I stop to pose on the Appalachian Trail, (Photo looks South towards GA) Shenandoah NP,VA; July 1999 March 2000 Cabin Diary |
 Mailing address: bo@bo-hemian.com |
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4 March 2000 -- A truth beyond appearances
With the frantic week at work behind me, I have found time on this late winter Saturday to put the bulk of my real life distractions behind me and attempt a single train of thought. City living does not give me the luxury of taking on a single subject at a time any more, so this might explain my continual distaste for concerns that quite often have inherent value and are in my life for good reason. It reminds me of the definition I heard as a kid of a "weed": an unwanted plant in a group of other plants, even if it is an ordinarily-prized specimen such as a rose or a daffodil. The problem becomes when everything in the garden is of such a status; when nothing has enough prevalence to seem in its place.
I look out the front window from the sofa with this thought on my mind, at the diversity of grasses, shrubs and vines that compose the clearing. I have to conclude that it is the variety that makes the value, a metaphor that should extend well to addressing my despair over a real life full of apparently conflicting goals. According to such a model, there should be some sort of "organic" equilibrium of activity from day to day and week to week. I should be viewing my inspirations to take on yet more of those duties and diversions as a process of ongoing creation within my heart and/or soul. The problem, if this is the case it appears to be, is that I cannot dispel the cynical and pessimistic value judgments that continue to accompany me as I pick up each of these seemingly-distasteful threads of thought.
The outside observer might argue that if my whole problem is what I personally think of the strictures and obligations inherent in my daily rounds, then I can simply walk away from the whole problem by forcing a new way of thought upon my internal view. It is as though I were dealing with some sort of programmable automaton, and I need only invoke an editor upon the necessary sections of executable code. Since this is something I have repeatedly failed to accomplish, I should be glad that my life takes the number of turns it does, so that I need not live long in any local trap of resentment-filled occupation.
Today, as I consider the sun upon the snow and the dormant foliage amid the granite outcroppings, I try my best to re-discover some of the wondrously uplifting moments I have known when my mind has been able to hold the ideal of a single pursuit long enough to begin seeing it for its better points. Here at the Cabin, I practice the discipline of life within a single set of walls, and apart from the wide gateways of interaction implanted in my real life. I let myself slow down, now that I can, and not entertain that nagging doubt that I am "not getting enough done". Who, indeed, is to say what is "enough"? When I find ways to persuade myself sufficiently of the splendor of a given state, it continues to amaze me how long I can dwell within it.
I stretch myself out on the sofa and work on what might be a lifelong course of exercise: gaining the ability to dismiss frivolous impressions of wrongdoing when nothing is in fact wrong. I see myself passing the intersection to a well-travelled path of self-pity in the locus of my thoughts--the one of regret over lacking the assurance that I am doing the right thing. It is indisputably wasteful to spend long there, even though it looks to be my proper assignment to know such false grief, for I am called to walk by faith, not by sight.
Still, it is tiresome to live a life that is not as it appears. I often feel like a fool when I walk about expecting miracles, but there is greater foolishness in conceding difficulty that is only illusory. I need to stop with the value judgments and merely consider what my life has been to date. If I could get to where I am while fighting the whole way, how much further would I advance, if I could only be like the "normal" out there, the ones who live real lives of faith.
"Bo"
8 March 2000 -- To notice and to appreciate
I have found a few moments in the middle of a busy workweek to drive up the two-track road along the river and spend time settled into the calm of the hollow. With the snow melting all around, the going was quite muddy in the truck, and I find myself negotiating further puddles and low spots to get to the front door in my full leather boots. Though it might be something like 50 degrees F up here today, there will be nothing like the real appearance of spring and summer, when things dry out and the environment resumes its idyllic summer camp "correctness". I hope to get out on the trails some more and have that sense of being part of the land, whose expanse and grandeur I will know when I round the occasional turn and find the vista of an exposed rock ledge.
For now, however, the trees remain barren and the cold will be returning for the night. I walk back as best I can through the dirty snow and mud patches between the Cabin and the woodshed, and look at the branches on the saplings at the edge of the ravine. The buds are building up for the big show, and they are beginning to present a hint of real green. The sun is doing its best to highlight a variety of hues in the wood of the twigs and the straw colors of the grass stalks below. I often walk about in my real life surrounded by discernible visual differences like this, only I do not have time to notice or appreciate them.
