately, I know I need to have something in place that won't readily
buckle under the large quantity of external challenge to come. It
is axiomatic that life will become more filled with detail, annoyance
and disability as I go on, and not less so. The snow continues to
arrive in its single direction, and I form a picture of this little life
of mine, which just keeps moving up a steeper slope. It does
move, though. I can take what's coming my way, and it is certainly
more now than when I was young.
This could be a feature of the "mechanism" of grace--a steady layering-on
of resistance that causes the person to finally sit down and be who he
or she can "really" be. All that running about as a kid may have
been fine sport, but this game is for something other than mere recreation.
I gradually stop straining against the level of restraint that is currently
holding me, realizing that being "held" is not such a terrible thing.
The snowfall is truly heavy now; I am certain to be confined to these quarters
for some time, with a solid incentive to be still and know what true
contentment is.
"Bo"
5 December 2000 -- Responding to a recurrent scene
I gaze out across the substantial and established layer of snow through
the front window, my usual viewport onto the clearing. While it has
been cold at night lately, enough melting has occurred to create a semi-regular
sequence of icicles along the eaves. It is such a bright day
today, with those wondrously-clear skies that one only seems to see in
winter. I note the softly-undulated surface of the snow, which has
had a chance to drift in accommodation to the rocks and the larger shrubs.
I would say that the deeper parts are about 15 inches deep, while the bare
ground's occasional appearance is a sign that "meteorological winter" is
only in its initial stages. With the loss of clearly visible undergrowth,
the woods in the distance would have an almost "artificial" look, were
it not for the assorted jumble of fallen trunks and protruding branches
that few designers would have the patience to model.
I can feel the beginnings of a headache from squinting too much at the
brilliant white scene, even with the photo-responsive material in my eyeglass
lenses. With such intense sun pouring in, I would expect to feel
true heat this morning, except for the inescapable cold on
the other side of the plate glass panes. I finally move from my spectator
seating on the sofa, where the drafts from the window frames have the upper
hand, to go stretch myself out in the truly warm region near the fireplace
and stove. The radiant heat soon reclaims its alliance with my inherent
warmth, and the colors of flame leave no doubt of their thermal
allegiance.
I take this occasion of temporary comfort to go over some of the more
pressing basic concerns that I have "let slide" in taking this break today.
Obligation to participate in the Christmas holiday is right near the top
of the list. I could be doing a lot more to "make the season
bright", only my inspiration is not what it has been in other recent years,
and certainly not what it was when I was a kid. The external observer
would tell me that I'm bringing this on myself by running off to be alone.
The popular press, too, portrays such solitary "deprivation" only in terms
of depravity, and I am clearly presenting a bold challenge to the powers
of retribution whenever I assert individual viability.
With enough heat absorbed, I finally rise from hearthside, to bury myself
in the top covers of my bunk. I run the parameters of that other
life through my head some more...it is 5th December; 1st week of Advent.
This is all a fairly standard routine, and that is some of what bothers
me--my failure to "appreciate" each of these annual holiday seasons for
what it, in particular, is. It is not enough that I had such
"meaningful" and "memorable" experiences in the late 1960's and early 1970's
for the purpose of modern-day reminiscence. Those instances should
only have been rites of initiation; a template model for an observance
that I need to experience each year in its own new way. This
is the substance of "tradition"--the glory that was continuing on
and magnified in what is.
I suspect that I am trying my best today to restore a comforting, hidden
solace that I must have mastered at a very early age, when I was a small
person amid major happenings and disruptions. I can tell that in
the time since then, I have built significant, redundant and ultimately
hindering defensive rigidity onto the foundations of this basic response
of ensconcement. Each occurrence now fires its own elaborate set of "rules",
the triggers being made light by the many times they have been pulled.
While there is no tangible restriction on my acting or feeling outside
of this legalistic structure, it is still has de facto control of
"how I feel". I keep pulling the same tired old responses off the
shelf, and they have not withstood the test of time.
