I stop to pose on the Appalachian Trail, (Photo looks South towards GA) Shenandoah NP,VA; July 1999 February 2000 Cabin Diary |
 Mailing address: bo@bo-hemian.com |
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7 February 2000 -- Accepting the proper burden
The extent of details that has swamped my attention lately in real life has left me with little time to be up here at the Cabin, where details are at a simplified minimum. I have noticed that any time I seek to find rest from those concerns, they become all the worse as tormentors when the period of respite has concluded. Since my life must go on, I cannot stay long today, but the uniformity of the general characteristics of the woods is a comforting presence. As I drove up the 4.1 miles of snowy two-track road today, I became soothed by the unchanging pattern of the trees, rocks, and the slope of the river-cut ravine, even while this continuity rides atop the variety of distinct topographical features and the many mountains that stand all about.
As I relax during the time I have today in front of the fire in my dwelling on the edge of the clearing, I find solace in the scale of this land of my imagination, a place that dwarfs something as small as a man standing no more than 5 feet 7 inches in height. The clearing, as shown on the map, is only 15 or 20 acres in size, but even this imposes the sense of an immutable framework of enclosure and inclusion that puts to rest any notion that I can (or should) be doing much to change the way things are. In this way of living, of course, I am reducing myself to the role of one of the various creatures that frequent my "yard", such as the deer, rabbits and raccoons, and as a human being of presumed dominion over his destiny, this is not a way I can adopt for long.
When I come to my place of seclusion and simply "exist", I begin to drift along with the intentions of the woods and the sun and the sky, though I still need to work on having the fire burning, the water cistern filled and the foodstuffs kept up. It becomes impossible, then, to find complete release from the requirements of individual effort in my own interest, but I wonder at times about the maddening chase of my life as a "professional". Is my day-to-day hustle at the office, by analogy, the work I must do to keep up basic subsistence in the worlds of society and business?
I seem to have been born with implicit requirements that will eventually result in my demise, but then such is the nature of the flesh; the doom to decay; the inevitability of a mortal conclusion that so often clouds my efforts in the spirit. Without a brilliance of experience to approach the conversion of Saul, however, I find it hard to "boast of my chains". My conversion comes in small doses that I don't even recognize sometimes in the rush to be current in my duties. I'm probably getting enough inspiration to stay firm in the midst of an unyielding world that is beyond my control, but I only pray that I could get the strength that I need to work as I should to live out the rest of my life as it optimally would be lived.
How I wish I could just throw my cares away and drift along as I do today, with only the bare minimums satisfied, but it is almost a platitude that I am expected to perform in accordance with my allotment of charisms. I realize it is foolish to wish that my level of obligation were reduced to that of one of the creatures of this forest. The real answer is to know my proper place and just carry on, day by day, at the "correct" level of exertion. I find myself too often ashamed by the exhortations of the media, the ones that tell me to keep on extending myself. I am certainly not meant to reach a precarious position whose loading is beyond my rated capacity. Do the others down there in urban society have greater discernment than I do in knowing when to quit? Perhaps the many glamorous trappings that are being sold to me are like pearls before swine; the others consume modest quantities of such victuals and know what to do with their rich content, while I just let them sit, once they're mine.
It is not a healthy existence to think that I am less than human while I contend with a physical reality that reminds me of the exact contrary every day. The sublime majesty of ordinary people living ordinary lives is always an inspiration when I see it in action. As Porgy was satisfied "plenty o' nuttin'", I can see the alternate assignment I have to "pray all the day", given the "plenty of plenty" the American middle class deems my birthright. It is hard to show due and humble respect to my physical being in the midst of all that chasing, but the temple of the spirit would grow desolate and unkempt if I could not afford its maintenance. Such is life.
