1 October 2000 -- The promise of probability
The fall colors up here in the hollow have finally started to approach
the distribution one might see in construction paper leaves stapled to
a 2nd grade class bulletin board. Enveloped in the abundance of trees
surrounding the clearing, I am made to accept at last that autumn is here.
I have been outside in my hammock, which I have relocated to a position
above the Cabin on the edge of the ravine where I cannot readily see the
buildings or the truck. Leaves are beginning to
fall in earnest now; I had to scoop a pile of them from this outdoor bunk
before I dropped myself into it. I have reached one of those rare
points where I can at least envision some "genuine" relaxation,
and might actually have a chance at knowing it.
I feel like such a sack of dead weight today, as though I had exerted
a continuous compensating force against stress all week and finally reached
my limit. I look upward to the high swaying oak branches, which form
their own single pattern of defiance against the wind. It is good
to see living foliage on all of the trees of this size near the Cabin;
one day I'll probably need to hire some fellows from the village to bring
one of them down safely. Those guys do so many odd jobs for me that
I have almost become part of the local "community". It is strange
that they do not seek to incorporate me into their fraternal activities.
At times I wonder if I deserve to be treated so well; I can only conclude
that there is something in the spirit of individualism that appeals to
them and they respect a man who likes his time alone.
I turn to my right and take a sideways glance at the broad perimeter
of the lower tree-line, where the rockier "soil" of the clearing and its
cover of scrub brush and wild grasses finally surrenders to the more viable
forest floor. Without my glasses on, I cannot resolve much in the
way of detail, though I do see the shape of a rabbit a few dozen yards
out in the thicket. Rabbits, raccoon, squirrel and fox are all out
there, going about their "business". One of these days I'll probably
see another of those black bears, the ones that make me careful with my
foodstuffs. My "effort" in relaxation this afternoon is to reduce
the many foci of my attention to something as simple and "harmonious" as
this assortment of wildlife. I am generally more successful in achieving
such a goal in the woods than I am in my city home on a Sunday afternoon,
so here I am, playing it safe--or safer.
I realize, of course, that it is not the composition of city
distractions that causes as much dissatisfaction as the "way I've become"
in looking at them. My protocol of behavior has placed simplifying
assumptions upon a great many of the issues that I take up for consideration,
and I should not wonder that it looks like a rote exercise in absurdity
as I "dispose" of them. The times when I describe myself as "settled"
and "properly occupied" do not draw from an exclusive or predictable region
of experience-space. I find myself dealing, then, in probabilities
of success, given that I've introduced myself into a certain environment.
There have been times when I have been in these highly-promising woods
and drawn a complete blank. Indeed, I have no way of knowing whether
today will be one of those days.
I wonder, though, if it's really just a sordid game of chance;
this pursuit of happiness. I could save myself a lot of time running
around if I could know in advance that a particular trial will turn
up as a failure. This presumes that an outcome can be known
at all, prior to the exercise of my ostensibly "free" will within the setting
in question. If I had one of those wondrously-"open" minds that are
standard issue to the enlightened, I could take any scenario and "make
it work"; for that crowd, all things do work together for the good.
My problem could just be that I want the setting to set its own tone and
force me passively along. What I seem to want is a canned
performance with a happy outcome, while everyone knows that "drama" has
both tragedy and comedy, depending upon which of the two masks the
performers select.
Well, it does feel good today to be suspended externally by this hammock,
and in the midst of these generally immutable woods. It would indeed
be a tragedy if I could have felt the same while living a more "productive"
life at the helm of my various city obligations. I let my weight
sink further still, surrendering it to gravity. A leaf falls and
comes to rest directly in front of my eyes. I am not of a mood right
now to reach up and brush it away.
