2 December 2001 -- The call to sufficiency
As I lounge about in my fleecewear on the kind of fairly-cold day that
should rightfully get my stubborn mind into the "holiday spirit"--only
23 days remain, after all--I note an outdoor environment that could produce
snow flurries without much real problem. Still, I doubt it is below
freezing, so such a display would just be "for show", as in a movie where
the simulation of such a day would occur with a suitable petrochemical
substitute on a Southern California set. After taking another look
at the same old scene beyond the front window, I return to the armchair
in front of the fire, where I could fall asleep with little trouble on
such an unremarkable afternoon. I know that every day should "count",
only I'm not up for the challenge today of "tricking" my mind into seeing
something distinctly "special" here.
I suppose the typical man my age does not do his share, either, in making
"the most" of every Sunday that comes along, with such attractions as NFL
football and household projects to hold his attention comfortably while
the hours pass. Weeks like this are assembled neatly into years,
until a truly old man cries, to the extent a man is allowed
to, over all that has been "lost". Implicit in this shame-filled
realization is that some great "enlightenment" had been consistently refused,
as if it were ever "offered" in a realistic way to begin with. Complacent
oblivion can do that, it seems, when it is so much easier to obtain.
I see myself, indeed, in a performance on that Hollywood set; it is a re-make
of the classic tale of learning one's discernment, with the Road Not Taken
placed before me, but without the usual dramatic outcome.
The fire continues to crackle, with the wood shifting at the moments
it must, and I continue to sit with my eyes closed in this well-used personal
receptacle. I must have done enough work of a "challenging" nature
somewhere in my recent past, or else I couldn't be so satisfied in doing
"nothing" but this. I dismiss for now the guilt that I am
"squandering" a day in inactivity, for this "laziness" may well provide
an inspiration I may not have seen if I had been actively looking.
So little is ever bestowed to the seeker engaged in explicit pursuit.
I can only tell myself of the wonder that resides in simply "being alive",
and how this is the day that the Lord has made. I am perched here,
on the track from cradle to grave, at a point of some renown because of
its membership in that vibrant locus of finite length.
Yes, I do believe I'm doing things "right", even without participating
in any particularly "sublime" activity for this day. Because my encounters
with narrower paths so frequently leave me turning them down with good
reason, I will not lament my "hanging out" in this distant enclosure of
wood and stonemasonry. I need only acknowledge and express gratitude
for being given another day, one that was left with me to use and to have.
This is enough to stave off some of the regret that is sure to come in
later years. I have examined this life in many ways, and while it
does not leave me impressed or ecstatic on too many occasions, it is
something that provides for me an ongoing recognition of a noble and unifying
presence that is mine to develop further with each new moment that I persist.
I see myself settle in to the social context of time a little better
now, knowing that this is "the season to be jolly". Though my inspiration
towards the "festive" mode is not what it has been at this point during
many of those other years, I am aware that the larger process in
city and national life is going to embody the rituals in some form anyway,
whether I'm there or not. As the fire burns before me at hearthside,
I sense the secure fastenings that hold me in place on this one-way ride.
It is a "crafted artifact", this life of mine, made to stand within a properly
appointed "room", though not the raucous chamber that some find
themselves within. Though I am "doing little" as I sit here in the
Cabin, the earthen vessel of Jeremiah's metaphor continues in its development.
Such hands they are, that do the work, minimal and unobtrusive though it
may be.
Is this the inspiration I was meant to have, in order to "appreciate"
the splendid gift of my 14523rd day? Well, for "not really trying",
I seem to have come some way, as a man who "did not ask to be born" but
conducts a life anyway. I doubt there are many truly serious
problems here.
"Bo"
5 December 2001 -- It's all good enough
With everything finally squared away for the night and the fire built
large enough to heat the Cabin throughout, I retire to the sofa, lit from
above by the kerosene lamp on its stand. When I was last outside
to use the outhouse, I noticed a stiff chill in the air, only the sky sported
stars, and not the kind of overcast that would make for the first "real"
snow of the season. Thus, with nothing to "monitor", there is little
reason to rise from this spot, where I'll likely sink into one of those
fine "stupors" that I crave in a life otherwise full of accentuation and
emphasis. I do indeed enjoy the occasion when my escape nears completion
and the list of irritating matters is delightfully concealed from its usual
position in front of my face.
