4 March 2001 -- Unavoidably a member
The atmosphere outside on this cold day of continued winter is certainly
somber enough to serve as a backdrop for my latest effort towards "simplicity".
Though I could go for a walk in the snow and see my share of new sights
(or old sights in new ways), it is easy enough to lump the forest together
into a single presence; a "given" that may be safely categorized and generally
left to itself. A light flurry has been in the air all morning, and
I have to wonder if a real dumping might be on its way. This current
snow, as I see it from my position inside the front window, seems "unrelated"
to the "other" kind of snow whose "goal" is accumulation and not simple
persistence. Its main property is one of cold; rather than
one of water. This "dusting" has done its job, however, in
converting the old, crusty and previously melting ground cover into something
that begins to suggest what real snow would look like, if given
its chance to set up shop.
I rise from the sofa to build up the fire a bit, and I linger nearby
in the plush armchair until the chill inspired by that bleak atmosphere
of swirling crystals is finally persuaded to leave. "I really have
reduced everything to a nice, limited set of basics," I tell myself in
a tone of congratulation mixed with sullen irony. I think to the
many times I have wondered about the population at large; the "normal",
with their easily-achieved levels of possession, enrichment and endowment.
I am spared the sight of "them" today, in their annoying expressions of
"the good life". I simply am, and everything else is out of
sight and increasingly out of mind, though I know this to be a shameful
and potentially-abusive obsession with "self" that I could ultimately regret.
My goal, therefore, is to take the symbol that marks "center" and move
it away from myself in the picture I have of all that is, but without the
pain of conforming to the needs of a group. There have to
be satisfying realities outside of myself that do not command blind obedience.
I can see at this juncture, however, that I am assuming an implicit-yet-real
membership in one or more of those "dissident" opinion-centers that decry
"collective" living and majoritarian tyranny, uttering their strident assertions
of the supremacy of the "individual". Why, they even form
themselves into "groups" of their own, only in the sense of a very loose
confederation. "Unity" is a conspiracy to these folks, a "big lie"
meant to placate the many as they are unsuspectingly exploited by their
charismatic and vocal "leaders".
I don't know--this certainly is an embittered outlook to have,
for a man who just wanted to "get away" for awhile. Here I am, systematically
eliminating every "way" I could possibly "be" from the list, on account
of the hypocrisy and deceptive practice found in the more institutionalized
versions. I can see why the "happily associated" members of the collective
can persist as they do. Such a multitude is well-managed by panderings
that contain the essentials of "simple pleasure", ones that can be packaged
cheaply and distributed to all. Since they are, indeed, "the people",
"they" aren't even being "abused", since the opinion mongers tell them
what they, as "naturally aligned" humans should, and therefore want,
to hear. From such a standpoint, there is no malfeasance in any of
this. The spiritual commentators correctly witness grand and glorious
"kingdom"-building, and the regal proportions are clearly present.
Still, I get the sense that any submission that constitutes "going
along" is "not for me", to quote the venerable Gershwin lyric of the previous
century. I have begun my visit today with a generalized statement
of disdain for any collective, whether major or minor, yet the inevitable
truth is that "it has all been said". I cannot avoid the entanglements
and course requirements of belonging to at least one, and most likely a
great many, "schools". At least I get to go back to a real world
in which pluralism is an element of national tradition and pride.
I am "allowed" to be as "I am" back there in city life, though the "average"
person might ask "but why?"
I look out the front window again, having been substantially warmed
by the fire. The snow is picking up, and I will soon have
a new "reality" to deal with. Feeling a rare bond with the "unified"
urban mainstream, I long for some of those "cheap"-yet-"authentic" thrills,
the ones that satisfy them the way my more expensive playthings
do not. I suppose my problem could well be that I'm envisioning the
trivial case of "unity" as one man, when "membership" indeed has
its "privileges". As "strange" as I might be, I still have countless
"brethren" among the staggering extent of this earthly giga-lopolis, and
some of them may be wondering what happened to me today.
"Bo"
8 March 2001 -- A gradual yet certain progress
The twice-annual "conflict" between summer and winter has now entered
its preliminary stages. The ground cover in the hollow, which still
exhibits drift patterns from the last snowfall, is preparing to meet a
day of bright, new sun and temperatures above freezing. I'm in one
of my familiar and practiced poses, the one where I look over the back
of the sofa and through the front window. I suspect I'd see plenty
of evidence of the imminent arrival of foliage on the tree branches, only
they are off in the distance, at the base of the hillside. The principal
impression of the clearing that comes from this viewpoint is one of a rocky
surface with an assortment of wintering shrubs, emerging as the snow melts
off. Life in its more affirmative expression requires closer inspection.