After getting my fill of the browns and yellows that hold the promise of green in abundance, I turn and head for the front door. When I finally get inside the Cabin, I go through the well-practiced routine of leaving my boots near the door to dry and hanging up my field coat, which has started me into sweating. The solar load has warmed things in here, and I do not need to proceed directly to building a fire. As I walk about on the soft wooden floor-planks in my boot socks, I feel a certain sense of unexpected drowsiness that soon has me spread out on top of the down comforter of my bunk.
My ever-present sense of shame tells me it may be an overindulgence to collapse in a heap so frequently. I say to myself, "there are things to be out there seeing and doing, yet here I am--what gives?" I hear the medical experts tell me to "listen to what my body is telling me", and the message now appears to be to take it easy. Still, this sedentary way is contrary to the challenge those same doctors give to become more active. I remember earlier days in my life, back when I was 21 and 22, where I had the conditioning that now evades me. Though it was long ago, I do recall a time of greater sensory awareness and satisfaction with simple pleasures like the many tones of brown one might see in one of those trees outside the back window.
As I sigh and shift position in the soft bedding, I recount my long, gradual acquiescence to the mediocrity that can accompany middle class life in America. It was something that had to be done, I always remind myself, but why did I let things get to where they are? Am I merely a "weak" person, in the way that others among the "normal" might be weak? Or do "they" know when they're about to sacrifice what should not be lost and thereby go on living fully? I feel as though I am mired in a considerable patch of the mud like I've seen out there today, and less able to enjoy the surroundings of these woods.
Maybe it is time for one of those famous "less is more" simplification campaigns, the kind where I examine the various presences in my life and get rid of the ones that tire me needlessly. It may just be as simple as genuinely wanting the better life, rather than giving gratuitous lip service to it before resuming my inactive pose. I can see some of those tree branches through the back window now that I am slowed enough to notice, and I make it a point to center my gaze upon their variety. The woods go on for miles like this, and it is all there waiting for me.
"Bo"
12 March 2000 -- The cold weather persists
As I had thought it might, it grew cold enough last night to receive about 5 inches of snow. The promise of the arrival of real spring weather seems somewhat more theoretical as I wake this morning to the grey skies and biting temperatures that remain on the scene. After I build a fire in the fireplace and make it possible to move about indoors, I begin to wonder what I'll be doing up here today. This is a frequent concern of mine; the "proper" use of my time. I often find myself staring idly out the windows while caught up in some internal deliberation of why it is that I tolerate one condition or another in my real life. I tell myself at these times that I should be outside on the trails and experiencing more of the variety of this land, difficult though that is right now.
I take a seat on the sofa and look out the front window at the rounded landscape that has been created by the new snow. It is not as bitterly cold as it was earlier in the winter, when large drifts would form from the blowing of bone-chilling winds. It is just below freezing this morning, and as the day advances, there is sure to be some melting. Thus it is that I see the beginning of the transition to spring, since the probability of returning to the hard freeze is much lower than it was in January or February.
On a day like today, the weather has taken a much larger share of my attention than it rightfully should. The processes of renewal were evident on the days I walked about looking at the buds on the trees and the new shoots emerging from the ground. As I step out onto the front porch, I even hear the occasional songbird, perplexed no doubt, in the trees behind me. It is already starting to get wet out here, with droplets of water starting new icicles from the edge of the roof. I look out towards the ridge, at the contours still covered with dark and barren tree forms, and note the rapid movement of the layer of clouds that passes by. The wind soon starts to get to me, so I head back inside to cover up and get cozy with the fire.
A day like today is definitive of my Lenten experience, where I can easily talk myself into believing that harshness has somehow lingered as a payment for my misdeeds. I realize it isn't correct to see my behavior in such a negative light, when I think to the generally-benevolent testimony I hear from others. Still, I am convinced of the need for a review and amendment of whatever in my life is holding me back. I am the first to condemn my own perceived iniquity when I begin these proceedings, but then what do I do, having arrived at such a verdict? I go on to one form of coddling inactivity or another, not facing up to the real issues at hand.
I take another look through the front window at the soggy, clinging layer that has been dropped on the clearing. I can only have faith in the arrival of times that permit easier travel outdoors when I take note of the position I currently occupy along the continuum of the calendar. March is such a month of contrasts; the cold, the warm, the snow, the sun. I find myself trying to justify a day like today by remembering how it will serve to highlight the milder days I'll be seeing in April.