"Bo"
11 February 2000 -- An examination of essentials
The temperature up here in the hollow has been above freezing for much of this sunlit day, though not long enough to melt any holes through even the thinnest of the snow cover. This is one of those days where the abundance of water in its liquid form makes any activity outside a rather soggy experience. I take care not to get soaked-through clothing as I walk about on the shoveled-out mud-ditch paths, which I can imagine being visible still when the parched days of July and August arrive in another 6 months. Really, I wouldn't think there is much problem with cosmetic appearances like that, but my training as a "low impact" camper tells me I am indeed disturbing what might have been.
As I walk back from the outhouse, with my parka unzipped and the hood lowered on account of the milder air, I look to the snow that remains on the asphalt roof of the Cabin. I can see the depth gradient from the chimney side to the far side where I sleep, a result of the uneven heat from the fireplace and stove. I reach the front porch and note the amount of water being channeled over the edges, following the course of the icicles formed overnight. I know this weather will not last long; I still have the months of February, March and part of April to know the biting cold once again. Today's cold might eventually cause problems from exposure, but it certainly does not bite.
I return to the space of localized warmth I've forced into the midst of this barren-yet-beautiful land, to resume my never-ending quest for relaxation and "inner peace". I am fortunate that the weekend has arrived and I can be here awhile longer than on some of my visits. I suppose it is helpful at times to step aside from who I am in my urban and suburban rounds, so that I might be impartial in my examination of the often-destructive yet occasionally-uplifting activities that eat up my hours. Sometimes, I do not even need to step out of myself to conduct a review of my follies and my victories. This, I have concluded, is the value of frequent travel.
It is hard to know, however, just what I'll find when I return from journeys away from the time and place of my ordinary life. Sometimes the concerns of the greater portion of my days are waiting for me, in larger number than ever, and I get swept away without time for further consideration. This is why I enjoy my time alone--I am able to starve the processes of distraction for fuel and they eventually damp out. At times I have to question the safety of letting myself coast like this, since some of what I get done during the hustle turns out to be worthwhile. Being cut off this afternoon, I am most keenly aware of what I am failing to do by indulging the impulse to run away.
The mixture of activity that awaits me when I return has come to have a time-honored tradition as something I can generally survive for the long term. This quest for security in what I know will "work" is one of the stronger motives I ever find at the helm of my mind and free will. I find myself persisting in activities, even past the point that they begin to be abhorrent. My habits do change, but it usually requires something fundamental to happen in my underlying emotional makeup, which can take years or even decades. Some have witnessed in me an ability to "grow", so maybe I have nothing to worry about except impatience for that growth.
As darkness approaches and I light up the kerosene lamps, I find comfort in the insignificance of daily and hourly fluctuations in my anxieties and my joy, when compared to the lifelong trends that build themselves inside of me in ways that the commotion and disturbing distractions of the city will not begin to erode. It is as if a rock were at my core, centered, ostensibly, upon God's presence in my creation and formation in the faith over the years. I am waiting now for the day when I can give genuine thanks that anything so unchanging could be a part of me, a physical being. I need to take to heart the selectiveness of accretion upon that metaphoric rock--it only adds to itself material resembling that which is already there.
"Bo"
15 February 2000 -- The principle of peace
I stand near my solid maple chest of drawers, looking out the back window at the bright orange sun as it sets beyond the far ridge enclosing the river-cut ravine. Cold has returned to the hollow, and the air tonight looks like it will become still and clear. If I were more inclined to stargazing (and dealing with such cold), I am certain I would have a good time for it in a few hours.
This particular sunset, however, I find myself growing tired and relishing an evening of contemplative rest. This seems to be such a natural path to follow, given the absence of the bright electric lights, the television and the PC. I know there is little that is realistic in the notion of disconnecting these features of my real home life, but from this vantage point, the schedule imposed by those inputs appears quite arbitrary and curious. I come to have favorite cable television shows, and it seems an outrage when I am deprived of them. Could my life really be so impoverished that this is the best I have to hope for? The discipline of Cabin life looks like its own ruthless master when I am here, and it saddens me when the journey up the dirt road begins to become distasteful.
