2 June 2001 -- Life under my own authority
With "meteorological summer" having finally begun, my visit on this
hazy, sort-of-sunny "weekend" day puts me in the mood of those frequent
outings I needed to attend during similar weather as a kid. Since
I was not one for sports or socializing, these picnics, trips to the lake,
or outdoor athletic events invariably became boring, with me sitting
around in a somewhat "stunned" and overheated condition until it was "over".
Obviously, if youth is wasted on the young, then so is "free time".
On my trip up the rapidly-drying two track dirt road this afternoon, I
was left with a sense that I was deliberately "squandering" valuable time
that I could be using for "other things". This must be why the grown-up
folks in my earlier years were so insistent on filling their off-hours
with still more "to do". I suppose what I'm facing today is the sobering
reality of being my own planner, a responsibility that no longer
gives me the option of resenting authority spoken from "on high".
It is fairly warm today; in the upper 70's F, and the clearing seems
to be "inviting" me to sit still and be a passive participant. I
know there's a difference between this and the above-noted "organized"
events, since I am not called to contort my attention in the styles commanded
by communal "recreation". The advantage I have here, besides the
freedom in which I have become increasingly vested as an adult over 30,
is that my system will cooperate on occasion and run at a slower rate than
that of a kid. I do not envy the ones who are parents, and must therefore
enforce the "containment" of such a potent and disruptive source of motion.
In some ways, I have pulled off an ideal stunt in living this way--careful
control over my load of mandatory commitments but liberal indulgence
of discretionary pursuits. Still, I find myself habitually
building elaborate structures of "rules" surrounding matters in which I
have considerable latitude and autonomy, so it's not that ideal.
The hours look ready to pass beneath me as I sit in the chaise lounge
I've set up by the fire ring, as might a family on a camping trip.
The insects are manageable at this point, though I always worry about wood
ticks and poison ivy when I'm out here. This is the tangential
release I have finally been granted in life from that tight orbit of earlier
family compliance and organizational membership. I keep expecting
to hear voices over a bullhorn or PA system, announcing something that
will have to command my attention, or the raucous and apparently-authentic
hoots, screams and joyous guffaws of my fellow "revellers". Surely,
the main event will get under way, or so goes my conditioned response to
out-in-the-open settings. I will eventually have to go back to real
life and put in some time on my various hobbies and other sources of genuine
satisfaction, but for now I'm taking in the still-mild early summer brightness,
as though this, too, could become part of "my favorite things".
Of course, I might just end up going back to my cramped city life to
face more hours that I need to pass as I wait for those "golden" moments
that do not have to be defended as a use of life's span. Try as I
might to build a properly-"stimulating" and "supportive" off-hours platform,
I still encounter those dry spells. Thus, I am left to conclude,
during those times, that living will simply have to "be that way".
Sometimes it gets to such a point that I finally need to re-define the
entire set of my expectations, until something reasonable rises to be a
focus of unseen but true meta-euphoric support. This, really, is
not what I would like as my method of seeking "happiness". This must
explain why my list of potential leisure activities creates such
a high and deep pile. I collect and arrange what might be
a decent configuration of "outlets" for my time off work, but the ploy
never quite "makes it all the way there".
My mind is drifting back again to those forced attendances and compulsory
"entertainment" that so burdened my earlier years. The innocence
that let the older folks look so wise in meting out these obligations is
of course a nearly-vanished artifact, only good as a memory I know as not
being reflective of "truth". Out here in the open, I can see hints
of what "they" might have had in mind, as I look about at the nearby thickets
and distant high forest. It does seem a little "strange" to
have such a land as this to behold, yet nothing in particular to do
in it. After awhile, my self-conscious consideration of my inactive
use of such a bright and invigorating day becomes enough to move me towards
the "brink", the one where a whole process of thought must be abandoned
as "dead end". This, it would seem, could be my own conditioning
practice, pathological though it might appear. This time of anxious
deprivation is bound to have the effect for me that one of those endless
picnics in the early 1970's had for the participants with "normal" responses
and sensibilities. Something will end up happening; thus the
need to sit still for now.