I thus find myself living in a mode of imagined desperation, where each situation has no promise of its own. The others down there in the village and all the way back in the city are making it along through this barren time. Their interactions with one another help to buffer the experience. I doubt I was meant to go off and hide in the wilderness and be tempted for 40 days. No, when I think long enough of the true calling of this season, I realize that I must do what I can to "serve" in the lives of others, without permitting the vanity of assumed self-importance. But effectiveness in the poise of humility is a difficult assignment for me. It is as hard as imagining the splendor of the warmer weather while I continue to sit in this apparently empty and snow-filled woodland realm.
"Bo"
16 March 2000 -- A time for endurance
A cold rain has developed today, with temperatures around 40 degrees F. In combination with the joint mixture of melting snow and mud that covers the areas surrounding the Cabin, this precipitation calls for another day of staying inside. It seems a bit odd that I can look out the back window and see the trees continuing to prepare for the 2000 growing season, even in the cold and under the clouds. It is as if one good day of truly warm weather could make short work of the snow and put the whole winter behind me, yet that day is not here.
With the gloom that prevails outside, I have lit the kerosene lantern near the sofa, to add to the effect of the modest fire in the fireplace. I seek as much incandescence in my living space as I can get today. I suppose this is also possible through the use of electric lighting in my city home, though the drywall and paint construction there forms its own dreariness, when compared to the soft yellow-brown glow of the varnished pine panelling that surrounds me here.
It bothers me that I can take such a strong cue from something as simple as environmental colors. I should be stronger than that, I tell myself. I should have such a fine set of survival skills that even the dingiest city street scenes do not hinder my progress through the routines of living and making a living. When I think about the relative influence of my surroundings, I must conclude that other factors play a greater part in whether I'll enjoy the day or regret it. As I sit under the yellowish glow of the lantern wick, working my feet against the slipcovered sofa upholstery, I begin to wonder about the real purpose of my being here now. Do I visit the Cabin year 'round just so that I maintain the continuity of my sense of place? Am I trying to harden myself against all the conditions that come along, so that I never have an excuse to stay in the city?
I gaze upon the steady rainfall, which seems an extension of the water-presence of the snow, itself a continuation of the mud and dampened undergrowth below. I cannot deny the necessity of times such as these; the various forms of plant life must be moving along on schedule towards the emergence of spring. I should be seeing the truth of this; the outdoor scene should never have the slightest hint of repugnance. But then if all things worked to convince me of the good, I'd never feel the sense of emptiness that inspires me towards improvement. I remind myself of the futility of apathy, and how I need to know the occasional sting of suffering to remind me of just who I am.
I note, upon this thought, that the "normal" population out there does not do much to concede the benefits of feeling low, either. They allow for a certain quantity of it in their lives, then go on to live in spite of it. Since I do not claim to belong to their numbers, it does me little good to speculate on what they do to compensate for grey skies. The typical conclusion at a point like this is that they "get by with a little help" from their social contacts. I keep telling myself I need to join in with them and take the beating that is due every newly-initiated group member. Why, that would be suffering for the cause of righteousness, and it should feel good!
That option, however, does not hold much appeal today, even with its absence of controversy. I'm going to hold out for another afternoon, here in the lantern light and fireplace heat, since I have complete control over them. I cannot see past the initial pain of assimilation at this time, a pain I've felt as a warning singe on those occasions I've come too close to being lost in the collective. Inside my own head, I can think at length, without needing to couple myself to the quirks (and sensibilities) of others. As much as I'd like to believe in absolute right and wrong, I cannot pick up on the undisputed benefits of membership.
I suspect I'll only find my real place down there in real life when I do not have to force myself to accept the "unacceptable". If I am "being myself" by hanging out in hidden places, then there is something to be said for my behavior. How often is it that the well-intentioned tell me to "be myself"? Maybe they don't know what they're advising me to do, or maybe they appreciate authenticity whenever they see it, even if it is in the face of a man who would rather see another day.
"Bo"
20 March 2000 -- Solitude's ultimate limits
I see from the Space Calendar that the Vernal Equinox arrived this morning at 7:25 AM UTC, meaning that conditions up here in the hollow are moving at a rapid rate towards the spring and summer weather I seem to have been anticipating more this year than others. Today is still rather cold, so I'm indoors enjoying as best I can a stretch of time that is not irretrievably bound to the schedules of the others back in the city. I keep thinking that I will have more rewarding trips to the Cabin when I can get out on foot and wander around in the woods, venturing up to the high ridge trails and rock outcroppings, sitting occasionally on the very Summit itself.