I straighten out the throw blankets that top the muslin sofa slipcover
to form an orderly cradle for my tired body, since it isn't cold enough
yet to need to be under them. The room looks emptier
in this dim and flickering lantern light, which hardly permits many features
to come into solid view. I let my thought process wander to a likely
place within, so that it may have a chance at rest, too. I
am aware, of course, that I have the kind of conscious mechanism that doesn't
actually "park" in one place like that with any lasting stability.
I wonder at times about the "normal", and if there is always an internal
"discussion" going on in their heads. What a profound peace
it must be, if they can become so totally "unhinged" as to commit to motionless
intervals of arbitrary length on demand.
Oh, but my mind needs its "program", as if a captive audience
of one needs a compelling reason to "tune in". Gaps in the performance
will clearly not do. I think for a moment about how much fuel
is in the lamps and on the fire, realizing that things were getting sparse
over the "channel". Yes, they've got enough for several hours, only
I should really be developing an action plan, even if it is ill-advised
and likely to fail, for my next confrontation of the major woes in my real
life. The great struggle that is mine must have a solution;
consistent order cannot fail in something so enchanted as a human
life. I suppose this is the typical working sentiment of the contemplative,
who seeks completion and closure before his time has expired.
Nothing ever does get "completed", though--that is the way life
works, at least in my own case. Frustration, therefore, is the currency
of reasonable expectation, when the campaign continues in this way.
What I seek, after all, is nothing less than "total satisfaction", which
is really nothing more than a customer service buzz-phrase. In my
desperate, alternative procedure--the pursuit of false and temporary refuge
in mental oblivion--I dare not look at the storm that continues all about,
yet isn't this just what I end up doing, anyway? I wonder,
then, if any sense of "well-being" on this earth can be called "honest".
Is the claim that one is "happy" something that should be taken seriously?
I can see that my restlessness will not let me have total rest, no matter
how "tired" I might become. I would so like it if I could effect
"certain" controls over "how I feel", rather than approaching the whole
process in fearful superstition, not daring to tread but also unable to
stop. Am I a man who is "possessed" in some regard, simply because
I lack the full faculty of self-determination? The outside observer,
should he belong to the suitably-empowered "normal", must see in this some
form of tragedy--or comedy--but certainly not a rational and constructive
discourse. Tuning in to see this tale in progress would have to be
a sure sign that little else "is on". The problem isn't solved
in 30 minutes, as in the escapist model of early television.
I take a deep breath and let myself loosen up in my heavily-laid position
on my back. There is no certainty of "an answer". Is
this the secret to real and abiding peace; the solemn internalization of
what looks like a rather sorry truth? I doubt it is a total
abandonment of optimism to give up unrealistic hope, for then the mediocre
is transformed into a happy life at the median, awake from those troubling
dreams of shortfall and missed opportunity. I must re-evaluate my
standards and find some that are a little closer to home.
"Bo"
10 December 2001 -- Settling in for the arrival
Though today's overcast does not tend to make for the searing chill
of a frosted-over crystal-clear dawn at this time of year, it is seriously
cold nonetheless, and I have heard tell of advancing precipitation
from the northwest. The image this builds is of a torrent of snow
being packed up against the higher limits of the hollow, with the microclimate
at 3765 feet making for a more intense outcome than down on the cultivated
plains near the village. Consistent with these portents, I see the
flakes commence at a certain point in the later part of the morning--the
big kind that "mean business". It is not long before the clearing
and Cabin compound loses any claim it may have had to a bare-ground "autumn"
identity.
I suppose I could get into my warmer clothing and go for a walk out
there, or even get out the cross country skis from the shed, only that
would just leave me sweated up upon the inevitable return to fireside.
As I look out the kitchen window, I feel a certain draft arriving from
the less-heated corner near the steel drum cistern. I can almost
imagine what life would be like now on the back porch, with the great snowy
abundance doing what it can at the perimeter of my holdout of heat.
The woodshed and outhouse have their predictable coverings of the fluffy-yet-suitably
wet accumulation, of the kind that I've seen grow out of hand on occasion
during trips to the north in my youth. The snowfall is now sufficient
to reduce visibility to a significant extent, even if it isn't an actual
white-out.