"Bo"
5 October 2000 -- Some time spent doing nothing
I have some "time off" before real life resumes today, so I'm here in
the stillness of the living room area, being classically idle. It
is overcast and grey, and nearly cold enough that I would want a fire to
chase some of the chill. Outside, the colors make a splendid show,
but there is only so much that is visible from inside, even from the three
panels of front window. Sitting on my slipcovered sofa, I am left
with something of the impression that this is a home that is in mothballs
for long term storage. It is as if I'm not really "supposed to" be
here, and the kid in me remembers well the thrill of indulging in what
is forbidden. I have often spoke of how I compare this fanciful dwelling
to the crude forts and treehouses that are the hideouts of so many pre-pubescent
males. The difference here is that there are no "true" property owners
to find me out and demolish my structure.
The ongoing permanence of the Cabin is interesting, since it derives
principally from my being beyond the 21-year-old "age of majority".
While it is true that middle-aged men are known by their playthings and
toys, so many of these have a core utility, as in the case of SUVs that
are used to get to work in an urban center or a large dwelling that become's
one's "castle". It would be the ideal life, I'd imagine, if the practical
outfittings of a "mature" life were indeed nothing more than the fulfillment
of recreational yearnings. If there were some tangible "return" on
my being out here in these woods, I would not have to write off so much
of the time I spend engaged in generating further details of my daydream.
Sitting here this mid-day, I can see that nothing more is getting done
than...nothing. Of course, I must be accomplishing something
in these times alone, or I'm sure I'd have had the "maturity" to dump this
exercise by now as wasted motion. I am reminded that so much of what
the Cabin is is what it is not. I have freed myself
from constraint and fixity within that frequently-resented set of social
contexts back in the city. I know it is foolhardy to view such a
setting as oppressive, for it is indeed the enabler of my lasting constructs
out here in virtual reality. Like a well-regulated security arrangement,
this answer to my complaints always steps in and keeps me on the narrow
pathway of "success". Still, I have the inherent internal tendency
to drift off and live a life apart, and this has to be why I find myself
again in a deserted wooden structure in a deserted upland hollow.
I should like to know more about the mechanism whereby I am able to
accept the restraints that make for my "stability" in urban life.
Someone, somewhere has succeeded in teaching me that there is a class of
adversity that is "for my own good". I can hardly blame any of the
authorities from my past that "did this to me", for an undisciplined life
is hardly worth living. Since I accord myself sufficient standing
among my set of "peers" (or more accurately, "contacts" and "acquaintances")
on the other side of the boundary of the "normal", I cannot long hold to
a view that "they" all enjoy being herded along. No, that's
one of the other stabilizing and recurrent messages in this absurd life
of introspection--even if I were (or am) "normal", life would still hurt.
As a youngster might reply to this veritable platitude, "well, 'duh'!".
It truly amazes me that the various societies back there in the real
world have become developed to the extent they are in view of these highly-evident
countervailing woes, the ones that "everyone" accepts. I do not exactly
know why this should even be a concern during my times away from
"it all". Do I soften at all the blows of those "corrective" forces
by exposing them as painful but unavoidably necessary? Do the "normal"
spend hours on end examining why they do what they "must do"?
I doubt it. They are probably too busy riding out the grand waves
of excitement, joy, passion, anger, sorrow and grief, while I sit on the
shore staring out to sea. I suppose I am being "disobedient" in today's
example of dissent, even if the one I'm not obeying is "just me".
I have been here for some time today, and indeed, "nothing" has been
done. I feel the mighty and unseen hand even now, pushing me back
into my track.
"Bo"
10 October 2000 -- Facing basic needs in the cold
Driving up the gradual incline of the two-track dirt road, I remind
myself of how deeply I'm planting myself into the forest, every time I
visit the Cabin. Even when the now-changing leaves are gone in a
month or so, the miles of separation from my nearest "neighbors" will still
look formidable. As the trees of the river-cut corridor pass closely
by, it is only my overall knowledge of the terrain that assures me that
the hillside rising to my left will eventually reach its limit at the ridge,
or that the clearing and its rock outcroppings will appear when I turn
the last bend up ahead and reach camp.
I finally come out of the wooded cover and park the truck in the beaten
gravel and dirt near the outhouse. I note the number of leaves that
have been accumulating, with a few being carried by the wind on this briskly-cool
day. There is no mistaking the desirability of building a fire when
I get inside and close the front door. It could be that I am unaccustomed
to temperatures I'd actually welcome as "warm" on a day in March.