I finally decide that I will go for a walk out there, and since
I don't have a crushing schedule to make me rush, I figure I'll just take
my time and enjoy the fresh air. I carefully make ready my outer
protective wear, beginning with my well-waxed heavy leather boots.
I am thinking ahead to the days to come when I will work my bare feet in
the patches of dust near the front porch. I leave my parka hood lowered
and the zipper at half-position, then head out the door with a steaming
cup of coffee from the stove. The bright, crisp air greets me with
the tonic effect I had expected. I take a deep breath and move casually
into the open space.
I suppose I do want to walk out to the trees and see what stage
the seasons have reached, so I begin my outbound journey through the 6
- 8 inches that are left after the recent meltings. Since I have
had no real reason to clear a path to the trails heading up the slopes,
the snow is generally undisturbed in the area of the dooryard and the fire
ring. I am aware that there could still be rocks large enough to
twist my ankle under the wind-swept surface, so I make each step with tentative
caution. This is no city street, with pavement for one's shoes to
match the pavement for one's automobile tires. Noting the density
of the scrub, I properly recognize this land as a continuation of the woods
as a whole, where I crawl about as a creature that has no need to "be to"
some distant place. There is just point A, and no point B.
I continue in my casual ascent of the gentle rise in elevation as I
cross the open space of well-lit cold and patiently-persistent shrubs and
woody vines. I can see the substantial 3-rock cairn that I have built
at the main trailhead, and it satisfies my initial inquiry to note the
beginnings shown in the buds of a single aspen sapling at the woods' edge.
At this time of year, the foliage still looks relatively "open", and I'm
trying to "paint in" this rough framework with the overgrowth of leaves
that will be here by the time May has come. I turn to begin my trip
back, placing the Cabin again in my view. Because it is still morning,
the vermilion-stained siding catches a full component of incident sunlight,
and I am aware of how this structure "stands out" in the backdrop of white
snow and dark brown trees.
I decide on a slightly-different path for the return trip, one destined
to meet the roadway near its point of exit from the woods. I can
see that I have now succumbed to my habitual tendency to have somewhere
to be "going", though the immediate concerns of this rough landscape are
enough to put a decent restraint on any resolve or driving push to "get
there". I feel myself moving gradually into the central run that
defines the upper hollow, along the pathway that water will approximate
when all of this melts off in a few weeks. This isn't a maddening
rush; no--it is an acquiescence to the "way" something should move
along these contours. When I finally reach the deepened and muddied
furrows of the vehicle tracks, I look at a couple more trees, then advance
upward along the road.
I suppose the word that occurs to me now more than any other is "contrast"--between
winter and summer, the snow and these structures, the barren scene and
the lush one that is guaranteed to "win". I finally reach the front
porch and take my last deep breaths of this air, full as it is with the
feeling of change. The "motion" implied here is a broad, sweeping and majestic
course of "comfortable" transition, the kind that will support a human
being's need for "rest" along the way. I like being "planted" up
here today along the riverside, and I do not look forward to my abrupt
re-introduction to those tight-but-necessary urban maneuvers. Spring
is taking its time, and so will I.
"Bo"
12 March 2001 -- Splendor is fully at hand
I am uplifted by the golden sun upon the clearing this morning, though
it is still cold enough to retain a fair amount of snow. I always
look forward to that point in the year when it is generally clear that
the "harder" times of winter are at an end, even if the compromise is that
I must then live with a month or so of mud. Sitting out on the front
porch chair with temperatures soon to reach 50 degrees F, I am given over
to a certain encouragement, with such a strong suggestion that the "turning
point" is near. This is the time of morning when the sun is high
enough to be out of my eyes but still on "this side" of the Cabin building.
I am left with the feeling of ambient warmth as I sit within the diffused
light from the brightly-stained clapboard siding, and even the patches
of snow near the edge of the porch are contributing their small, reluctant
share.
Out here on this protracted visit to the open air, I am tempted to close
my eyes and live entirely on the sounds of this near-spring hollow.