I would think I must be using this extreme life with only the basics as a counterweight to the uneven loading I experience from being here, going there, doing this and watching that in real life. In such a model, of course, one has to wonder about the balancing point and what life could be like there. I doubt that many among the "normal" live much of their life near such a center of rotation, since vacation properties and resorts continue to thrive by offering an "antidote" to the urban grind. I suppose I need to continue my nominal presence in the protocol of stress that career and social living place upon me, so I'll always be seeking something of a way out.
I think the problem I have when I seek seclusion is that I have too much resentment of where I am not, rather than appreciation of where I am. I need a new way to see the true face of both realms, so that the balancing act is not such a life-and-death emergency, full of wild fluctuation and near disaster as I launch into frenzied, overcorrecting efforts when things are going too much one way or the other. I become alarmed, for example, at the press of human beings all about and run at the earliest opportunity to my hiding place, figuring I'd surely have been ruined with many more people in my way to avoid hitting as I chased about from here to there. So there I am, hunkered down with my position well camouflaged and my tracks long cold, lasting out a time of deprivation that I know is good for me, even if I do wind up lonely and, possibly, even bored.
The others out there obviously know something that I cannot at present: how to appreciate human presence, both during duty time and leisure time. Really, I am part of the way there by feeding my persistent cravings for media content that comes "over the wire". I know it is a poor substitute for real solace, but that is something I can only imagine as noble in general principle, anyway.
Well, out of that general principle, I am here tonight, fixing to go to bed before too awful long. It's just a simple matter of crawling under the down comforter, flannel sheets, and poncho-liner cover-up, working my tired feet against the bedding and letting go. This is my way of defense at present, since I still see the world of commitment and obligation as a peculiar institution of the American way of life. At least I know it's just me, and not the system. I call upon God, as I finally settle in for the night, to help me see the others as I see myself. They are living beings of sensation and sensibilities, ones who would not so readily challenge me as I might think. It is good, when the calm descends upon all of life, so that work and play are not adversaries but partners with a common goal.
"Bo"
19 February 2000 -- Attempts at proper gratitude
I'm here for what I hope is another quiet afternoon alone in the woods, in a winter that is beginning to seem a little "old". I suppose I should give thanks in all situations and for all things, but this stretch of cold days and persistently-present snow cover has put such an imperative to the test. While the sun is out today, the well-below-freezing temperatures and substantial wind have made a crystalline continuum of both ground and air, as the 6 inches or so of snow that fell yesterday are picked up and presented for my approval--or respect.
In my typical style for Cabin visits, I permit my mind to offload its various threads of concern, the ones that keep getting fueled in real life by the inescapable opportunity to continue working on them. The frustration there is not necessarily the load before me; I am bothered instead by the uncertainty as to whether I am doing the right things. So many of my activities have a surface appearance of wastefulness and frivolity, yet it is a trivial axiom that the "proper" life contains its requisite share of "play" to accompany "work". I do cherish the times when all seems to have proper justification, and these should occur more frequently than they do. So few persons down there take the time to lodge complaints against me that it should seem I have cause for celebration the majority of the time.
This contributes to another self-defeating regret, the one that says I'm not grateful enough for who I am and what I have become. They want me to have that gratitude, yes, but it sounds hollow and presumptuous to give myself any praise. As Scripture has it, I am the more justified when I hang my head low and seek mercy as a sinner. Perhaps the problem is that I have too much of my joy turned around upon itself inside of me, where it does no good for the others. It must look as though I'm riding around with a hoard of potential benefit that is still useless to myself on account of the consequences of false pride and vanity.
I don't know, however--I simply enjoy time to myself too much, at least at certain key junctures, to want to embark on the costly enterprise of developing the kind of ties that permit faith, hope and love to be properly shared. For so long I have assumed that I would do disservice to my neighbors if I loved them as myself, since I so often denounce and disparage myself. But as I sit on the slipcovered sofa, looking upon the glittering snow-laden gusts, I realize the selfishness of not exposing myself in the manner of my calling. I suppose it is also unspeakable vanity to talk about one's own calling, since there is no shortage of self-righteous pronuncement heard in day-to-day travels.