Cold always comes as a surprise each year. I grab a number of suitable
pieces of oak, and the living room is soon transformed by the incandescent
colors of the flames.
When the heat has moved beyond the immediate area of the fieldstone
hearth, I retire to my bunk, fully clothed. I lay with my head turned
to maintain a view of the fire, that sign of life's persistence beyond
the "no-brainer" months from April to September. I feel an expected
sense of immunity to the encroachments found in city living as I take this
new chance to let down my guard. Though a certain quantity of noise
is created by the wind upon the Cabin structure, there are few sounds in
the room, other than the crackle of the fire and my own occasional shifting
motion within the thick down cover of the bed.
I suppose I might eventually become critically curious about what's
going on down there in the urban hustle, which I normally monitor full-time
from the electronic information appliances in real life. When I have
been here at the Cabin long enough, I find my receptors for such stimulation
crying out, and it can take awhile to re-adjust my internal processes to
the lower bandwidth. It is odd, when I come to think of it, that
a human being has this essential and vital "need" for the provisions that
ward off boredom.
I can see that there might eventually be a problem with this continual
shuffling between all-out occupation and its stark opposite up here in
the hollow. I might be putting significant cyclical loads upon myself
that will eventually cause a failure, as in the case of metal fatigue.
At times it seems there is no real answer to this predicament of life in
the 00's, since I cannot "undo" the setting that calls itself my "home".
I am advised to "simplify" by the stress experts, only it takes real and
abiding inspiration to do that kind of work.
I feel more of that "pull" from inside; the yearning for a higher dose
of content. Since my forefathers obviously "got by" on an "environment"
like this, the problem should not be unsurmountable. Of course, in
order to be my forefathers in the first place, they had to have
had their social lives, something I always look at with questioning eyes.
The ones who are "there", living the good life without need for escape,
must be saying, "well, do something about it--get people into your
life. Sheesh!" At times I really wonder, though, how I can
be so undeniably human, considering how I view life amid the others.
Being human appears to be just a starting point; the remainder of one's
personality and disposition is the visible superstructure.
In wanting to get away, am I saying that I am ashamed of what there
is of me to see? Is my one-way participation in the anonymous media
a viable way to satisfy latent human needs? All I know is that the
division created by keeping under cover while striving to observe from
afar is ultimately going to fail me. Perhaps one day there will be
other people taking an active and interactive part in this place that does
not have a television or a PC. Machines do not satisfy people--people
do.
"Bo"
14 October 2000 -- A scene to promote appreciation
The sun is out in a perfectly blue sky today, with the changing foliage
below having a distribution of yellow, orange and red that would make a
decent scene for one of those 1500-piece jigsaw puzzles. I take time
to consider such a manufactured product as I sit at my temporary position
against a rock at the top of the clearing. It would surely be a challenge
to assemble so many pieces of sky, woods and field, with only a handful
depicting anything "man made". Perhaps a person would search through
the box and pick out the components of the Cabin buildings and the truck,
even before beginning to work on the edge. It is hard to say why
I chose this image from my long-concluded youth--maybe it's because of
how readily I could "live" in a puzzle scene as I worked on its gradual
completion. I do not sit still for as many of those projects of patience
in the 00's.
The solar load outside today is more than enough to drive off the chill
one might feel in the shade, and I sense that I am overdressed in my fleece
top and pants. Out in the "soil" of this clearing, such clothing
has a way of picking up ground-in stains, though the earth at this location
is generally rocky and low in organic content. I note the occasional
passage of falling leaves from the aspen and oak behind me, though this
attempt by the trees to extend their territory will not succeed in the
timespan of my casual occupation. It is really hard to say which
I proposed first--the Cabin or this 20-acre plot of jagged rocks, briers,
thistle and other low-level brush. In real life, one takes what one
gets when it comes to provisions so encompassing and intricate as large
parcels of land. Here, I had a choice.