The few birds that have arrived and the warmer breeze that moves through
the taller trees in the ravine have transformed the ongoing sound of the
river into something new and exciting. What was once the defiant pronounciation
of water with the freedom to move in an otherwise-frozen world has turned
into a reminder that everything is now in a deeply-soaked state of preparation.
It is like the protocol of a 3rd grade science student, purposefully germinating
seeds in a ready-made growing medium. When the chill breeze catches
my face in a setting like this, I am not so quick to head for the door.
The year is opening wide, and the fine, outdoor life that was central to
the dream is about to be made a reality.
I finally step inside and open the windows for a brief spell, thinking
this to be just the kind of air I want to "air out" the unavoidably-stale
interior of the Cabin building. This, of course, is an important
aspect of life in a "camp"--the ubiquity of outdoor air as a complement
to rustic indoor spaces. Soon, however, it has grown cold enough
in the living room to re-seal my "enclosure," at which time I plop myself
into the deep coverings on my rough-hewn bunk. "I saw, heard and
smelled it with my own respective senses," I say to myself--"a new season,
with every promise of a fullness of memorable events." It sure would
be something, if I could specialize my routine to the pursuit of
life's essential "feeling" in a place like this, though I know in practice
I cannot always summon such deep contemplation on demand.
Resting in this room that is lit by such a reassuring sun, I savor the
pleasure I'd know if I could live that "full" life, without needing to
pull my economic weight according to the overarching yoke of the "system"
and its disciplinary management. On this visit, here and now, I am
given over to a powerful temptation to "let it all slide" back there in
the realm of my accountability, just so that I may establish another solid
connection with what is truly bright and good while I'm still well
enough to hold it without flinching my mind's eye. It is ironic and
even cruel that I am heartily advised to learn the fine points of rest
and relaxation, only as a part-time effort. The proponents
of these systems of preservation generally tell me that when it's time
to let myself loose, I cannot be bound by something so transient and superficial
as career or even social contacts, but then it's not their mess
to clean up when so much is left to hit the floor.
I can sadly recognize the voice of the "me first" types in the invitation
that is before me, the one that would have me running off into the open
spaces in the unrestrained style of the protagonist in Peter and the
Wolf. But what "good" is the light of day; the birds in the emergent
trees; the onset of warmth and growth for a new year, if I must ration
it out in careful doses, and not embrace it fully? This is
an interesting "problem", since I have typically complained about a compulsion
to work, and not to "goof off". In the process of my own growth and
awakening, I should be glad that I have recaptured some of the splendor
that came with spring in the temperate latitudes as a pre-pubescent.
My heart is indeed made heavy, though poignantly so, when I remember just
what "goes along" with living to see the promise of these bright new days.
"Freedom", like "love", has many strings attached.
"Bo"
16 March 2001 -- No choice but to endure
I "sit out" the morning on my living room sofa, as a chill rain insists
on being present up here in the hollow. I should really be grateful
that the snow is nearly gone as a result of these sustained warmer conditions,
only I am having difficulty seeing clearly ahead to those unquestionably
warm and bright days of May through September. I'm guessing it's
not far above freezing right now, and though the sun has been up for some
time, it doesn't figure much into my overall impression of the local woodland.
With the fireplace burning and both kerosene lamps lit, I seek my solace
in colors other than those of the forest, which is convincingly dark and
grey by contrast outside the windows.
I know, of course, that spring rains are "a good thing", especially
when I recall scenes of late summer drought that I've witnessed with my
own eyes. All throughout the hillsides and the clearing, the water
is running through, a signal that things are in motion again. I don't
really have to wait to see the rainbow to be convinced of "divine mercy".
It would be noticeably harder to entertain such thoughts, however, if I
were simply holed up in a tent with a wet floor or trapped in the clammy
front seat of a vehicle with rapidly-fogging windows. I "get to"
be in this warm, sturdy shelter instead, to be fully dry and indulgent
in the luxury of idle ponderings.
I can see, therefore, that this is another of those days to "sit out"
the best I can, keeping in mind the longer-term perspective that I am sure
to recount as a summary in the more distant future. I lean back into
the upholstery of the sofa and prop my bare feet up on the coffee table.
Even this motion is enough to disturb the lamp flame on the nearby stand.