Aware of the solid chill that the snow is now fully ready to enforce
outside of these wooden-frame walls, I return to the armchair set before
the fire, that radiant source and self-evident entity that
has taken on a new "importance" in this isolated life. It is hard
to know just how deep the snow will finally get, but it's sure to seem
overwhelming, when delivered across the space of "my" several hundred acres
at the end of a dirt road that might as well not be there. I know
I have plenty of firewood, even in the box near the hearth and stove, only
there remains a distinct and unsettling reminder in the calm-yet-powerful
world outside of what I'd be up against, were I not so willing to stay
put and "goof off" in this lodging.
I like it, of course, when factors beyond my control look so immense
that I can accept them as "unmanageable" and move my mind on to some other
mode of relaxing acquiescence. When snow is arriving on this scale,
I am pretty well "pinned down" in that way, and my attention begins to
place its focus at a greater distance. Thus is a larger stretch of
time digested and metabolized, upon my mandatory entry into a new, more
constraining reality. I turn to look out the front window, which
is basically "white" from the snow in the air and also the condensation
on the glass. Such a scene is enough to prompt me to place new wood onto
the glowing ember-base, my statement to the weatherscape that I am going
to be here for awhile.
There are undoubtedly several inches now on the ground, creating the
new appearance of a snowfield in the larger "flat" areas of the clearing.
Before this is done, there will likely be a layer that rises at least to
a man's knees, meaning that travel will be under new terms through even
the most immediate of the outdoors. Though the woods are bereft of
those sentimental, gift-shop adornments that seek to capitalize on the
"way" of winter, my own mind, if nothing else, is active in developing
an emotional reaction to this "cradling" presence. I should suppose
that if I now take the form of a newborn, then Old Man Winter is a kindly-yet-capable
"father figure", the kind that removes a fair load of concern in his wake
as his presence is asserted.
Still, the fire and the warmth define my sustained presence in these
woods, and my susceptibility is before me. I cannot ignore the immense
potential of the temporarily-obedient cold upon my coddled, mammalian
hulk. Life in the temperate zones is both a challenge and a comforting
regime of limitation, enough for anyone's endowment of endurance.
"Bo"
14 December 2001 -- A singular and empty silence
I guess the snow has been the big story the last few days, as
I have grown accustomed to its complications in getting around up here
at the Cabin compound. There was about 15 inches all told before
temperatures began peaking above freezing again during the daylight hours,
and a good portion of that is still left on this night that promises to
make everything solid again, though not in the way it came. It is
the kind of snow that "crunches" under one's boots, except in cleared areas
like the walkways to the woodshed and the outhouse, which are lined instead
with a mottled form of hardened, gritty earth that only leaves its mud-identity
at about this time of the evening, an hour or so after sundown. With
the week behind me, I have come to "settle in", with that grand and glorious
crash that leaves me in a heap on the sofa.
The interior of the pine-panelled living room and kitchen wing has assumed
its typical, darkened and under-stated "way", with only the optimally-tended
fireplace and the two kerosene lamps to hold up the night that has fallen
so completely on the hollow. This land "should be" uniformly empty,
as the domain of trees, rocks and streams, only I am back again, for another
dose of whatever it is that I'm trying to "find" in such a place.
Many are the times that I think I should simply "give up" and assume the
same load of urban hassle that the others do, since it is a notoriously
difficult task to craft anything "meaningful" out of so little in the way
of raw materials. Still, the solemn unity of this home over
the years has given its share of value to things otherwise defined in relative
terms, so I will do what I can with what is here.
Really, to the social critics who complain of the perennial marketplace
hype of our modern-day displaced Saturnalia feast on the 25th, a time spent
"reduced" to this level should look like "part of the solution".
Why can't folks just put everything down and look clearly at their
realities? Fantasy, after all, is the stuff of Walt Disney and the
Las Vegas Strip, where an arguably "lesser" product is made to look the
better, if only by mere quantity alone. A plain, empty time
might properly characterize any decent "holiday", for such will permit
every person to get the look at him or herself that busy schedules typically
divert. Of course, to the typical member of the tangled mess of "communities"
and "organizations" that make up commercial existence, those long hours
on the job have a definition that is rather "vacant" on its own.