To presume that anything would be better with the immediate arrival of summer, however, would most likely be an error on my part. Today, as I sit at the kitchen table finishing up a plate of hot chow, I realize that I do not need a preferred set of surroundings to make this exercise "work". When I arrive in the truck at the top of the 4.1-mile dirt two-track road from the village, I have, by definition, come to the place I saw so long ago in the dream--the cozy small shelter, set back amid the grassy growth and granite boulders of the clearing. It is always quiet enough in this setting, where I do not need to do the polite thing and listen when others are talking.
I stop at that thought and realize the error in harboring such disdain for the members of those circles that would have me. I supposedly have something to offer them and I'm keeping it to myself. I should really put myself into their position and wonder about this strange person who does not seem to care. But I cannot hold this thought long before a sense of unlivable shame begins to set in. This could be why I run away so often from the midst of the crowd; I cannot live with myself when I finally understand that "living with myself" must not, after all, be that easy.
Now that I'm alone, I still acknowledge a preference for being able to make my own schedule, but only to the extent that it narrowly beats having to sit while the agenda of another unfolds. I pick up the plate and utensils from the table and go to the washbasin near the stove, where I pour in hot water from the kettle on the stove and begin scrubbing away at the dishes. It occurs to me that some would view this scene as positively punitive, a form of exile. Perhaps that is the cause of the hollow feeling I have; a sense that I am engaging in some perverse pleasure from self-inflicted separation.
As I finish washing and drying the pot and the plate and the other items I've used in the preparation of this meal today, I am faced again with the question of whether I am being true to myself by entering into isolation so often. Are my day-to-day dealings so completely out of line that I should remove myself from the assembly before I do the others any more "harm"? Is it indeed a matter of provable fact that I semi-unwittingly blow off nearly everyone whose company I am given to share? I keep telling myself it's all right; that they just get along without me, and there are certainly enough of them for me not to be missed.
The truth must be as it usually is; somewhere in the middle. Since I remain sufficiently inspired to make social commitments, I cannot be as lax in my duties as I feel when I sit up here in isolation. Still, I know there is more to be done than the bare minimum; especially on days like today when I sit inside these same panelled walls, eating pretty much the same beans, bacon and rice, then stretching out for long sessions of rest on the same sofa and bunk. Two months from now, when the world of the forest becomes more accessible and I can get out on the trails, it will be generally the same rocks, trees and sky. I have to concede that I continue to feel the call to new challenges in social living. There is less in those dynamic settings that can be safely predicted, but then that's the whole point, I suppose. Not knowing keeps things "interesting", and I cannot deny being curious about what might become of me.
"Bo"
24 March 2000 -- Adrift in the ways of habit
With another week at the office behind me, I have found another segment of unclaimed time to spend in my settlement beside the river. The water down there in the ravine is running high and fast now; the last of the late-season snow is melting off in what has been some rather pleasant sun. It is later day, of course, since I rarely get to spend a whole weekday at the Cabin, and I take the opportunity to sit in the open on the metal chair from the porch. The bright blue of the sky above is something to grasp at and appreciate in its scarcity, before it is pulled along over the far ridge with the sun that brought it into being.
The bugs are not out in force yet, so I do not have to douse myself with DEET in order to come outside and take in the scenery of the clearing and its defining hillsides. There is something of a wind, perhaps even the zephyrus that I await each year like the Canterbury pilgrims, but it is not enough to break the dominance of stillness. Against the sky and quite some distance out, I see one of my favorite woodland creatures, a hawk, appearing to conserve strength by riding on the lift created by the wind sweeping up the ridge. There is so little wasted motion in its flight; it is an inspiration for how I should live a more rational life by paring my activities to the bare essentials, if only I knew what they were.
As I sit back and watch this hawk, keeping its station at 2000 feet altitude above my earthbound seat, I begin to slow from my own dizzying circuits of the daily routine. The sun is now at a low enough angle behind me to start highlighting the various local topographic features of the slope. The gray and dark brown of the just-wintered trees, as well as the feel of the air itself, remind me that this is still March, when the outdoor tourist attractions at this latitude continue their wait until at least the month of April before opening their doors.
Since I spend such a sizable fraction of my off-time in these woods, I have to subject this pastime to the same stringency of scrutiny that I have so often used to condemn the hustle of holding down the urban fort. Would my frustration and despair at the apparent hopelessness of getting anywhere in real life be my undoing if I did not picture myself in this house by a river, to adapt the phrase from Lucy in the Sky? There is certainly satisfaction enough in the thought of an uncomplicated dwelling place, but when I must work it in to the cracks in my schedule, I begin to think I'd do better by just going all out at the life in which I'm planted.