"Bo"
6 June 2001 -- That tiresome single circuit
The weather today is decidedly hot, though the damp foliage left
by the fairly-recent spring rains reminds me that this is not what summer
typically becomes by the time August has arrived. The "undergrowth"
has certainly reached a state of respectable "maturity", giving the nearby
forest the effect of full "enclosure" when combined with the leaves on
the trees overhead. Perhaps I should take a trip upstream to the
waterfall, before I am expressly "overheated" by these temperatures in
the 80's F. I do get to walk around all day in nylon shorts
and cotton T-shirts up here, though, so it is surprisingly liveable indoors
and even in the open areas near the outhouse and woodshed. This is
quite close to the kind of environment I think of when I long for "effortless"
outdoor life in the colder (and hotter) months of the year. Today
I simply decide to crash out on the soft covers of my bunk, with windows
open front and rear. I am rather tired, come to think of it.
I suppose that my state of fatigue really "calls for" something other
than working my few remaining powers of imagination overtime to dream another
installment of this project in sustained solitude. I should simply
"be" when that's all I think I'm "good" for, only it would seem amiss to
neglect one of the factors of my ongoing well-being during the last 4 years
of city life; my conversations and examinations of self in this hollow.
It is interesting, though, to note that doing "nothing" always seems to
take more effort than some of those habitual pastimes that I find suggesting
themselves when I have chance to "relax" in real life. Maybe the
difference is in this dreadful, monotonous monologue, where my internal
"voice" forms the basis for the only available "activity". The case
can certainly be made that this is not the best way to spend my increasingly-precious
time on this earth; in this one, repetitive frame of mind and topic for
discussion.
The critical voice that urges me on to make this a "worthwhile" visit
is unwilling to appreciate the value I have placed in maintaining my one
"place", even if it is an empty one. Were I to uncover the raging
"primal" undercurrent made so popular by the pop psychologists, it would
not be wanting me to spin about in a single, worn track, even if it does
grudgingly accept the similar circuit followed by my ritual of daily routine
in city living. It would be restless and impatient, moving about
as it does in its own "mindless" way, not "sitting down" just because I
"say so". I suspect some of the difficulty with visits like these
is shared with those times I resent in the "rut"--while I have nominal
continuity to my overall life and its basic success and progress, these
behaviors, by definition, have no "redeeming" value when taken on their
own merits. I am only able to tolerate such times as part of the
"larger package", with its allotments of unconditional joy at those "other"
times.
I conclude that this certainly does sound like the way I've "talked
to myself" on many a visit in the past. Unlike mindless occupation
with the media feeds in real life, however, this practice requires me to
take an active role. This could explain why it seems such
vanity; it is one thing to "let something" occupy me in a pointless fashion,
but it is another altogether to work at it. Being detained
by presumably ill-intentioned outside dictation might have a chance at
being the unfortunate result of lesser inspiration, while administering
a course of monotony to myself is clearly "avoidable". Why,
I should be out and about, "doing things" in the woods and perhaps working
on long-term projects, like any good homesteader, farmer, camper or do-it-yourself-er.
Thus it is that I "blame myself" when being alone doesn't seem quite
what the moment called for.
I do like the utter "removal" in this woodland scene today, however,
with the sounds of assorted birds and insects riding atop the rush of the
river that will cool me when it gets hotter. I'm always after a picture
of the "safe" place to unwind, whether that actually happens or not.
Especially when the weather is "in the comfort zone", where I can spend
time without an effort at environmental compensation, I begin to think
I can let down the final remnants of my "guard". Still, the endless
chatter I hear inside my own head today is a sign that I'm still practicing
an extensive level of defense. As I let myself sink into the top
of my down comforter, I do what I can to "take it easy on myself" for these
less-than-ideal contemplative moments. There is always that wondrous
promise, when I hang up my working stance at the door; the one that I might
finally "feel right" when I come to a physical halt.
Well, I am doing far too much "talking"--it's time to "listen"
for awhile instead. That is my pleasure, after all, in sitting before
the tube or browsing online content.