Indeed, it could well be argued that mine is the greater "fantasy",
when I plop myself into a simmering-but-dark cauldron of nothing, then
expect to see insights emerge in the finest of the conjurer's trade.
Contained within myself and this small wooden hut, I cannot really
plan on deriving much from the little I've managed to spirit away from
the main "camp". But then, that isn't really the objective,
I remind myself. This visit is to let everything wind down and begin
to equalize with the lesser condition, as hard as that sounds to the keepers
of more vivacious lifestyles. There is such a ferociously-overdriven
"storm" going on most of the time, internal to my circuitry, and the excitation
sources are for the most part external. No, I need no defined
portion of the divine inspirational influence here, for the goal is to
impose the one real "control", and that is what the silence is all about
in this place tonight.
So there it is--I'm after a heaping helping of nothing, though I know
that any multiple of zero is going to be the same. The identity of
the empty state, as differentiated from all the other, more colorful ones,
is where I'd think my "center" should be. I feel myself wanting to
clamp myself on to this mighty source of "stability", as opposed to the
hustling crowds who seem more concentrated on the number "one". I
do have to appreciate the alternative pragmatism of their approach,
for it is there that every creature and every entity derived therefrom
is seen for what it really is--just another way of looking at the one
presence. It must be a fine and privileged eye that can keep focus
on such a difficult-to-acquire image. I am still at the level of
being driven to distraction by the apparent multitude of so many
guises.
I breathe deeply, in the darkened room. I am drawing no conclusions
to exceed where I've been before, or so it looks. The condition of
separation has been well achieved, up here in these silent woods.
"Bo"
18 December 2001 -- Adjustments in my cover
With the bright sun outside today, assisted as it is by the ample snow
cover that remains, there is enough radiant load to cover much of the job
that the fireplace would have assumed if it were overcast instead.
I am in the living room on this late morning, and the space within the
pine panelled walls is thoroughly illuminated from the window openings,
though I know I'd still lose heat in a hurry if I went outside without
covering up. Feeling just a little sweaty in my "indoor clothing",
I decide I need a touch of that ever-so-ready effect, so I don my
sport sandals and step out into the several inches of heavy-laid accumulation.
There is something of a wind out here, only it's too warm for any drifting
to take place. It's perhaps 35 to 40 degrees F, which does its job
in making me ready to go back inside.
It is so hard sometimes, to find the conditions of climate control and
outerwear that feel "just right", especially when variables such as the
fire and the weather are involved. Thinking that I'd better not spend
too long out here in the dooryard, I head back in, where the heat
is there to greet me. I suppose I could go to summer-weight clothing
until the chill returns, so I switch to nylon shorts and a light T-shirt,
before returning to my default position of being stretched out on the sofa.
It is the kind of day where the sunshine instills in me a bravado I do
not always see, when it comes to the matter of hanging around, "idle" and
"lazy". Maybe it's my strong tendency towards self-conscious "shame"
that keeps me from being this inactive when I'm among the others.
I can only let loose completely, it would seem, in private.
I have to wonder, though, just how far I'd be able to go in conspicuous
and public sloth, as is my main practice on these visits. Surely
I'd be "hauled in" at some point for an offensiveness that finally crosses
the barrier between what I think is wrong and what really is.
Indeed, such discoveries at the hands of the social machine look like my
general assignment in living, for when "proper" behavior is ratified and
corroborated, then I need fear no more. To every context down there
in the city there is a right response, and we're talking "right" in the
absolute here. It is almost dehumanizing when I think of such certitude,
for is not every man "entitled to" his own way of seeing himself
and others? But no, "society", by the many checks and balances of
its far-reaching and plural constituency, is the best embodiment of "perfection"
I'm likely to see when it comes to abiding by consensus.
This time of being still in such minimal wear is beginning to allow
me to feel the "truth" of the cold that actually is indoors, and
I will eventually have to cover back up. The suggestion by analogy
is that I should "be still and know" what real life is really about,
in those times I must show my face in the hallowed-yet-crowded halls that
contain my daily affairs. Exuberance can wait for another day, for
it is just so much noise, or so I think. I must run into trouble
when my reluctance starts sounding too much like defiance instead.