I suspect I am attempting humility the best I can by refusing to acknowledge that much can be good about me, but I get so frustrated when it ends up looking like self-pity, another "no-no". I realize now that if I am indeed called; if I have a vocation among the others, it is not primarily to go about talking, since I have seen that "everything has been said". We have Aristotle to thank for that. When I return to city life as I know I must at the end of the President's Day holiday, I will instead do my best work by...working. I tend here to listen to the Letter of James, where his works bear testimony to their underlying faith.
Back in the crowds, I will need to spend some time at the feet of the more learned among the "normal", whose day-to-day involvements in proper labors have earned them the right to expound in abstract terms that should be heeded. I do not expect my verbal output to be worth much to me at present, no matter what its erudition and content. Indeed, I have been "paid in full" for whatever I value, since I hold so tight to myself and have such reluctance to "share", a behavior I should have learned when I was 4 years old.
"Bo"
24 February 2000 -- A self-contradicting illusion
I am in the hollow this afternoon with a heightened awareness that complete self-sufficiency is not something that is likely to be mine. When I say "self-sufficiency", of course, I am referring to a method of living apart from all urban entanglements, and not just the ones that would seek immediate dominion over me. I have to wonder at times about my particular motives for dreaming up this virtual environment. I look to the plate glass windows, now closed against the cold, while the fire is doing well enough to compensate for the lack of the wonderful cross-flow of mild air that will be here in 2 months or so. Could it really be that bad down there, when I find myself running during my "weaker" moments to those sources of comfort that get me through?
Maybe I'm mischaracterizing myself and denying an internal, ready-to-use personality that is as fully "normal" as the ones I feel excluded from at the present. I will not find answers to these questions when I return to the life I know I'm supposed to be living, since the others will just look at me funny, as though these questions had never been asked before. I know I sound terribly "spoiled", whenever I begin "whining" about this problem--to the bulk of the population, it is a non-problem; a contrivance, something I use to get "attention". I hate to think I never grew up beyond that point, but if that's really it, I better learn some proper behavior.
The mystery in all of this is that I cannot understand how people can look at the same time threatening and supportive. Since it is axiomatic that the bulk of people are basically good, I should be imagining a supportive world that will not knowingly do harm. Today is a day where I'm still able to hold on with the others gone, but not as well as I have in the past. This could be a cause for joy--that my shell is eroding, though the typical crustacean or mollusk would argue as to the benefits of that.
I'm rather beat today, as I stretch out on the bunk, and given the absence of the ordinary distractions (or attractions), I find myself practicing a method of solace that has the advantage of being individual--placing a call to my spiritual interface. When I have to admit that the others have it right and I'm stubbornly holding out against their way, this assurance tells me that I am drawing closer to the better life. Indeed, how could one isolated man picture God if he did not have other examples of caring individuals in his midst?
I turn over onto my other side, realizing I cannot afford many days like this one. I begin to see the familar loss of a coherent image of my social context, now that I am at this distance. This is contrary to a hypothesis I've had at other times; that the only way to know what is there in my real life is to step away from it. On this visit, it seems I have a distorted view of that world, as might a person in orbit around the earth. Certainly, a good summary of basic constraints--as in the coastlines--is there, but where are the people? The picture of that life I have before me now is something entirely internal; an after-image from my last contact with the others. I try calling on the creator to explain, if possible, the creation, and what do I hear? Something from a hymn, I think; "taste and see".