"Bo"
10 June 2001 -- Accepting a gift of solitude
The sun is bright across the clearing today, with temperatures on the
lower edge of what I'd call "hot", though the terrain and its rock-strewn
extent above are always there to suggest something less severe for those
willing to make the 1200-foot vertical climb. A mixture of insects
and floating plant seeds give the air an "active" appearance, with the
obvious metaphor of human society and its chaos of people in motion suggesting
itself. I am out on the chaise lounge again, in the shorter grass
at the edge of the dooryard, wearing nylon shorts, a white cotton T-shirt,
and a dousing of alcohol-diluted DEET from the general store down by the
river in the village. There is something of a refreshing breeze on
call today, and this makes an extended time under the sun a realistic possibility.
My canteen is propped against one of the legs of the lounge, and I remember
to take a drink whenever the slightest thirst presents itself. Thus
do I "beat the heat".
Pulling my boonie hat over my face and shifting to a still-more-comfortable
position on my strategically-located platform, I hold before me the "tangible"
prize of having escaped the intense urban struggle. I know it isn't
as simple as putting the others out of site and collecting the "reward"
that looked so precious when I was shuffled about by the others according
to their arbitrary priorities. I also know, however, that the aesthetics
of this scene always "win" over even the best accommodations for
routing myself through those channels to be "of use" to them. I am
well aware that my need to be a "contributing" member back there in real
life is an ironclad obligation, and it is perhaps this attitude that makes
it so difficult. Commitment that costs more than it returns cannot
be easily converted into something I "want" to do. Even a "win-win"
scenario does not specify that each "win" is of the same amount.
Laying here at altitude with the fine sun upon my tired hulk of a body,
I sense that I have "cheated" the "system" in maintaining my hideaway,
and I suppose I am working something of a "scam". All should
be "equitable", yes, and the man who walks away the better-compensated
from a transaction comes under a natural suspicion of guile. Why,
I'm "depriving" that waiting world of the services I might render in the
grand cause of the greater good. Clearly, there is something
"selfless" I can do for them, for they are worthy and I am not. "But
wait a minute", I ask, "if this is so, then from their standpoint, I am
worthy". Not being a fan of self-negating truths, I cannot live
with this--they need to make up their mind, if they wish to see me party
to their affairs. They demand humility yet state that I am to be
congratulated when I've paid my share. I'm only entitled to what
I won't take.
I feel a bit of dryness at the back of my throat, meaning it's time
to take another swig from the canteen. I'm settled into this
spot, where the heat isn't what it would be if I were in motion on some
chore. The sun finds its way through the fabric of my khaki hat;
there is no provision for darkness up here today. I am guilty of
"desertion", yes, and this is an iniquity that is not available
for the confession of my wretchedness, in the event that I should take
a properly humble and contrite stance. As I reflect upon the amount
of compliance I do exert during my "on duty" hours, I am encouraged
to think I might just be using an expressly-"earned" ration of leisure
time. But I'm drifting from the "selfless" stance whenever I acknowledge
such entitlement. By all justice, I should have been scourged and
put to death at a much younger age, or so goes the theology that invokes
the name of God. No one is "good", save him alone.
Actually, God is a useful intermediary solution to the logical gap that
is left by these mutually-different and contradictory relative assignments
of merit. By signing over the proceeds of each successful transaction
to the implied "maker", each party's receipt of valuable consideration
only appears on a single ledger. None of what I have is really "mine",
so I am not guilty of erroneous and false "pride of ownership" when I make
temporary use of what is available after a session of my dealings.
I suspect, in all truth, that a goodly dose of gratitude is in order
here. I am "allowed" this quiet time, so precious to my heart, but
not because I "earned it" in those raucous dealings in the commercial world;
the outcomes are independent. This would explain the apparent "inequity"
that so bothers me; the structural result of correlation should
be accepted as "good enough", without seeking a self-congratulatory conclusion
that causation has occurred.