I see in this, then, the call to sweep away much of the old structure
of my ill-advised reactions and procedure, to leave a living core of "valuable"
sentiment that should be re-used, as with cherished antique ornaments
that are carefully put away and brought out each year. There is no
solid excuse for relying as much as I do on lazy quick-fixes and chintzy
canned "solutions" where authenticity is lacking, even if the "normal"
also happen to use them from time to time. Most of those "others"
in the mainstream were probably still able to build service-worthy overall
repertoires, for I am sure that their places of individual enclosure
were nothing as remote as the ones I have envisioned, realized and repeatedly
visited over the years.
"Bo"
9 December 2000 -- Aware of the true landscape
I stand on the front porch in my newly-waxed heavy leather boots, studying
the assorted components of the clearing's texture that are visible from
this point. It is a partly cloudy day and the temperature is considerably
below freezing. If I were truly interested, I could get out the cross-country
skis from the shed, only I remember what it takes to find a smooth passage
all the way around out there. Today, I am simply going to take a
walk out to the hillside trailhead and back, so that I can say I "got out"
and didn't let all this wide-open scenery "go to waste". I step away
from the melted-clear region near the Cabin walls and start trudging along
what looks like the path I usually follow for the 250 yards or so to the
tree line.
When I have passed a suitable distance beyond what could be called the
Cabin "compound", I let my eyes wander around some more within the "confines"
of the mile-wide hollow. I center my focus upon the 5040-foot Summit,
then upon other notable peaks along the ridge. With a certain quantity
of wind impacting the part of my face that I have left exposed under my
parka hood, I can begin to imagine the extreme experience it must
be in the real open spaces at the top. I have not been out
on the trails in some time, so my sense of the land beyond the clearing
and the river-side roadway has become sketchy and sensationalized.
I am aware that my mind could theoretically spend the rest of its
days in peaceful consideration of those many locales, for there is certainly
no shortage of detail.
I begin moving again on this "stroll" through snow that nearly reaches
my boot-tops, extending my concentration and contemplation to behold and
appreciate a larger part of the forest. The sun appears from behind
a cloud and I am suddenly shown an accentuated view of the high end of
the clearing, up by the falls. Curious as to the ultimate attention-holding
power of basic wilderness forms, I stop and concentrate in a single line
of sight upon this point a quarter mile away. I let my vision reach
outward until individual trees become recognizably equivalent to their
nearby counterparts on the trail. I can tell that something is "right"
with my powers of appreciation, as I begin to flesh out the 20 acres of
clearing with its rightful content of open, inhabitable, space.
I finally reach the tree line and note that the basic signs of the trail
have been "paved over" by the soft-surfaced snow, though I do recognize
the first of many piled rock cairns that I have placed as markers.
Uphill and to the southeast, I still have something of the picture of a
full-scale landscape when I stop to realign my focus. I take a moment
to enjoy this "expanded" state of mind, where distant surroundings contribute
full strength to such a grand and "complete" personal realm. This
rarely-achieved capability could well be used on an everyday basis by the
"normal", the ones who claim to love their elaborate lives so much.
Perhaps they do not lose sight as easily of the splendor they find
in one place or another after "they" have moved on. They might carry
it with them for extended periods, in a vivid after-image they could not
deny if they wanted to.
As I begin making my way back to the Cabin, I continue to enjoy my temporary
view of items that are at or beyond the scope of my literal perception.
It is a wonderful satisfaction, in that I do not need to be "going somewhere
else" to get back to one of these cherished scenes. There is enough
with me, right here and right now, and this is what makes for true "rest".
I look upwards to the distant hillside behind the back door, noting the
countless acres of trees that rise to meet the ridge. The Cabin is
put in its relatively small "place" during this visual survey. When
I finally step inside and strip some of my heavier garments in the warm
living room, I feel as if I am still outside amid many intricate square
miles, which of course is very close to the truth.