The rain, I now realize, is strong enough to be heard, both on the
roof and in the edge of the clearing near the window. It is a sound
that I could embody and embrace, especially in these well-furnished quarters,
a sign that even entire days can pass with this level of atmosphere
and not end up "counting". Indeed those brighter days are sure to
have other "problems" all their own, so there is little to make one moment
that much "better than" another.
I take a certain comfort in my ongoing ability to persist through any
and all situations, with an eye on the larger, overall goals that are implicit
in this admittedly "interesting" life. Indeed, I realize the interpretation
of blessing that I can derive from these "unremarkable" days, the
ones that arrive in such large number. It is like a waking state
of partial sleep, to find my way through the dark and the rain, and it
really isn't much of an "effort", either--just sit tight and let time pass.
I doubt I can compare any of this to being tempted in the desert or hardened
in a real "wilderness", for my initial premises remove too many
of the complicating factors that would cause me to cave in. For hard
trials,
I need only get back in the truck, return to the city and start attending
to "business" in my real life.
The rain continues in its gentle sound-pattern on the roof sheathing,
which diverts it all away from my face. This is a human dwelling,
and not a part of the woods, though I typically see it as less "stressful"
than the places I'm made to "sit out" that other life, the one whose features
are decidedly more pronounced and provocative. I am apparently being
called to establish a threshold for "what I'll endure", since I am not
out there on one of the rain-soaked granite rocks right now, cowering perhaps
in a poncho and field coat. I have postulated some sort of "model";
a utopian prescription, for the place without pain. Since I do not
have access to such a refuge in the world of real flesh, I can only know
it as a component of an overall package; a brokered peace; a compromise
of small and distributed joys.
I know it is an innacuracy to see "injustice" in this "hand" I've "been
dealt". As in the Old Testament, God makes it to rain on the good
and the bad alike; it is no curse to be caught in the downpour. Since
one's perception of the divine is noticeably keener in times of real
temptation, I can imagine there to be a higher-order appropriateness to
my being barred from absolute comfort on earth. Still, I take in
what rations I can from this wondrous and satiating source of distilled
peace and "pleasure". I know from spending nearly 40 years on this
earth that more will arrive tomorrow and the day after, if only I maintain
my patience and stay halfway alert.
"Bo"
20 March 2001 -- Laboring to be still
It is something of a "blah" day outside this afternoon, which is strange
in view of the vernal equinox having arrived at 13:14 UTC. Of course,
with the snow melted off and temperatures that only require a light jacket,
one could argue that change has been happening in great abundance, and
this could well be the most rapid point in a months-long process.
Having seen my share of much faster "motion" in the cyclical procedures
of daily urban life, I am glad to have this moment to be at rest, even
if the outdoor surroundings are not the kind that result in overwhelming
inspiration. "Yes," I tell myself, "it's inescapably 'spring'", but
those romantically-embellished representations of this event in the arts
are obviously motivated in part by a desire to sell to an audience.
I suppose I am doing myself a disservice by embracing these empty times
and building an existence, complete with modes of "comfort", around the
"unchanging". It is rather like I am a "cruder form" of human life
when I cannot (or choose not) to adapt to high-frequency social phenomena.
I hear on the one hand the voice of the conservatives, proclaiming the
fine and triumphant condition that has been in place for as long as their
own beliefs have been known, while their opposition is quick to
tie into more "universal" human properties, the ones "known to the ancients".
It is not my intention to join a "faction", for then I will be made
to swallow inevitable unpleasantness as a part of my membership.
I just want to feel at ease and to enjoy a mellowed-out form of well-being
as I sit in these woods during my few off-moments.
Still, the opinion mongers and salesmen of pertinent goods are after
me, so long as there is economic breath left in my tired old self.
They see me as I contend among the many, thinking, "there goes someone
who just might buy our line," as if I were actively shopping for
a lifestyle to adopt. "No, it is only coincidence that causes
such an impression," I say in defense. I have an agenda that is more
directed by what it is not. I see my unfortunate tendencies
to "overdo it" in the marketplace as attempts at something I should really
be finding without having to lay out cash and enter various new and renewed
realms of worldly responsibility. There must be a "pure" form
of contentment that needs no "props"--it only "makes sense". Yet
every one of my attempts to approximate and approach this singular font
of joy "comes out" as an obvious target for the mass-market panderers.
It is strange, I suppose, that a life that has as its ideal a great
and glorious absence should take such an outpouring of effort.