"Bo"
14 June 2001 -- A place with plenty of room
There is plenty of heat for today's visit to the hollow, with the kind
of humid haze that makes the far hillsides near the ridge look as though
they're in another section of terrestrial space. The concept of visibility
figures in, even at these non-aeronautical distances, and were I at the
Summit right now, much of the view towards the village would be essentially
"obscured". I'm not in much of a mood for heavy activity on such
a day, though I still enjoy the encompassing "feel" of the warmth as I
stretch out in the hammock below the hemlock pines. I suppose I'm
still getting sweaty, but I have the luxury of lounging about in nylon
shorts and a T-shirt, rather than the full armor of workplace attire.
I will eventually have to go "cool off" under the gravity-fed shower near
the back door, only that time hasn't presented itself as having "come".
I listen to the forceful flow of the river below and the variety of elemental
sounds created by the woodland fauna. It's all right, for now.
These empty acres are my continuing point of reference when I'm made
to run the tight circuits of urban living, and I purposefully "expose"
myself here in ways that I'm not "allowed" to in the milling throng.
It is so quiet, and so "safe", wherever I spend my time around the Cabin,
and this is always the extreme formulation that I self-administer as "antidote"
at the more critical times. It is sad, of course, that I need to
spend sweet, valuable time to have something like this at its current
level of development. Shortages of time lie at the root of a good
many frustrations, during my allotment of the 168 hours of a week.
Anything that is to become a valuable personal resource, however, seems
to require this in my life. I suppose there is a limit to the fraction
of my waking hours that can be unconditionally assigned to "productive"
enterprises, and it is not really all that healthy to attempt work and
leisure at the same time--each "gets in the other's way". Compartments
for my attention must be created, and their boundaries enforced.
How I wish I could just sink back and close my eyes as I have now, whenever
the load gets disagreeable in city life! It would be so much easier
that way, only it seems the imperative of the average "other" person to
move forward in his or her path, with only a cursory consideration of the
effect of such a course. I'm as bad as "they" are, of course, and
probably more so, with my predisposition to consider my own conscious
"feelings". The time I spend leaving room for the others is most
likely interpreted, in a more balanced scheme, as "good citizenship", and
not an unjust privation upon the one man that is myself. Even with
such an "other-directed" view, however, I would still be kept from quiet
and settled times like these in the woods. Though much nobility can
be accorded the man whose heart is gladdened by his helpful behavior, he
is still left with a "load" on his system. Eventually, the effects
of fatigue should find their way to the core of even the most magnanimous
of souls.
My thoughts do not seem entirely "assembled" at this juncture, for I
still have too many remnants of the defensive posture in place. Well,
I am here, and the idea for using time this way is not to
spend hours on end trying to decide just why I had to do so.
The calm clearing, in its haziness, is extended before me on the other
side of the Cabin and its outbuildings. I can go out there if I want
and "open up". Of course, in so doing, I'd be taking measured, deliberate
steps, not this rapid hustle-about that gets me to my appointed stations
in real life. Indeed, I am just as satisfied to be in this hammock
for now, with the branches overhead, for I can start to see myself joined
to the vast terrain if I work at it long enough. It is a great and
comfortable preserve, and I suspect it could even stand the presence of
others, if they were willing to leave me alone.
This, of course, is not the best line of thought to cultivate, since
by such a dichotomy I create classes of "desirable" and "less-desirable"
people. As a general rule, though, I am not yet "over" the problem
of standing at nerve-filled attention whenever the slightest hint of another
person has entered "my space". I suppose I could get away
with a whole lot more carrying on without caring. It is rare, indeed,
that the folks who would lower my quality of life by passing by are really
at all concerned over this matter. I could simply be suffering from
low "self image", or some other "esteem"-based factor. The typical
example of the "normal" population probably wanders about confidently,
saying "I'm sorry" in those actual episodes of unintended trespass.
I really don't like to think the world is that way, but it would
be easier to get along under such a conviction. I sigh deeply as
I turn to one side on the hammock. My world back there in the city
might actually be "overpopulated", if I see others as the hazard
that even I will admit they're not. A wider berth is the reward
of the urbanite who is tactful in his encounters--and avoidances.