There is only so much I can get done, sitting here ruminating over what I think I know of Scripture and of God. Still, I'm not sure how to start on getting a life, in the "normal" sense of the word. It cannot be as simple as joining in and sitting there complacently. I always have the sense I'm called upon to some memorable performance. I am thinking now to my grade school years, where I was moved into the upper track at an early age. Once again, I hear the people say "and what kind of a 'problem' is that?" I don't get far by arguing that such a situation is living in a false economy. For the bulk of those suitably inspired, it is certainly an entrance to the worldly economy, to the extent they can make use of it.
I look out upon the still-snow laden clearing, as I can see its higher points from my bed through the front window. Through a tortured process of reasoning, I seem to have concluded that everything is all right, though my heart, not a center of reason, tells me I have a long way to go. Perhaps a man simply cannot have erudition in both disciplines, as though there is only so much ability granted to each person. I can see, then, that I should not think so much when I'm here.
"Bo"
29 February 2000 -- A hint of what's ahead
Today has been unseasonably warm, and with the sun out upon a number areas of undergrowth that now sit exposed after the recent melt-offs, there is something of the notion that spring is more than just a possibility of better times for good behavior. I am not certain just how good my record has been in the months I've spent, largely crashed out inside the Cabin on my bed or the sofa. On a day of awakening such as this, I become somewhat aware of the various cleaning and maintenance chores that did not seem as relevant at the time. At least I've kept the dishes suitably washed and the dirty clothing from piling too high--those for some reason seem to be particularly bad signs of "low living".
I step out the back door from the kitchen, noting the number of leaves and other assorted dirt that needs to be swept from the porch. I take a long look down into the ravine, then off to the right where the river winds away towards the village. It was there, all those months from October to now, flowing whether I looked or not. The river itself has resumed a fairly loud roaring rush, since so much snow has been melting in the elevations all the way to the Summit at 5040 feet. This time of year, I not only hear that wondrously-settling sound but I can also look and see its source, something the spring and summer vegetation will not permit. Still, I'm looking ahead to those green times, and with an anticipation that has not been as great in other recent years.
Maybe it was the simple matter of the year turning over to 2000 that made this winter seem like it might not have a normal end. With memories of so very many years of my life in the 60's, 70's, 80's and 90's, it might seem I'm pressing my luck to hope for more to come in the 00's and 10's. I suspect I'm letting myself talk myself into feeling "old" at only 38, when proper living does not have room for such doubt. Of course the good weather will come for 2000, and if I seem suitably inspired, I can get out for adventures that will put what has gone before in the category of simply warming up. So little of the truly "great" summers of my past was really based upon age. More of it was simply a matter of what I had permitted myself to be that year.
I take a seat on the top step of the back porch and stretch my legs out onto the hard-beaten mud-dirt of the path to the river. It is easy, when the hard choices are not immediately at hand, to say that I'll make more of myself this year than I have before. Indeed, so long as it seems a "duty" to establish conditions where I might possibly "enjoy myself", I don't think I'm dealing with the real thing anyway. But do I really want to sit all summer inside the A/C, watching television and answering e-mail? Such misery as that always appears to be the correct way to suffer--and not to try out of idealism for something I end up concluding I was not worthy to receive in the first place.
As far as I can tell, this old world has some intention that I enjoy what I have left for a life, at least to the extent it funds such a life when I go to work every day. I am looking to the time when optimism is irreversibly implanted in the habits of my thinking, so that I presume life good until proven painful. Since so much ends up being of so little consequence, this is the correct position to hold, since its error rate is far less than presuming the opposite. I suspect I spend too much time sitting around waiting for optimism to drop in upon me without effort, as if I had ingested some manner of quality opiate. When that effect vanishes, as do most effects that are clearly caused by neurochemistry, then I'm left as bad off or worse than before.
All I know today is that the warmth upon my skin, in the actual open outdoors, is a sign of change that does not depend upon such precarious variables as how I "feel" internally. Soon to come will be all the chance I need to begin a return to something of the splendor of those earlier years, even if they, too had their times of momentary pain. I shall indeed await with anticipation the appearance of another turn at life in the warm sun.
"Bo"