It would seem that the others, if they're to hear anything truly
"good" in the assembly, must be given a display that is ever on the up-beat.
Doom and gloom, after all, are easy enough for them to drum up on their
own.
Maybe my picture of the "normal" realm is too optimistic, though, given
how hard it has been to shake so many of my pessimistic habits. Agreement
in all things could well be a myth set forth by the well-meaning among
the literal, whose view has no place for the self-contradiction predicted
by well-argued disagreement that is somehow "correct", just as it stands.
I should probably seek nothing more than internal consistency if
this is the case, for a population as "deranged" as that would have to
respect someone who answers the same question with the same answer every
time. A somewhat perverse "harmony" emerges from this; one in which
disagreement, even to the point of violent outcomes, is just a necessary
condition of diversity. Such is the dirty business we inherit, when
we come packaged in so many ways.
It is getting cold in here, I finally note. I grab my poncho
liner and cover myself lightly against an indoor environment that has moved
on to a different status, though nothing has changed with the fire or the
sun. I don't even think I need to have a single response
to such things, for whatever happens, just by happening, will garner
its own respect.
"Bo"
23 December 2001 -- An opportunity for peace
With the solstice having passed so recently, it is little real wonder
that the "world" surrounding the Cabin looks so dark on this overcast Sunday
of the great 4-day Christmas weekend. The darker-still, vacant superstructures
of the off-season deciduous trees do little to detract from the emptiness
that goes with this tentative snowscape, which almost looks like it's "looking
forward" to the next major accumulation. Of course, with conditions as
unremarkable as these, I would not expect to see much more than the light-but-steady
flurries that are currently under way. These probably add to the
"festive" mood embodied by the folks in the village down at the crossroads,
as they make ready to express themselves in their many interpretations
of the "holiday way". For me, however, it is just another dose of
winter, now made official, as astronomy handles the whole earth in a single
stroke.
It is rather hard to know "what to do" in this time I have to myself,
when the prevailing wisdom says I should enter the proper circles of lasting
affinity, so as to "rejoice". As I hang around the living area and
kitchen wing, I sense an enveloping desolation from the cold, the dark
and the snow, and it does not appear to have a reasonable "solution".
It's all a matter of my "personality type", I have to remind myself. Somehow,
I've come to believe in the inherent propriety of my introspective vantage
point, though I doubt I'm on a "high horse" as much as I'm ducking the
hoof-falls from the others' horses. Still, I've seen protracted
solitude turn into real and palpable gratification enough times that I
choose to continue in this particular practice. Peace on earth can
thrive well enough with my participation being in absentia. I finally
plop myself down on the sofa, after staring long enough in idle detachment
at the peaceful, steady snowfall. I make the conscious decision to
deploy another "ration" of the present abundance of free time into my theatre
of silence. Celebration or not, this is no ordinary session in my
course of being human.
As time thus commences to pass under my watchful eye, I realize the
value of forced separation from my real-life distraction set, as I occupy
this small, snow-bound space near the top of the hollow. The others,
who live in the care of the 70% fraction that is "normal", must be using
the Yuletide ambiance to a similar effect, as the mechanisms of their business-world
embodiments are parked like so many cars outside of the warm and joyous
homes to which they've become invited. This, ideally, is not the
time to be in a darkened room on a short day with a minimalist fire and
brutally-rustic interior decor. No, a man should instead build within
his conscious process an overflowing exuberance of camaraderie, something
that can continue indefinitely, given enough "loved ones" to appreciate
and share in the frivolity. I just keep on falling short in those
contexts, however, so I revert on a day like this to the matter-of-fact
and passive mode of living that does fairly well during these times alone.
It is now, for example, that I can see what I have and who I am.
I will make my "re-entry" to those social ceremonies in a cautious way,
and perhaps I can sit there unnoticed and listen.