I am saddened at last when I drop onto the sofa and note the inevitable
start of the "phasing-out" of my expanded mind's-eye view. Cynically,
I conclude that I did little to "deserve" that refreshing opening-up, and
it is only "just" that it now fold up and leave. I turn and stretch
myself out on the sofa, placing my entire mental picture upon the timbers
of the ceiling rafters. It's all still out there, I remind myself,
just like the city life I have left behind today. Next time I'm out
and exposed in the urban hustle, I'll have to try the trick that worked
for a few brief moments today. The result would be a landscape not
of barren trees and scattered rocks but of loving people and assorted outcroppings
of accrued blessings. My faith in the unseen is at least a start,
though nothing will take the place of that wonderful, self-assured image,
once it chooses to arrive and especially when it decides to stay.
"Bo"
13 December 2000 -- Asking questions of the silence
Conditions today are cold, grey and unremarkable, and I am not presently
of a mind to go outside this afternoon in the snow. I have chosen
instead my "default" behavior, the one of plopping myself down and enjoying
some time away from compulsory crowd-membership in real life. It
has seemed so dim inside the Cabin during my visit that even at
local noon I was tempted to burn the kerosene lanterns at their maximum
wick lengths. The fire has helped somewhat in this regard, but I
still have the feeling of being "shut away" in the dark, a full two hours
or so before real night begins. Since my eyes should have
become accustomed to the lower light level after being inside for awhile,
I suspect I am dealing with subjective experience again, and such a situation
can proceed in many valid ways.
I finally rise to light the lamp on the stand beside the sofa, which
I then carry to the hook at the top of the lean-to alcove over the head
of my bunk. I look upwards at the flickering reflections from the
varnished pine panelling as I shift to a new position within the down covers.
I pull my GI poncho liner closer about my fully-clothed form, and I listen
to the silence that goes beyond mere profundity and poses itself as the
subject of a complete field of study and erudition. Indeed, I feel
that I need to advance and defend a "thesis" for being so completely removed
from common sense "civilized" comforts, up here in the woods. It
is hard, though, to form a body of logical reasoning for something that
necessarily depends upon the unknowable.
When I think about this inherent shortcoming of my "human problem",
I wonder if it can all be laid elegantly to rest as "good". Perhaps
I am given life without a solution as a "test", to see what values I assign
to the undefined characteristics I happen across. Or, it could be
that my tenderings of faith at those more "inspired" moments have been
applied as binding constraints, leaving the day-to-day details as necessarily
upsetting but ultimately worthy. When I think of how I "am" right
now in this warm bunk, fully fed and without real pain, I must admit that
it is the uncertainty itself that bothers me, and not any particular
limitation that does have definition.
I turn my head to look towards the dimly-diffused light from the front
windows. This has had to pass first through the considerable cloud
cover and then arrive from its further dispersion on the mottled surface
of the snow. I listen some more to the towering silence, which only
contains the fire's crackle and the occasional wind upon the external structure
of the building. With no solid "answer" at hand, I am hardly able
to judge the way I am affected in the course of my day. I'd dismiss my
entire analysis of what I do know of my life, except for my occasional
need to make decisions about where to be (or not to be). It is good
enough, I suppose, that my "leisure time" is taken care of so harmlessly
in this benign and idle solitude.
Returning to the model in which my final outcome is pinned to something
I will one day find acceptable without question, I can see a certain coherence
and propriety in the way I've been "weighted down" for all these years.
As I work my bare feet against the polyester cover of my down comforter,
I am reminded of how easy it has become for me to just let things "be".
This capability for acceptance is a valuable component of my repertoire
of disposition, for it will only becomes easier to practice as my
overall energy level continues to be tempered and restrained by age.
Yes, it is "all good". Life that has a standing option
for passive, internally-supplied gratification need not be questioned.
I find myself starting to drift into one of my better modes of contemplation
now, the one where I can count up what I have without an actual effort
of calculation. No further explanation or soul-searching is needed;
all is paid in full and ready to carry me forward. This is even better
than manic ecstasy, that grotesque caricature from my earlier days that
ultimately collapsed every time under its own weight of unreality.