There is, of course, a certain equilibrium of minimum cost between all the pairs of polar opposites that influence how I feel, and the intuitive solution to setting the partition between the one and the other is to let go and try to seek an answer from outside of myself. At least that is how it works for those sufficiently enlightened and responsible to "let" the "right" outcome occur. My more common experience is that I let myself go, to use the pitch-line of the diet hucksters, and I drift to places that would be better left unvisited.
I continue to watch the hawk, as the sky's darker violet-blue approaches from the east, and I note that it has moved off to a more remote place above the local divide. The pattern of lift must be changing with the onset of evening. I begin to feel a chill and figure I'll go inside soon, to do what seems "correct" by resting myself under the kerosene lamp light. I just want to know, before I let such practices of inactivity consume any more of my time, if I am working against a trend of propriety that I no longer recognize. Maybe this explains why I'm usually so tired when I'm here. Still, I can't quite accept that introversion is deviance and extroversion is "normal". I am eagerly awaiting the day when I can know I'm in the "right" for doing what I want.
"Bo"
28 March 2000 -- Enjoying what I can
I awake as I often do, to the sun entering the front window. Its persistence upon my rested eyes finally wins out and I reach a state that can be called fully conscious. I do not often get to sleep my fill, so I spend awhile in my bunk, whose headboard is placed at the back of the lean-to alcove. The sun continues to draw me forth, however, and I am on my feet sooner than I had expected. I walk on somewhat unsteady bare feet across the wood-plank floor, to behold the view of the clearing through the three panels of the front picture window.
This morning, I am content simply to look upon the outdoor scene. This is a rather rare state that does not visit me as often as I suspect it does for the "normal"; those ones who "love life" unconditionally. When the sun is this low in the sky, there is that wonderful "golden" color to everything, as in the old TV commercials for Golden Grahams cereal. This yellow brilliance helps fill in for the greenery that remains to express itself this year, though I see new life on a good many trees and bushes now. Even the dormant grass, still bent low from being recently covered with snow, does not have the pallor of inactivity I have seen on some recent overcast days.
Realizing that this mood will not last forever, I don a set of fleecewear and my sport sandals, figuring I do not need my jacket with the sun to help warm me. I step out onto the front porch, letting the screen door bang shut behind me. Since it is most likely above 45 degrees F already, I proceed into the open area of beaten gravel and earth and take a deep breath of the unquestioned freshness of the air. The trees behind me are full of birds, and backing up their songs is the soothing sound of the river. There is a large amount of dew on the various plants I can see in the scrub surrounding the fire ring, and this begins to soak my feet as I walk out a certain distance onto the trail leading up to the hillside.
I am truly taken by the colors, the sounds and the scents of the scantily-developed hollow this morning. I know the feeling will soon pass, and it is limited in any case by the amount of time the sun will stay low like this. The bulk of the day will be somewhat chill and still fully reminiscent of the amount of growth that remains due for the deciduous trees and the matted-down grass. Those of stronger emotional constitution seem to last out such a day with at least some optimism at all times; they don't "blow it" in grandiose binges of euphoric appreciation like the one I'm feeling this morning.
I head back towards the Cabin, noting the fiery orange-red glow of the vermilion-stained cedar siding and the subtle variations in the colors of the foundation fieldstones. I step inside the front door and look at the apparent freshness of color throughout the pine panelled living room and kitchen. I realize the need for productive activity in my real life, so I cannot stay long. For the time I have left, I return to my rough-hewn bed, where I simply let myself be, as in the practices of meditation and centering prayer. Yes, it is good to be alive and free of the shadow of imminent harm, a truth that accompanies me even in the most frustrating of urban hassles.
It saddens me, though, that I cannot "bank" this gratitude for the other, less certain times. It is not enough to note it in written form or maintain it in memory. I remain driven more by immediate circumstance than by any reassurance from a different part of my mood-locus. I know, too, that to stay in one place like this, trying to keep the spirit alive through inactivity is the surest way to lose it. I need more accomplishment and more disappointment, more effort and yes, even more pain. I think I should try comparing notes more often with those souls I encounter who seem perpetually happy. I recall the evidence I've seen of their known suffering, which visits them in ways that would crush my less-resistant will in an instant. With a final sigh of resolution, I begin working my way towards getting in the truck and returning for what must become of me. There will be other times of inspiration; I know the drill well. As they used to say in another commercial, which featured a troop of Boy Scouts preparing breakfast in the field, being human "is no picnic".
"Bo"