I feel the progress of my thoughts enter this fundamentally vacant interval
of time, with something of the kinetics of an initially-separated fluid
diffusing into an equilibrium mixture. Things left to themselves
do change, and thus will I. I am given a new vision of this property
called "peace", which has its natural connotations of "love". The
processes that dictate my usual movements in the bulk of the year have
relented, so as to offer me this time to use as I please. Though
the others might decree that "'tis the season to be jolly," it has always
been my preference to get to a "lower" point, and one of proper humility,
before showing my face among men. Here in the snow-darkened woods,
I still see too much arrogance and contempt in my attitude to make a proper
presentation. Indeed, it would appear to be my duty today to use
my time at the Cabin as a "staging" experience, where pretense becomes
properly broken to become rightfully-proud "character". It will be
interesting to witness life again among the many, though I should not deceive
myself: they are not this way the whole year through.
I am experiencing something that I've called "peace" in the past, even
it it is nothing more than knowing I can take my time. It's all a
big party, whether I'm within the crowd or without.
"Bo"
27 December 2001 -- Efforts toward the illusion
The snow has advanced in its seasonal maturity into the kind that is
properly "sculpted" by the wind into drift patterns. I am amazed
at what has formed by this process from the last 3 - 4 powdery inches to
have arrived during the week. The open space of the clearing, thus
adorned, is quite the asset to have squirreled away and reserved, in a
world typified by its contention for space. Of course, some of my
"freedom" in this regard is the result of my willingness to sit tight in
one place and live in part on a dream. The real world is rarely opposed
to allowing my physical hulk its nominal room for living, so the secret
there must be to erect a rigid barrier around that rationed enclosure.
Then, I should proceed in some sort of oblivious state until the mob scene
has concluded, rendering the crisis moot. The stock explanation I
give for "letting things get to me" is that I am simply too "sensitive".
My continued and acute awareness of urban annoyances is something of a
sign that I do not do so well at entering and sustaining the illusion of
the Cabin site.
If I were dealing with a bona fide woodland getaway, I wouldn't
have this difficulty in configuring my mind and feeding it the correct
cues to achieve the effect I desire. I'd simply leave the
whole mess back there behind and see what, in fact, there identically
is to see up here in this snowy hollow. This, I suppose, is the
reaction I do have to those unpleasant urban realities, for I'd
have denied them access long ago if such were possible. I guess what
I'm attempting is the well-studied practice of "visualization", that power
of self-deception that makes the unlivable into something that can indeed
be swallowed. The picture I place before me is the one of the harshly
cold hollow, where the flurries still fall and wind chill is a constant
concern. There is an authoritative quantity of snow now in place,
so as to negate the possible interpretations relying upon those verdant
days in the warmer seasons. The snow, in fact, is something of its
own help, in portraying a place so empty as to become solemn and
immaculate, and in a way not built by human hands.
Yes, the hustle goes on around me, as I express my boldness in "reserving"
something like the Cabin for "just myself". I am not attempting any
brazen "trespass" upon their franchise, so I should be well within
my bounds. I note the brisk winds outside the front window, the ones
that appear to "belong" to this setting. I suppose that a great deal
about the Cabin does not require any new acts of authoring--just further
re-readings. "But I am a man nearly 40 years of age," I protest.
"I thought dream worlds only worked well for the younger folks."
With such minimal sovereignty in their less-than-recognized individuality,
escapes to places within is probably the most valuable compensation they
are given. Still, I am not ready to accept the pain of collective
living without a thorough study as to "why?". On a day like
this, it would seem that real life has left a handsome number of my grown-up
"liberties" intact, and I can squelch the greater majority of the offensive
channels without a serious risk of faux pas.
What it gets down to is simply "letting myself" drop into a sustainable
berth up here at the dwelling, one that can carry me through enough hours
to usher in a new scene from my real life experience. I decide to
crawl over and lay myself in a sprawling heap onto my rough, utilitarian
bunk, where I cover up with a GI poncho liner and listen to the soft brushing
of ice crystals carried by the wind, as they are diverted by the reality
of the Cabin walls. Just settled into my bed I am, with a basic fire
in the fireplace, lasting out more of this time during which I am
called to duty in real life. I would like it so much if there were
a greater harmony between what I've been given and what I'd really have,
if I had supreme executive authority. I suppose I am attempting nothing
less than the stunt of conjuring full-time bliss, having not yet seen and
accepted that it is neither possible nor appropriate. Pain, it would
seem, is indeed the portion at hand, and it can always outrun me.
This prompts a sigh on my part.