In my time spent at rest with this uncompromised view of sun, stars
and sky, I realize that the woods are vitally necessary to the overall
effect, even though I do not enter them on a daily basis. They rise
from the periphery like walls, painted now "in a colourful way", to borrow
from the Beatles' Fixing a Hole. I must be careful not to
view this enclosure as some kind of "containment vessel", since I doubt
I'm so worked up by city living that I need such thorough "insulation"
when I've removed the controls of "civilized" inhibition and prudence.
Indeed, as I take a moment to observe my current state and stability, I
note that little, if anything, had become "pent up" from my rounds through
those circuitous urban strictures. I have not carried the city with
me, at least on this visit.
On this definitive day of autumn, I continue to sit peacefully in this
single place, with my hat brim pulled forward to shade my eyes from the
abundance of sun. I could well be exhibiting a "proper" disposition
when I resist compulsory and "unnatural" action and recover composure when
I am presented with a quiet hollow whose beauty would have scored highly
with the 19th century romantics. It is rare that I seek outrageous,
inappropriate or "anti-social" agendas when I get here, except for the
"deviance" of enjoying some time alone. Mostly I see myself sitting
or crashed out, as if this were the egregious "acting out" that had been
forced into repression in the interest of social compliance. In this
technologically advancing culture, the attention that was once paid to
woods as "uncertain" as these may simply have been shifted laterally to
a surrogate set of challenges in accommodating the collective.
I do enjoy being "given" the opportunity to call a temporary truce in
those urban struggles, the ones that occasionally arrive in what feels
like an unending sequential onslaught. My Cro-Magnon ancestors might
observe that these woods today embody about as much "authentic" environmental
content as the picture in that jigsaw puzzle. It is slow going to
derive satisfaction from this virtual construct when I start seeing satisfaction
as an "entitlement", the way it is presented on television programs.
I do better when I think of it as a gift of exemplary privilege, the product
of the goodwill (or mercy) of my benefactors, both actual and potential.
"Bo"
18 October 2000 -- Temporarily sheltered from exposure
It is a rather non-descript gray morning in October, a set of "average"
conditions one would expect in the middle of a transition from the more
noteworthy extremes of summer and winter. This is the kind of day
that should not be taken in isolation, for it all too vividly suggests
that all of life, both at the Cabin and in reality, will be built of this
monotonous gloom. As I sit in my fleecewear on the living room sofa,
drinking a cup of coffee, I am trying to get the bigger picture of the
many days I've lived and should expect to continue living. I know
this to be contrary to the principles of living in the present day and
one day at a time, but I feel the need today for the steadying influence
of my frequently-neglected experience base, so as not to form unwarranted
conclusions from my immediate spatial and temporal surroundings.
The many places I've been and the many contexts of those visits are
indeed a rich background and foundation, though there were countless times
throughout where I felt as uncertain as I am right now. Somehow,
I have made good use of my capability to reduce the individual weightings
of those moments of doubt in the foreshortened aggregate. I count
myself as fortunate that these misgivings do not present an unbridgeable
gap in the continuity of my "going on". The fact is, I need only
let go and continue riding in time's independently-guided vehicle of providence.
Of course, it takes time to board such a conveyance, time that is tumultuous
and unsettling until it's over.
I see, then, a manifest need to reduce my impulsive entry into the excursions
that must be so painfully exited when they are finally played out.
That is the theory behind the Cabin; I am presented with fewer opportunities
for divergence and a more unified thread of activity. It is interesting
that in being "freed" of the city's distraction, I am left to follow a
narrower, better-defined path. One would think I would drift all
over, once I've successfully left the rigors and routines of being bound
to home, job and social contacts. In an undeniable sense, I am "committing"
myself to an unremarkable tedium, one with no chance for the spice
of variety, when I am living in "deprivation" under the limited scope of
experience implied in an isolated enclave.
I turn to look out the front window, reminding myself that there is
one incredibly large forest surrounding me at present, and that
I am hardly "trapped" in any way. Why, it isn't even so cold that
I couldn't don my sandals and go for an ambling-about walk in the immediate
Cabin area. Those vast distances between here and the others may
explain today's feeling that I am paradoxically held fast in a state of
lesser potential. When the makings of occupation, both frivolous
and productive, are immediately at hand, I have a feeling of dominion and
control--I can do that, if I really want to. Indeed, it is
the collective total of many such choices made over the years that make
up my "heritage" as a person. There are so few story lines at the
Cabin, on the other hand, that it looks like I'm placing myself under some
sort of punitive arrest when I spend my time here. It is as if I
have "failed" in managing the many opportunities of a grown, middle-class
American, and this is the consequence.