This is more about static balance than it is about pent-up drive.
Suddenly, the matter of assigning value to who, what, how or why I am has
ceased to be an important question. The process continues, and that's
all I need to know for now.
"Bo"
17 December 2000 -- Reality's necessary counterpart
Since warmer temperatures have prevailed during the last couple of days,
the dominant impression I have of the outdoors is wet--and not frozen,
as it was in the period after the first big snow of the season. The
paths that I had shovelled to the outbuildings have become wallowed-out
mud channels, though this soil, being so filled with gravel, does
not make the mess that proper topsoil does when it becomes soaked.
Walking carefully to the outhouse in my sneakers, I find myself splashing
the frigid water-substance onto my lower trouser cuffs. Since there
is enough vapor pressure in this liquid, the air is overcome by a damp,
fog-like presence. I do not worry much about wind chill when conditions
are like this. Instead, my main concern is getting overheated as
I bundle up for reasons that are not entirely clear whenever I need to
be outside.
As I head back towards the Cabin, I slow my pace and unzip my field
coat to let myself cool a little in the 40s F air. The snow is still
plenty deep in most places, and once the freeze returns, it will supply
a good foundation to the next major accumulation. I look off to the
left, where the taller stalks and shrubs hold their own in the heavy layer
surrounding their stems, though I cannot readily discern the stones of
the campfire ring. There really is fog out here today, I note;
I can barely make out any real detail along the treeline at the base of
the enclosing ridge. It is one big study in shades of white, off-white,
grey and dark brown in the hollow, and even the vermilion stain of the
main building does not assert itself well in this ghostly form of distributed
illumination.
"Really, I suppose I should be other places than here in the
woods today", I tell myself as I walk in the front door and begin work
on rescuing myself from suddenly-sweaty layers of outdoor wear. The
city routine would find enough for me to do, if I exposed myself to the
call of its duty. I can see, as I drop my tired body on the surprisingly-dry
muslin slipcover of the sofa, that I need to "justify" my presence away
from that eternal post, at least for today. I cannot make much of
a case that I'm enjoying the "scenery", if it could even be called that.
Perhaps I can cite my ongoing attention to the matter of maintaining my
outpost in this land of my imagination, just as various sovereign nations
assert themselves far from home with their "scientific" undertakings in
Antarctica.
Indeed, I find a certain comfort in having once again successfully "planted
myself" alone in this wilderness, for I am not tied by the grubby details
of logistics and travel to any one place that my real life might
take me. Just as the 100,000-mile traveller might outfit himself
with a carry-on survival kit that still fits in the test-box by the airline
gate, I carry with me a refuge that is always the same and always at the
ready. Since I have my share of trouble with how I'm made to journey
from place to place in executing my assigned role and fate, I have built
in an escape hatch to a place that doesn't change, and made it a
solid fixture in the hull of my worldly being.
In arguing my "case", I am reminded that there is a good approximation
of this personal "space" in my access to the staggering number of choices
I've been given for broadcast, recorded and online content. I can
last for surprisingly-long spells with my attention focused on the big
screen and Dolby Surround, but it does come to an end--and every
time. The context of the presentation is, by dramatic necessity,
moved along, transformed and ultimately phased out. As I sit up here
in my custom-built emptiness, however, I recognize that my satisfaction
at the Cabin depends upon the "airing" of an internal "thought program"
that is sufficiently staged and cast in this stark wooden scene among an
even starker expanse of cold yet miserably-wet woodland. This is
a rather tall order that is similarly prone to exhaustion and final conclusion.
Well, if anything, the anxious ponderings of "what am I doing here
today?" will form a nice contrast, once I've returned to a set of compounded
duties that will have me asking essentially the same question. I
stretch myself out in the usual style on the overstuffed sofa, reminded
that neither of my lives--real or imaginary--would have its current meaning
without the other. The mystics might see me recognizing a dualistic
pair; a set of coordinating counterparts that are in no real opposition.