Time does pass, though, and thank God for that! I see now
the apparent compensation that is afforded a mortal man, in reparation
for a life that must reach its inevitable conclusion. Life
eternal in the flesh would be a perpetuation of something rather crude
and unpalatable. The snow continues to blow outside, and I find a
certain satisfaction in just passing more time.
"Bo"
31 December 2001 -- I've done enough for today
A true wave of "bitter" cold has arrived up here in the hollow for New
Year's Eve, and the clear skies at the arrival of dusk suggest that it
will be a night to pay close attention to the fires in the fireplace and
cast iron stove. There's always something of a draft this time of
year in any part of the Cabin besides these two locations, so I decide
to sit for awhile in the armchair, looking at the flames. In real
life, of course, I have myriad "other things to do", and the thought of
lounging idly about like this rarely looks entirely appropriate.
It could well be easier to embody the "way" of this dream-life if I weren't
always chasing off to do one or another of those intruding jobs.
Perhaps my real "duty", in being true to mine own self, is to scrap the
whole notion of virtual escape and get back into the place where my actual
body must live. The flesh does not go away, merely by being denied.
Still, there is a curious calm that arrives by the time I have "finished
a thought" up here, or at least gave it a good try.
As the flame continues on its way, I reach into my own internal supply
of recent sensations and emotions, looking for the proper description to
satisfy my need to live a life that passes the muster of stringent analysis.
This is very much a "left brain" way of operating, as the pop theorists
from the end of the last century would remind me, only the alternative
aesthetic approach just doesn't yield as much output. It is a true
effort, as I have seen, to build a creative picture of the woods
and the interior of my living space, instead of going over the same old
collection of half-gnawed formulations inside my own head. If I were
more capable in that regard, I should think my tale would overflow with
the overpowering romance of wooded isolation, and then I might be called
"correct" in spending my time this way. This brings up another of
those puzzles on the side of logic and reason--the one that posits a discernible
and uniquely-proper use for each and every moment. I suspect philosophers
have worked on this for a long time, for it deals with such topics as determinism
and subjective versus objective value judgment.
No, I would not do well to consume myself entirely with those
silly, ultimately-exhausting mind games. I feel the warmth upon my
body and sigh another of my "exasperated" sighs. It is growing dark
now, and I shall soon need to light the kerosene lamps if I want to see
where I'm going in the far wings of the building. Before long I'll
need to go out into that harsh, crunchy snow and biting cold, so as to
use the outhouse and cart in a few more sticks of firewood. These
are thoughts I can conjure into being inside my mind about the Cabin
itself, and not me as myself. Last time I was out there, there
was a certain wind that really got after the openings I left unguarded
in my outerwear. I decide at last to do these chores, before darkness
makes getting about a real problem. After I've donned the clothing
I know I need, I step out into the fierce "reality" of cold that has probably
dipped to 10 degrees F. The snow is beginning to take on the bluish
hues of evening, when I will be all the more closed up indoors.
My search for the "right" actions to take has surely been enough to
run my mind through repeated motions of little use. I had the vision
in 1997 that the Cabin was about as good as I could want for a spiritual
and emotional undertaking, only I now find myself conducting tasks in these
frozen outbuildings that could be done as effectively at my real life home.
So why do I go on with the effort of intentionally picturing myself alone?
I grab an arm-load of oak from the woodshed and return to the rapidly-darkening
shape of the dwelling, whose front is now fully in shade and casting its
last shadows of the last day of the calendar year. I am certainly
grateful to be back by the fire, for it allows my concerns to be advanced
to other matters that can be handled at a more leisurely pace. This
small indoor space is so quiet now, save for the crackling fire, and I
think ahead to what the night will be like. Perhaps I'll bring my
sleeping bag to a spot on the wooden plank floor, right where I'm sitting
now, rather than having to get out of bed in a cold room.
No, I finally conclude, I will not be "completing any thoughts" this
evening, but then it is known that this is no routine matter. What
background do I have, to be of value as a contemplative, anyway?
It is only the fruits of erudition and rigorous preparation that make measurable
improvement in this already-"full of it" world. But then, there's
still the matter of me--I'm the one who has to live, feel, move
and breathe, as "selfish" as such a statement can be. It is probably
sufficient just to take my comfort and leave it at that. No one is
really asking much more.
"Bo"
Ahead to January 2002