It is still gray outside, and a number of leaves are being driven about
in the wind. I turn from the window and stretch myself out upon the
deep upholstery. It amazes me at times that I can separate myself
so completely from those diversions that require the painful making of
amends. This may be a sign that I need even more "exposure"
to those influences--the enrichment I witness over an entire life has been
consistently moderated and compromised by my hesitancy and unwillingness
to take the complete plunge. I suppose I just don't trust my will
when it comes to entering such liability. Though the active, risk-filled
life is intrinsically rich, I do not yet have the satisfaction of
seeing long-term results while committing short-term foolishness. The return
to exposure, though necessary, will not be the enjoyment it should predictably
be.
"Bo"
22 October 2000 -- The inevitable forward path
The last of summer's green has gone from the fall foliage up here in
the hollow, signifying a conversion of outlook to the forward direction,
the one having all that snow, ice and dangerous cold in its scenery.
It is another day of bright blue sky and poignant solar presence, where
I walk about in the piles of leaves near the woodshed in my field jacket
and full-length trousers. There is no more co-opting of the ways
of summer; I must practice instead those ways that will "matter" when the
fire, my insulating garments and the Cabin walls resume their appreciated
support of this warm-blooded being. I look to the top of the fieldstone
chimney and note the modest stream of smoke from the fire I started when
I got here. This joins with the falling leaves to make something
of a statement about the ultimate destiny of all that has grown.
There is a feeling of fragmentation out here today, with all
the leaves crunching under my feet in their reminder that this was a lush,
active center of growth only 2 months back. It is odd to think of
the many celebrations of the "harvest" that adorn the public spaces and
private yards in the village at the State highway junction downstream.
This is an exaltation that the produce of the land is finally being parcelled
out to waiting consumers, its identity lost in assimilation into other
collectives. The noticeable shift in real life television to Christmas
advertising reminds me that humans, too, are called upon this time of year
to disperse unto others from their accumulated reserves. Individual
possession loses its emphasis, replaced by the intuitive attractiveness
of building where time cannot cause decay. To have established a
legacy as a "good" man is a heart-warming thought when the prevalent
images are of passing personal splendor and inevitable progress in the
path towards one's final worldly disposition.
I suppose that such ponderings are unnecessarily morbid; I should engage
instead in the festive modes of Halloween celebration, where the
maximum of fun is poked at and made out of otherwise grim realities of
the flesh. Yes, a skeleton should rise in animated articulation,
in the style of Ezekiel's "dry bones". Every ghost is of course a
"friendly ghost", and even the devil himself can be safely confronted by
those who know the secrets that remove death's "sting". Why, it's
all a grand, living continuum, even with the descent into autumn and the
inescapable passing of years on top of that. On 31 October, I should
go set up a stand at the turnoff down by the highway river crossing, to
hand out treats to the village youth who happen to be working that side
of the street. I have an opportunity thereby to feed forward into
a demographically advantaged group. Such is the embodiment of fruitful
multiplication.
But no, I remind myself, I've made my decision to be up here in this
"side yard" this afternoon, the one that is getting to be ankle-deep in
fallen leaves. I step into the woodshed, soon to be a frozen, unheated
shell beneath the snow, to pick up a few more pieces of oak to tend my
modest fire. Am I really willing to be something of a "dead
end", as symbolized by the 4.1-mile dirt road that ends where the truck
is now parked? Am I in a vain struggle to hold on to what does better
when it is lost? Is the teaching of justification through altruistic
denial merely a debatable tenet of politically correct reiteration?
There was a time not so long ago when I did not question these matters
as critically; when I had a less-shakable faith.