"Bo"
18 June 2001 -- Progressing into the night
Having made what I hope is my final trip to the outhouse, I am ready
to declare myself "in" for the night, in my small space away from the mosquitoes
and black flies. The sun has just set, after a very long day on account
of the Solstice being only 3 days away, and it is time to light the two
main kerosene lamps in the kitchen and living room. The heat that
has built up indoors will take some time to leave through the open screen
doors and windows. The need to cover up in bed typically only occurs
in the second half of the night. I get the wicks properly trimmed
and the solemn glow of the flames under way, leaving just enough light
to see my way around. The flashlights are always there, of course,
but they do not produce the same soft "regions" of illumination.
I am rather tired this evening, and I proceed directly to the
soft down cover on my bed, where I hope to be in one place for more
than one moment of time. Eventually, I know, I'll have to find something
to read, this being the "acceptable" "thing to do" in solitude. Television,
on the other hand, would be vulgar and slovenly, since anyone can have
something "force fed" to them like that. Since the lamp light is
so low, I can still see some of the last remnants of the daylight in the
windows, though it is just as easy to tell myself it's fully dark.
I decide to practice a bit of the old "relaxation" technique, the one where
I consciously "let go" of my assorted muscles. Since I only arrived
in the truck a couple hours before I started settling in, I am left with
much of my tension from the city. As I proceed, the bunk rises to
meet me, as opposed to my sinking into it. I am on my back, fully
aware of this nightfall.
The pine panelled walls, reflecting a slight glint here and there from
the lamps, have resumed some of their wintertime prominence, now that the
outdoor world has grown so featureless to human eyes. I am aware
of the number of nocturnal creatures starting off on their work in the
surrounding woods--the opportunistic raccoon, the tentatively-active fox
and the occasionally visiting mountain lion. Black bear, too, I'd
expect to see, were I sufficiently diligent in my outdoor work, only I
know that "my place" at present is inside this dwelling, where I have a
substantial amount of "control". There are the ones, of course, who'd
think tonight plenty good for "sleeping under the stars", and with so little
in the way of a moon, they'd get quite a view from the clearing.
I, on the other hand, tend to enjoy having the firmament a little closer
at hand at such an hour.
I sigh, in a long, deliberate continuation of those abdominal breathing
procedures. This is unquestionably "authentic", even if I
am indoors. I begin to run through the choices of what I might
decide to read on a night like this. Maybe something that tells of
timeless truth, instead of the period-dependent techno-thrillers that have
so much in common with my real life. There's always the Bible,
too, that source I find myself leaning so easily upon when "original" answers
are in short supply. Perhaps, indeed, I should do some work on building
my internal spiritual reserve--things have been slacking off a little in
that department lately. I continue finding "my place" in the soft
cover of this bed, as the lamps also continue on along the course they've
been assigned. I am just one man, thinking he really makes
a difference. How could that ever be?
My mind is drifting back in time again, to those vacations spent "up
north". Those were the lands where the aurora might appear, causing
a person to embody something of the coniferous taiga or even the tundra,
where the sun does not set at this time of year. The world seemed
so much bigger back then, 30 and more years ago. Endless miles
would be spent on open 2-lane highways, with thirty miles between villages
the size of the one just downstream, with everything so bold and inviting
to a kid sitting near the campfire. I know this is pointless nostalgia
for a period that had its own share of social unrest and communal angst.
I will never put things back quite the way they were. Time
moves on in just one direction, and I should not belittle the urban dwellers
who succeed in providing an outdoors of true enchantment for those properly
outfitted by youth or by imagination.
What do I choose to read tonight? I can see, and without
using my eyes, that there is plenty "written" in the jumbled and time-revised
contents of my own memory. I will just let things coast for awhile,
as now an owl assumes its station on a nearby tree branch. I might
as well rejoice, as do anything else.
"Bo"
22 June 2001 -- Participating in this day
The sun has only been up a couple of hours this morning, but already
the atmosphere feels warm and humid in the area of the Cabin compound.