Why, even concentrating on central definitions such as this begin to "cost",
in terms of resources taken from safe retention in a great and precious
reserve. Given this model, it becomes clear that I'm not really seeking
emptiness or vacancy as a general principal. The correct sentiment
is instead one of conservation, a word that tosses me a fair distance
towards the ones who "conserve"--the conservatives. I am apparently
doing all I can to keep some form of precious substance from bleeding off,
as might the technicians aboard a spacecraft whose internal atmosphere
has sprung a leak. The hatches, obviously, must be kept at their
tightest, in the harsh environs of a world I was not designed to inhabit.
There is hardly much I want to do on this visit today, except
to slow down and eliminate my "wasted" motion. I wish to form a centralized,
and if ultimately necessary, self-centered incorporation of least
cost, though I know I'll eventually be knocked off of this center by some
new attraction in city living. Perhaps what I'm dealing with is not
really a stable point towards which I will readily converge. The
extent of my artificial maneuverings could well be the all-too-visible
signs of a propped-up absurdity. Still, I see the hucksters coming
my way, even as I engage in this folly--they could just be seeing
an undersupplied consumer who's ready for more. I will be glad when
I can find a circle of worldly support that does not carry the perceived
threat of alien and repugnant ideas along with its resupply.
For now, however, I will regard them all with caution, despite the
majesty of the fully-open market, for I am not yet convinced there is any
place among them as livable as here in these virtual woods, in the presence
of this laboriously-fashioned, teetering centerpiece I call a "contented
soul".
"Bo"
23 March 2001 -- A most sufficient setting
I have returned to my small, hidden space up here in the hollow on a
night that is decidedly cold for being so close to the month of
April. There is no moon tonight, yet the surrounding outdoor areas
are well represented in my awareness, if only because of vividly-available
memories. Sometimes, night falls and everything seems "foreign" and
suddenly foreboding, without any real continuity with the day, only now
I am witnessing the triumph of my "sense of place". This wilderness
and my outpost within it have become extensions of my identity. Though
I'm not figuring on actually going "out there" on such a night, the hillsides,
the outcrop summits and the clearing are all contributing to a majestically
complete context for a "shut in" evening in front of the fire.
I suppose it says something about just "where I am", when my conscious
process "finds room" to consider a larger setting than just the sofa, the
hearth and my bunk. While I still enjoy my admittedly "sedentary"
protocol of coming here to collapse in a heap, this particular "heap" needs
its implied involvement in the larger, immensely diverse and detailed "heap"
that is the mountain range. It is rather easy to call this "frivolous",
since my attention should ideally be placed closer to where I actually
reside. Critics could also say that I am trivializing the many special
"details" of these woods, which I tend to use as a metaphoric "prop", and
not a true-to-life literary approximation of the wild.
I do enjoy being here tonight in this profound quiet, though,
and the scene is made complete whenever I look into the darkness outside
the window. I stretch out on the sofa as I so often do, letting my
vision move from target to target indoors. It's all as I have come
to picture it, this self-contained and openly-connected living room, bedroom
and kitchen. It is a tangible unit, a sovereign entity.
I can see why the mental image of all those trees has figured so greatly
in forming the "operating theory" of the Cabin. There are miles of
"real" trees, rocks and waterways that "let me" insert this small "developed"
complex, then go on with their "business". I like the thought of
a dwelling so serene in its outer character that its interface to the land
is as gradual as that of the various grasses and shrubs that I will see
when day returns.
I know I could not prevail, however, if this structure did not present
a sense of being "special", "noteworthy" and perhaps even "daring".
This is clearly a "stunt", this hiding out at the top of the 4.1-mile dirt
road beyond the gate. I can tell that I am after some sort of "bragging
rights", for successfully establishing "something" in the midst of "nothing".
The model of this forest is indeed a shallow one, and I am probably after
little more than the gratification of a quiet settling-in where it is truly
quiet. This leads me to wonder what other forms of "insulation"
might "work", especially in my real life in the suburban sprawl.
I can cut myself off, as is my practice, from the typical load of social
obligations and personal interaction, but the various "feeds" to those
sources remain right at hand, which means I'm actively "ignoring" them.