I am distressed that a former, supposedly absolute and self-evident
"truth" can look so trite and shop-worn on a day like today. It is
a sign that my vision of "reality" is still excessively bound to the temporary
and the susceptible. Though I am unwilling to deny just yet
the manifest majesty of God, it takes an asceticism beyond my own to see
him correctly in a lonely woodland hollow. I see myself headed down
a familiar old path of exasperation as I drop the wood in the box by the
hearth. I take my place on the sofa and lean back, closing my eyes.
"I will do those things, Lord", goes the prayer, "when I can be
the 'cheerful giver' you want me to be. I know I'm doing very little
towards workable resolutions by dreading my return to my positions of obligation."
After I've sat for a few moments between the horns of this dilemma,
a gust of wind arrives, tossing a number of curled, dry leaves at the front
windows. I can certainly see where things are headed, and there's
no turning back.
"Bo"
25 October 2000 -- A featureless fantasy
It is a grey, overcast day, with enough wind to help in the process
of carrying the leaves from the increasingly-stark deciduous trees.
When the sun has left, there is no more of the cheerfulness created by
the assortment of colors in the foliage. No, the scene today is one
that makes me wonder how soon it will be until the first snow. It
was certainly cold out there, the last time I used the outhouse,
and the steadily-tended fire is about all I have to let me believe I "belong"
in such a place at such a time. When I consider the number of miles
between the Cabin and the nearest homes down on State Route 735, I am reminded
of the artifice that is represented by this dwelling. It is
such an "out-of-place" novelty in so many thousand acres of trees,
rocks and brush.
Still, I keep returning to this same place, which remains open for me
so long as my inspiration is intact. I wonder at times why I so often
like the picture of desolate surroundings, ones that do not immediately
suggest a "plot" or a "theme". What is the point of creative musings,
anyway, if not to conjure something more intriguing to the senses and sensibility
than the real life they supplement? Maybe I am responding to a city
life that is too "full", necessitating a fantasy world that is hardly as
fantastic as the typical Disney production or science fiction movie.
I would do well, of course, to picture the full range of naturalistic features
in this postulated hollow, but when conditions are like they are today,
nothing really stands out well enough to be noticed.
I realize that a utopic getaway that is sparse in the richness of its
visualization can have its benefits, for I am prevented from aspiring to
very much of what I cannot sustain. In a sense, this daydream world
resembles the essence of my bare-minimum, just-in-time procedure in real
life, the one that I continue in halting individual steps, fearful of taking
on too much of a load. I am substituting a restful mediocrity for
a rushed, tiresome one when I drop the little I really have in my hands
and start the long coast to the ultimate goal of "nothing to do".
It does not matter that the skies are grey and conditions are not conducive
of a romping frolic amid the wildflowers. No, a simple, sobering
taste of emptiness sounds good, even if it is a little bland when I finally
get here.
This is such a steady scene, hiding out with my fire in this
wood-frame shelter. I hear the wind on the Cabin's exterior, and
the sound actually gets through without being placed in a queue with all
the other concerns that are so audible in real life. The room is
generally still, with a slight sense of a draft from the window frames.
I know I'm not getting this life "full strength" when it is so thoroughly
punctuated with intervening real life diversions, and I have generally
recognized that this is but a mental exercise and not a meaningful prescription
to hold as one of my long-term goals. Indeed, a person's imaginary
space need only be a useful comfort; it does not have to stand as a viable
and practical aspiration.
It is hard to say what my getaway would consist of if I were not so
tired and frustrated all the time in social living. I suppose it
could have people in it, for starters, but I've had many a consistently-decided
debate about what that would entail. I just want the ability
to let go and not have my affairs head off the road into disarray.
The Cabin life, in all its hum-drum featurelessness, becomes more understandable
when I take this sentiment into account. I only regret that I need
such a strong polar opposite to the life I'm seeking to remedy--I would
do better if I could actually live full-time in one of my two dwellings.
This is the mind of the self-absorbed man: there is no home, either
on earth or in imagination. It's all a fluctuating, unstable, meta-residence;
a state of continual transience and flux.