It's not that there's truly intense solar input at this point, with
a hazy sort of overcast that "puts a lid" on things. Instead, the
raw power of the season and the recency of yesterday's Solstice are enough
to achieve the effect on their own. As I lay heavily upon the chaise
lounge near the fire ring, gazing from beneath the brim of my boonie hat,
I notice the visible dew upon the abundant vegetation that carpets the
open floor of the hollow. There is that rather primal "rural" feel
to these surroundings, which are not the explicit work of landscape company
crews. I take this opportunity to witness the great success of plant
life in "furnishing" this forest.
I suspect that some of this haze will burn off by mid day, thought I
still expect to have a feeling of containement "within the dome" of this
immediate locale. It is a sensation that prompts me to slow down
and live with a little more care for myself. "Supposedly," goes the
invitation, "I am neglecting a great, noble and self-sustaining 'mission'
when I make myself run about in circles in the city". I let myself
sink a little more efficiently into the padded cover of the chaise lounge,
attempting to take my hands off of controls that have been operated beyond
reasonable limits in recent times. There is a simple, though
possibly "complacent" way of enjoying life on its most basic merits, and
at times like these I do get close. This setting, so removed
by distance and the relative impenetrability of the woods, establishes
a fine incubator for those moments when I am willing and able to
"sit myself down".
I look to the hills as they rise in the distant haze, in their variety
of expressed shades of green and green-yellow. I am at another of
those moments where "color" is almost to the point of having "nutritional
value", though I know I'm just in one of my modes--or moods.
The sun is affirming its presence a little more fully now, bringing the
entire sky to a golden-grayish-silver glow. It is far more than just
damp air up there today. I can imagine that it is hot
in the city today, and I am grateful for this perch at 3765 feet above
those squalid coastal aggregations. This is still what I'd call marginally
"bearable" over the long term; somewhere around 80 degrees F. There
has been enough sun lately to dry up most of the mud left over from spring,
even if the dew and humidity keep the overall situation from being completely
dry. I feel the diffuse enclosure of this day's warmth, and I have
little desire to be up and strenuously about.
Perhaps the air is acting to attenuate sound, for it seems satisfyingly
quiet outside today. I hear a certain amount of insect noise,
as well as the river in the distance below, only these do not seem to belong
to the "same" space as my own. I do believe I've succeeded in entering
a personal capsule, or "coccoon", as the folks used to say in the 1980's.
It is upsetting, of course, to think that all of this is here simply because
the meanderings of my neurotransmitter levels have been properly "aligned".
I should rather like to believe that there are underlying principles of
splendor that I carry wherever I go, and they have seen fit to emerge this
time, at least, while I'm here alone in the hollow. I recognize that
I run the risk of embracing some of those post-modern theories of "energy",
"resonance", "synergy" or "harmony" when I resort to such an explanation
for encouragement, and I must remind myself of just what premises are workable
in a mind that claims to be "rational".
Closing my eyes to this wide open scene that is still "mine" to enjoy,
I picture myself as a conduit for the "radiant good" that gives such a
good answer to the hard times in my real life. Perhaps I can improve
my efficiency and capacity as a Franciscan "channel" of that "peace".
Of course, my ongoing pursuit of personal consolation is not "right" for
one who should seek instead to console, only I'll take what comes my way
if it causes such a sense of "completeness". It becomes clear at
moments like these that something is being "propagated" when my
better sensibilities are provisioned and enriched by environs as calm and
comforting as these. The antagonized man is little good to anyone,
including himself. I suppose the true "good" in all of this is not
the subject matter of my personal convictions and affirmations,
but rather that I can have such certainty at all. This is
how doubt is dispelled; by those powers (to borrow an "energy"-related
word) that are clearly outside of any of us. I see I am still connected
today, even in this refuge. All is indeed one.
"Bo"
26 June 2001 -- Options for a tired man
It looks to be another "authentic" summer day up here in the hollow
this morning, where the advancing sun promises to remove the "obvious"
water from the grass, vines and shrubs and leave a lingering humidity in
the various parts of the thicket. The insect noise is on the increase,
though certainly nothing like it will be in August, and a number of birds
of assorted vocation call forth from the nearby trees in the ravine.