So, it has become established that I will cherish the picture of a man
encapsulated, only in woods that he exploits for their vast and empty linear
spaces, and not in a romantic, "communal" experience that might also be
found in one the larger urban parks. I have set forth the distances
as they are, between myself and the others, so that I may operate my solitary
mechanism without danger of perturbing influences. I can remind myself
of the many times I've been "out there", crawling up the trails and laying
in the grass, only these are combined into the collective of a larger,
faceless backdrop on this dark evening. What matters is that I can
continue to turn on my axis, like a flywheel on perfect bearings that has
shaken its cyclical loadings for the preferred state of running free.
It will soon be time for bed, and indeed, that piece of furniture is
not far from sight in this single room. I have found a niche in these
woods of largely mathematical definition that will sustain profound and
uncomplicated rest. On this night, I begin to see my discernment
of justice fall behind in issuing injunction against my behavior.
It is fully possible that, when more of my "conscience" has returned, that
this will all look like an amazing exercise in foolhardy idleness, made
into its own self-proclaimed "cause". This is what "works", however,
and I am loathe to disrupt a finely-tuned process that takes any
amount of the "edge" off of day-to-day contention in the city's harsh buffeting
and arbitrary deprivation. Indeed, I have found my "space", and I
continue on towards the finality of sleep in this wondrous quiet.
"Bo"
27 March 2001 -- The same old light, seen anew
Spring is doing an admirable job in its attempts to be "known" in the
hollow this morning, and since the tide of the seasons is in its favor,
I have no doubt that any difficulties it has with the leftover winter's
cold will be seen as temporary in retrospect. Though the trees are
only in the start of their expressions of foliage, and the hillsides remain
largely "grey" in appearance, the bright sun makes the most of whatever
greenery it can find. It looks like a mighty act of faith for this
new growth to be under way, yet it is clear that enough of the "signals"
have been received for this to happen. I walk about for a few moments
in the brilliant openness, noting my cold, sharp shadow against the gravel,
rocks, low brush and lichen on the ground at the edge of the dooryard.
Since there is something of a stiff breeze out here, I do not spend long
in this state of exposure, though the fresh air feels exceptionally good
on my face, in the general sense of a "tonic".
Yes, a morning like this is quite the "wake-up call", as if I had been
marching about all winter in a mindless, vacant circuit, kicking at constraints
and complaining about them to ears that would not listen, even if they
were there. I get the idea that I'm supposed to be building up some
mighty internal reserve of my own strength in response to this "calling",
where I had let myself lay fallow for months on end as a matter of "convenience".
It really isn't much of a problem, either, to develop a strong resolve
that has every indication of staying power, when confronted with
such vivid inspiration. I am amazed, however, at my mind's power
for fanciful illusion, since the typical outcome is less than the "plan"
would predict. Better it is, I remind myself cynically, to begin
with an expectation of nothing, rather than everything. There is
no room for idealism in a history that is built of embarassment and failure
wherever "pride" had the least advantage in the start of an enterprise.
I stop briefly on the front porch to take my last of the fine, bracing
air, then turn to open the door and return to the known quantity of sustaining
warmth that accompanies the fireplace and the stove. I note with
disapproval that my body is particularly swayed at the moment by external
influences, when it is my standard goal to carry on despite the
deception of appearances. This condition has its value, of course,
when I can feed my external interface with "proper" surroundings and inputs
of sensory content. Maybe I should just be glad that the predisposition
is there at all, with all the details turned over to God as I understand
him. Usually, the experience of this mood is like an Air Force squadron
being made to "scramble" in one of those old movies--I tell myself to hurry,
before the opportunity has passed. Thus, I am probably mistaken in
my efforts, since there has never been a real "enemy".
I build back the fire, then walk into the living room area, noting the
familiar old surroundings in this bright "new" light of late March.
"It's just ordinary old light," I remind myself--"the rest is a
product of my imagination". With the actual outdoor air separated
from the sunlight entering through the front window, I am aware of how
this quantity of atmospheric adornment has changed, simply by being seen
from the inside. I feel that familiar winter's lethargy, lobbying
for my acceptance, and I wonder if it's worth the risk of slipping back
into another "funk" to acknowledge it as the "truth". I drop myself
onto the supportive upholstery of the slipcovered sofa, where I begin reconciling
the two views of "reality" that I have, side by side, at the Cabin site
today. I know that entertaining subjective "truth" is a wasteland
of amorphous and frivolous pseudo-analysis. It is the place where
nothing can be said to "be".