I go to crash out on my bunk, slowing down even more from how I started
today. I cannot ignore my inner promptings, in cherishing this time
to myself, even if it is an extreme practice. I am only reacting
to the well-intentioned promoters of ever greater socialization when I
feel guilt for having "drawn a blank", and they can't possibly know
what it's like in this head. When I return to those myriad tasks
in real life, they are certain to look more tame, now that I have had a
chance to be here in this cut-off state. It will be easier to recognize
what should be picked up and what can be left to rest. The increase
in discernment's contrast caused by an entry into bleakness has proven
its value.
"Bo"
29 October 2000 -- In need of a burden that is light
The sun is intense enough this mid-day that I have decided to spend
some time in the hammock, out by the tall oaks that define the clearing.
Though the temperature must be in the 50's F, I'm doing all right in only
jeans and a sweatshirt. As I listen to the ongoing hushed roar of
the river in the unseen distance below, I hear a brisk wind that looks
intent on clearing out the last of the clinging leaves. These have
built a sizable new accumulation, even out here on the edge of the woods.
With the foliage either gone or dried to a crisp, this wind moves through
the exhausted branches with a sound similar to that caused by my own feet
when I walked out to stretch myself out today and let gravity resume its
role as the boss.
I like the notion that there are processes and occurrences in this wilderness
whose relative propriety are not open to the kind of interpretation that
I apply to most of what I do in real life. The seasons happen as
they do, and all parties involved find a way of getting along. On
my visits to the Cabin, I adapt my expectations and my behavior to this
"simpler" set of constraints, and all is generally understood. Most
of my maintenance is of the truck and the buildings; the rest can be counted
on to continue in its steady state. The problem with my places of
residence and responsibility in the city is that too much can be reasonably
interpreted as "up to me". If I "really wanted to", those troubling
conditions would not necessarily have to prevail. It is not the "fault"
of whoever "let me" get this way; no, it's my fault, since I was
given something of a "say" and was unsuccessful.
Thus it is that I go about, devising various grand strategies to lay
these accusations to rest, for once and for all. "Clearly," goes
the reasoning, "if I did this and it resulted in that, then
my duties would be complete." I would have earned a set of hardened-steel
laurels for my lifelong resting pleasure. I hear the others tell
me to just continue on instead in mediocre compliance, giving of myself
and as myself, but that looks too simple. Someone with so
many "failures" on his record can't possibly get anywhere by being who
he "really is". Still, they persist in this curious demand upon a
creature with whom God will probably never be finished. They are
willing to accept a partial approximation of a final product that would
hardly bespeak what I've come to think of as "excellence".
Since partial credit is apparently given for partial demonstrations
of sincere effort in the social doings down there, I am tempted to stop
right where I am and just let the old machine coast along for awhile.
This might actually be feasible if I were not dealing with dissipative
losses, particularly from my own scorn of self. If it were all that
easy for me to be "at ease" in their midst, I'd be putting in my full,
implicitly-mandated time, doing nothing more than "being myself".
Of course, whenever I hear such a call, I am reminded that I am "not
myself" in my contrived schemes to win by guile, rather than authentic
and honest style. For a man to be "one up", he must necessarily push
someone else down. That is clearly not "right".
On this bright day on winter's verge, I just let myself hang in a heap
between the two stout anchor trees, being moved almost imperceptibly in
the wind. The others would not let me be this way in their gatherings
and affairs; no, everything has to have an underlying reason and
redeeming value. It occurs to me that the others might indeed be operating
with "no plan" when they gather informally for what they call "recreation".
There is an admitted beauty to the transcendent wonder that arises when
people allow their activity to unfold, via the combinatorial dynamics
of two or more persons in each other's awareness and responsiveness.
It is as if each call to "push" is met by a willingness from the other
side to "pull". My vain struggles, in contrast, are composed of unilateral
effort against unyielding and relatively inanimate "loads".
Well, in this time I spend outdoors in the woods, I am also part of
a process larger than myself, and one that I have found relatively easy
to accommodate. The others would tell me to be that way amid their
groupings, only they are benefitting from hindsight, while I am
still gazing far ahead.
"Bo"
Ahead to November 2000