I am outside in the dooryard, wondering exactly what I'll do today.
The thought has crossed my mind that I could climb the rough trail to the
5040-foot summit, since it isn't oppressively hot today. I
know that was once a greater inclination of mine, and something I wouldn't
debate like this. I keep thinking that some wonderful and sublime
opportunity to "be still and know" will come along, if only I plant myself
in one place and lower my overhead of ongoing projects. I am also
aware that it is something of a vain and ironically-tragic struggle to
chase after those moments, regulated as they are by a corps of muses that
require ongoing upkeep and appeasement.
What I see before me, therefore, is a day that shall be consigned to
work, unless one of those random bestowals of "something for nothing"
comes my way. Really, since I have the definitive beauty of these
woods before me, I should be able to absorb a goodly dose of well-being
simply by looking about me. Pleasure suffuses the typical day of
the living, anyway, or so the media would have us believe, barring unforseen
misfortune. I should stand directly in the path of this mighty flow
and subtend a significant flux of that "better way" of feeling. Thus
I recognize one of the defining themes of my life and my behavior--the
unending search for emotional enrichment and carefree recreation.
I seek external influences that "entertain" unequivocally, in something
of a pharmaceutical fashion, only this time by adjusting the passive aesthetics
of my surroundings.
Supposedly, the repeatedly-recognized "reality" of these private acres
so far from the others should "do it". Standing here with the sun
working its way towards local noon, I pause to consider that aspect
of the hollow and the Cabin. It takes a conscious effort to build
something of an intelligible "picture" of just where I am, so I take my
mind from that pursuit to attempt entry to a mode of awareness that depends
more on what I actually can see. I meander past the outhouse
and the woodshed, to the hammock under the stand of pine, where I take
a load off of my feet. I'm still thinking I can "happen upon" some
trove of that joyful mood that enters without invitation, even if it leaves
by the same process. The picture enters my mind again of placing
myself into a "flow" driven from the outside, as a person might experience
one of the occasional breezes that come along or the cold water of the
river while wading.
I could be entirely at fault for using such a method for feeling
"right" with myself, since so many of those times in real life occur within
the interstices between bouts of hard labor. I should have
a whole schedule and course of activity for my time up here at the Cabin.
That way, I'll have "something to do" between the erratic arrivals of pleasurable
occupation. This just doesn't seem "right", though--the better-endowed
among my "peers" would not support the view that life is an embodiment
of pain, kept bearable by a sprinkling here and there of joy. I must
admit, too, that I my apparently-sovereign disposition is not consistent
with such a pessimistic standard. If only I would stand up for what
could be mine, I would get it. Standing up, though, is not
what I "feel like" doing at the present moment. I just want to be
out here in the far-removed woods, breathing this fine air and being held
in the exuberant "arms" of all the growth, undergrowth and overgrowth that
are my "walls".
My thoughts are not conforming to much of a direction, and I may thus
"fail" on account of my lack of cognitive "discipline". I am left
in something of a discouraged mood when I do not see the underlying and
inherently-beautiful patterns that would redeem the irritation and chaos
that appear whenever I "open the tap" in real life. With little before
me that I can do, therefore, I lay in this hammock, waiting for that next
parcel to come my way, the one that will occupy me without condition.
I know there is a lot more that I could be experiencing that way,
if only I weren't so tired out from fending off the insults and injuries
of standing in the urban fray. I am left to grasp at straws from
the great loft of forbidden fodder, taking what will sustain from the charitably-kind
world of true endowment.
Well, there is the quiet, and there is the predictability
of being "left alone". For now, I'll continue playing this game of
chance in which I sit still and wait for a winner. I have the excuse
of being a mortal man who can only go so far before he needs this kind
of time out. Mortality, indeed, is the common condition that may
forge my affinity at last with the greater whole.