Once again, I must conclude that the situation is simply "good", and little
cause for crippling concern. The imaginary naturally proceeds from
the real, and vice versa. It is all connected, as a part of what
indeed is.
"Bo"
20 December 2000 -- A place for holding out
There was a certain modest snowfall last night, which means that the
melted-rough surface of the older snow has now been "repaired" to a contour
that looks like something nature might intentionally create.
Tomorrow at 13:34 UTC is the solstice, meaning that I should enjoy what
I can of the brilliant crisp sun upon the bitterly-frozen and continually
blowing accumulation in the hollow. The wind grips what it can of
the woody framework that remains of summer's green scrub and trees, causing
a vibrating, shaking motion that tends to resemble shivering.
I am inside, of course, with a suitable amount of fire, aware of what a
protracted visit outside without proper equipment would do to my own inadequate
physical framework.
On today's visit, I feel inclined to ignore the truth of the hard chill
that has enclosed the Cabin. The overwhelmingly-bright sun dissuades
me, even, from looking long outside the front window. Still, the
assorted drafts within the room are enough to remind me of the caloric
struggle I am exerting in the interest of hiding out from city life.
While none of my body has the actual feeling of "being cold", I am well
aware of how the external environment would absorb the small module of
heat in this room, and without effort, if I were to bank the fire and attempt
to live in the woods as they really are. Life on the land
is a temptation that I can only entertain in the warmer seasons, and I
wonder at times about the "authenticity" of having the shell of this building
to "cheat" in the overall game of survival.
If I really think things over, it should not be "authentic" for
me to seek any compromise of my shelter, given the need to sustain
my 98.6 F operating condition. The triumph, indeed, of the HVAC folks
is in accommodating the average citizen of the temperate latitudes so that
something as intricate and contrived as "the holidays" can be orchestrated
and performed during the shortest days of the year. I am only living
out a sentimentally-inspired "avoidance" when I discount all of that as
so much rubbish, to seek instead a grim and hardened confrontation of an
environment that is arguably little more than a health hazard. The others
predictably see a "winter wonderland" in the season's scenery, since they
do not need to spend long in it to fuel a fond, ongoing warmth of memory.
They can safely overlook a set of actual parameters that are cruel
and not directly compensated by the measured portion of beauty in
the Christmas card illustrations.
I cannot accuse the "romantics" back there in real life of hypocrisy,
though, for they make the most of every situation, rather than letting
the situation impose the most it can against them. Since there is
so little "good" in any scenario that is not compensated by troubling side
effects, the true realist will know when to denounce danger and
embrace splendor. It only "makes sense". As I dwell in front
of the continuing flames in the fireplace, I do what I can to acknowledge
the value of human artifice in my ongoing life. Though the structure
that supports the overall social order frequently looks like a rickety
collection of a great many patched weak points, it is maintained by the
vibrancy of cooperative culture and neighborly goodwill. A common
basis in humanity means a single answer will do the job. It
does not matter that this answer is full of arbitrary and convoluted reasoning,
for its basis is life, a reference that will guarantee a future
so long as it is kept as a design value.
Despite knowing that I really should play along with the ever-unfolding
urban juggernaut that now must have its time of "cheer", I still find myself
enjoying these times of "simply sitting". I continue on with my petulant,
passive statement of "resistance" to something I know I should not
resist. I doubt the merry-makers on the street corners and in the
shopping malls really want me to see their mechanism of observance
as something requiring negotiation and calculated loss. They believe
in all sincerity that a person joins in their festivity the way I come
inside this building and huddle up against the cold of the clearing.
I look at the fire, in its ongoing, chaotic, yet purposeful conduct.
It does the job for now, though it builds creosote in the chimney and piles
up ash under the grating. I have much that is useful in the way of
provisions against "the environment" up here. When I return to real
life, I will have to stand for a moment in appreciation that the world
down there has even more that is set up expressly in my favor.