"There has to be a 'plan of action' that would end all of this
foolish pondering," I say to myself at last. I can see that I am
in need of a new infusion of "conviction" as to absolutes. While
the winter has seen me wander about in a defensive pose of "survival",
the opening of this new set of days for outdoor living must contain
in its ultimate unfolding a glorious and self-evident "way", one in which
all doubt is removed. I have known, during my brief walk in the clearing,
a taste of what the wildlife knows without really "thinking". There
is a "proper" alignment with the principles of light, good, right,
life and perhaps even "love" that is calling the small quantity of receptive
capacity that I carry within as a living, sentient being. Perhaps
I will be lured into some ill-defined, meta-theological formulation to
reconcile such a response, but at least I won't have to wonder just what
I'm doing at the moment.
"Bo"
31 March 2001 -- Enduring the inevitable journey
It looks bright and "promising" in the hollow today, where green has
finally asserted a solid presence among the colors of the brush and the
forested hillsides below the distant ridge-tops. There is something
in the sunshine that has the sincere appearance of being there to "help",
rather than cynically illuminate a stark and frozen snowscape. The
ground is in the process of drying out to its warm-season configuration,
though it is still a practice in mud endurance to take any kind of real
walk on the pathways outside. It is clear that today is part of a
transition, and not to be taken as any kind of "final word" on the
matter of how the woods "should be". I note with appreciation that
there is enough of that splendid sun this morning that I don't need to
stoke up the fireplace for heat. I have lasted out some grim times
up here at the Cabin, and the advent of such conditions should really be
no surprise.
I am not sure just what I want to do, however, on a day like
this, which does not belong to either of the times for which I have more
experience. Tantalizing indeed is the thought of fooling around outside,
only I can see how wet everything is, even from inside on the sofa.
When I was driving up the mud-choked roadway from the village, I was thinking
to myself of how I'd enjoy a few hours of enforced simplicity, since my
real life is so full of unimportant details. Well, I seem to have
enough of that in this space right now, though it amazes me how
vividly I can retain working interfaces with those problems in their absence.
I get the feeling that I'm after one of those wonderful "mind overhauls",
the kind that deposits me somewhere else in a form of "escape". When
I think long enough in these terms, I realize that I'm probably mid-course
in one of those journeys, even now as I sit here.
I have seen that the human mind does not do well with sudden and impulsive
change, so I do what I can to accept the need for these intervals spent
in transit. I will be glad, of course, when I've finally "arrived",
or at least have the impression that such has occurred, only I know there
is little in any one state that can satisfy me indefinitely; thus,
my itinerancy is well-predicted. I should be glad, actually,
that few sentiments ever settle in for permanent and unchanging residence
in my collection of joys, concerns and perceptions. It is better,
yes, to see those irritations of city living pass by the wayside on account
of this principle of growth and transcendence of attitude than by mere
escape and isolation. A "sterile" environment is useful as a last
resort, but it is better to have the run of the world at large, under a
strong immunity to those assorted and troublesome "pathogens".
It would seem that my main complaint at present is impatience,
despite being actively involved in a process that will make everything
look different, given enough time. I grasp at the fragments I can
find of the new viewpoint that simply must emerge when this unpleasantness
is concluded. Those who have been through such change before would
probably tell me I have what I need already, and though I'd agree with
them in principle, there is a difference between simple possession and
available utility. I might just waste a lifetime's supply of the
makings of that better life, anyway, if I could dig right in to my heart's
delight. The canonical view on overcoming this localized "pit" might
tell me to ignore what I don't like (for what's the use, anyway?), or it
might tell me that "nothing is fair in life". The going is indeed
difficult, I conclude with a sigh, rolling over on the sofa.
I will be glad when I've left this particular segment of my journey,
to settle in for some time among one of its featured waypoint destinations.
I only wish I didn't have to languish in these pensive moments of relative
discomfort, as in the economy class air traveller in his shipping container
seat. Powers greater than I'll ever be have laid all of this out,
for better or worse. I feel myself reach for whatever is immediately
available in this compromised state, though I realize that some of these
conveniences are imported representations of real life worries. I
should be able to replace those with scenes of the splendor to come,
since I have been to most of those "better places" already and know the
territory. "What is life 'like' when it is 'good'?" I ask
myself. When I "get there", I'll walk tall once again. The
time for denial will be through; the good will be self-evident. It
is something worth waiting for.
"Bo"
Ahead to April 2001