"Bo"
30 June 2001 -- A return to proper basics
The heat of mid-day has prompted me to begin working my way down to
the edge of the cooling waters of the river, for a good soaking.
This is no small task, given the quantity of wild shrubs, seedlings and
vines that fill in the area below the bottom-land aspen and willow that
occupy their locations among the strewn and crumbled granite rocks.
I take my time in this kind of terrain, since nothing was ever set up for
my "convenience" in the style of one of those currently-fashionable "water
parks". Since it is so hot, I decide to let my feet have a
preview in their open sport sandals as I use the river itself as my "trail".
The overhanging branches are so many in number that I end up hearing
the waterfall before I see it, but I'll take what encouragement I can get.
Soon, I am beside the roughly-arranged boulders, taking in the spray and
becoming ever more courageous in "getting into" the water as a general
policy.
This particular "hang-out" has the distinct advantage of its own source
of "noise" to occupy my mind and remove those annoying reminders of what
lies "outside". I guess I'll be up at the Cabin for some time today,
possibly spending the night, so I shouldn't be feeling that singular "dread"
of upcoming obligation in real life until later. I splash more water
on myself, rubbing down sweaty, overheated arms and legs so as to experience
a renewed dignity as a living, thriving creature who wears nylon shorts
and nothing else. "This is the way it should be," I assure
myself. Those other matters aren't going anywhere, if they're truly
mine to worry about. I soak my hair in the river water, creating
what has to be the most refreshing feeling of all. This place will
take care of me, even if it means I have a number of chores to manage in
the simple matter of maintaining a simple dwelling.
Thinking at last of the open, sun-baked spaces near the Cabin building,
I take my final "dose" of the flow of the river, with its curiously-"correct"
chill for the former run-off from above. I then don my polyester
blend T-shirt and step squishingly back into my sandals for the return
downstream. When I see the first signs of a lesser foliage density
above and on the right, I know I'm near the clearing, so I begin boosting
my way up the moderately-steep side of the ravine. It is only when
I reach the woods' edge that I know I have my place of "residence" at hand,
and the intense sun overhead does not let any of it get "lost" in the shadows.
Watching as always for poison ivy, I work my way through the broken rock
and assorted nettles of the upper clearing, until I am at last in the beaten-down,
"developed" area near the front entrance.
I walk to the clearing-side wall of the Cabin, where I enter the conspicuously
aromatic perimeter established by the stained cedar siding. I look
under the eaves, wondering if I might wind up with another wasp's nest
there this year. The few stray plants that grow near the base of
the fieldstone foundation are hardly at the emaciated stage belonging to
a "real" drought, only this could well be the start of such a dry spell.
I walk to the back porch, where there is a certain quantity of shade, and
I have a seat in my still-wet shorts. I finally realize that I'd
like to lean back, so I move in next to the kitchen wall and plant my back
carefully among the clapboard edges. I take a long, sighing breath
as I attempt to see my way into the tree-choked ravine before me.
The river sound is still there, only I can hear a good bit more at this
distance. The forest, after all, is the main player, and the
stream is only its lower, definitively-placed oddity.
I am finally dry enough to regain my awareness of just how hot it is
today. A good portion of my frantic frustration has judiciously shut
itself down on such a day, only my sense of fatigue has stood to profit
from the temperatures near 90 degrees F. When I feel cool enough
to withdraw from the open, moving air, I rise carefully and enter the open
back screen door, delighting in the way it bangs shut. Here we have
that wonderfully-remote, "nature center" propriety, with the wooden tones
of the kitchen and a rustic, "cottage"-like decor that is not part of the
world of expedience. It may as well be 1969. Though I'm still
wet, I stretch myself out on the sofa, knowing I'll be here for awhile.
I practice a bit of abdominal breathing as I listen to the birds and insects
through the window screens. I suppose I'm really nothing more than
a "tourist" on a "mini-vacation", but then my "other self" never gets so
close to becoming an authentic part of the landscape.
It is beginning to feel warm again in here, but then what do
I expect at this time of year? This is as it should be.
"Bo"
Ahead to July 2001