"Bo"
24 December 2000 -- An assessment of true demand
As I begin to get under way on this ultimately frozen, true winter's
day, I note the continued and restless blowing about of snow, which has
formed a nominal layer on the front and rear porches, despite my best efforts
at keeping these areas swept clear. It is apparent, from watching
this action, that much larger drifts would make getting around the "yard"
an essential impossibility, were it not for my stubborn and determined
labors in keeping my outpost "open for business". The various drafts
that inhabit this pine-panelled dwelling space are enough to prompt me
to toss another good-sized piece of oak on the fire, and this is while
I'm fully clad in fleecewear, top and bottom. There's no doubt that
today will require my best initiatives in holding out, as I take a bit
of time for myself on a day that is typically consigned to the "family".
Some might easily dismiss my antics in these woods as a blasphemous
miscreation of "tradition", and it is clear that I've lived many more years
without this hideout than the 4 Christmas holidays I have
visited the Cabin. I am never at all certain whether I should "put
up a fight" when I am called off to shenanigans that do not suit my
tastes in the leisure lifestyle. Indeed, the best of spiritual leadership
would tell me to deny myself entirely, and I'm sure there have been legions
before me that have succeeded in this selfless goal. Today, as I
stretch myself out on my sleeping bag in front of the fire, I tend to believe
that any explicit works that are not genuinely of the "heart" are
likely to be received with their proper flavor of vanity, so I let myself
"be" until something better springs forth from who I "really" am.
Day-to-day subsistence under this tentative scenario can be difficult,
though, causing me to wonder if I have been simply designated as an "unstable"
person in the "grand scheme". Indeed, I begin to envision the form
of an arbitrarily-assigned "servant", though it would certainly be vain
to attempt any comparison to the one who "suffers" in Second Isaiah.
That is the lofty ideal of a truly "enlightened" follower (or leader) who
serves "properly" in his post, as a "cheerful giver". My posture
of hopeless despair presumes, of course, that I have truly exhausted
all of the options within the single pose of passive resistance.
I have to wonder what would happen if I "let go" of all of my pretenses
to performance when I'm in the presence of the others, just to sit and
"be". This is a path I am hesitant to follow within the framework
of my "obligations", both spoken and unspoken, true and otherwise.
"I can't be valuable to them, just sitting as a lump", goes the
dialogue. No, I must be "up and at 'em."
Maybe my life will improve when I stop reading expectations of voracious
demand into minds that are much simpler than all of that. In other
words, I should just let "love" have its way with me. I am discouraged,
however, when I think over my 35 years of recorded memory and do not see
many examples of success in that regard. I will not succumb
to the "blame anyone but yourself" attitude made so famous by our dear
televised friend Ms. "Roseanne". Blame is an itinerant wanderer throughout
a population, and it cannot be made to rest for long with any one host.
What this mess begins to boil down to is the manifest and unfortunate existence
of a floating body of injustice, kept alive by the continued practice of
insincerity and deliberate showings of less-than-honest "giving".
Is it really so simple as abolishing quid pro quo among men?
Clearly, we are creatures of commerce, and the paradise envisioned by the
first century Christians didn't have much of a chance.
On this day of blowing cold and infiltrating snow, I "hope" with the
best sincerity I can muster that the others will have me, just as I am.
I know that valor and renown accord to those who act above and beyond their
call, but then there is a sizable group of my family and friends who do
not exact this tribute. The fire's radiance holds me, yes,
but at the dire cost of the fuel that I have made to participate.
I am grateful indeed that being enfolded in canonically-correct "love"
is not a transaction that must "balance" at the end of the accounting
cycle. I leave myself to be, with the full knowledge that
while I will continue to see dissatisfaction in my situations and scenes,
this was certainly never part of the original "plan", when the Word became
flesh. It is good, when people are allowed to be who they are, and
removed from the forceful dominion of the less-than-caring. At such
a restful juncture, worthwhile creation is asserted in its highest and
peace has its greatest chance among all that is.
"Bo"
28 December 2000 -- A predictably stable shelter
The curious lull in the business world that makes up this part of "the
holidays" is something I've decided to use to my benefit for relaxation,
on a cold, windy day of lingering snow and ice. If I really wanted
to, I suppose I could look intently out the front window at the current
condition of the clearing, seeking some new and gratifying visual feature
there. I could make my attention follow along with the driven powder,
which bursts forth like the occasional frozen meteor shower as its suspended
crystalline facets catch the crisp, bright sun. Indeed, I do not
even need to look outside to be aware of the sunlight today, with
the whole interior of the Cabin fairly lit by the enveloping white luminance.
I can even see into the high rafter-spaces, where the interior panelling
is joined to the rooftop batting. One day I'll need to dust a few
of the cobwebs from up there. This is what the light of day can reveal.
Though I do not see directly out, I can still hear the wind as
it elicits its various "tones" from the cedar clapboard siding. I
am well aware of the sharply-frozen ice-torrent that would greet me if
I were to open one of the windows at this juncture. This is not to
say that I couldn't don a selection of suitable clothing layers and attend
to matters outdoors--indeed, such is the assignment that confronts me with
each trip to the outhouse or woodshed. It is strange, that's all,
to be going around barefoot in this nominally-engineered space,
when there is no denying the supreme power that otherwise prevails throughout
the hollow. For some reason, it is a veritable comfort to
live in this tiny shell, with such a small margin against cold that would
be my undoing with the loss of the fire and the impervious walls.
With a bright solar load upon the back of my head, I sit in my typical
style of idle-yet-thought-filled repose. I am not really missing
a whole lot back there in city life, since people are now gearing up to
welcome in the "real" "21st century" on Sunday night, buying their champagne
and ballroom tickets where they had once bought Christmas gifts.
I close my eyes and prop my feet onto the coffee table, where they can
feel a certain amount of the sun upon their soft, upper surfaces.
I like it when I can run enough "content" through my head to fight off
the "fidgety" feeling when I stop for a break like this. I am indulging,
once again, in the joy of a state that has become increasingly my default--a
low-effort form of "coasting" that some critics might call "mindless oblivion".
I cannot believe that I was really put on this earth to stand in
the opposite pose, taking the full brunt of assignment, in a heroic exercise
of can-do social vigilance. It should be fully possible to let others
stand watch; I cannot be all things against all men and all of their schemes.
I listen some more to that driving wind, which creates a "white noise"
to rival the sound of the river on summer nights when I've opened the rear
windows. At times, though not often, it rises to a true "howl", as
in the wind-swept scenes from those old movies. I could very well
be back there on the city streets today, holding my own as I move from
one place of business to the next. The wind in that setting is something
to be handled more directly, and not to be "studied" at contemplative length
in a fanciful program of "leisure". It is hard to tell just what
I "value" when I visualize this stalwart dwelling, the one that allows
for a generous dose of life with a built-in status quo. I
suppose the difference is that I am left "standing watch" when I'm thrust
into action in real life, whereas this world merely has the snow
and the weather, which do not vary outside of well-understood limits.
I have to ask myself, "where is your faith?", when I reflect on this
acquired distrust of the unknown. My emotional and physical constitutions,
according to a grace that was once solidly evident, will never take a challenge
beyond their rated strengths. Today, however, I am in no mood to
put any of it to the test. I sit some more with my eyes closed, pondering
this predisposition that appears as a concurrent expression of both prudence
and cowardice. I can sit here for some time today if I wish, just
listening to that wind that will never get in. My gratitude here
is that I can feel such contentment with "nothing", really, that is "getting
done". Small jobs in real life, to be sure, have their untold promise,
but they also have their share of open-ended risk. One day I hope
to know what I'm doing at such work, for it is good to feel "useful" from
time to time.
"Bo"
Ahead to January 2001
