3 February 2002 -- My self and its complement
With the quantity of activity that has characterized my recent real
life, it almost seems like I'm "acting on a dare" to spend any time at
all at the Cabin this weekend. I know that the better way to get
along is one in which I never sense that I'm pushing myself to extremes,
but then isn't that how great accomplishments tend to come about?
I feel as if my system is currently in possession of some highly-capable
charge; a tightly compressed spring, as it were, that might move
me down the straight and narrow path as readily as it might toss me in
the ditch alongside. Being up here on the same old sofa, looking
through the same old windows is hardly the definition of "progress",
only I know I'm doing myself some good in learning to contain motive potential,
and lots of it, while carrying on a simplified, minute-at-a-time life.
This defines "efficiency" as a human being--to have, and then to
keep until needed. I look around in this rustic room, where
every knot in the pine panelling is where it always has been, and I might
imagine that the day-to-day challenges of real life have little additional
variability, when seen against the backdrop of my overall five-figure allotment
of days.
Those matters don't really matter all that much--I know
that such trite, throw-away statements are common currency among the many,
but to me they are a lesson that needs learning at each moment of internal
stress and indecision such as this. The idea that real life is not
a whole lot more variable than my idealized steady-state scene up here
at the Cabin, however, just doesn't quite make the cut. The wondrous
quiet, disturbed only by a known set of meteorological, biological
and domestic sound-events, is modelled as the baseline for all the noisier
rest of life; as close to zero as I'll get with any real comfort.
Comfort, indeed, is the hallmark of staying to myself; I let myself ride
along in this support without taking action and without spoiling the effect
I might be "squandering" if I jump at a task too eagerly when I
have the chance. The privilege of a tired body being allowed, at
last, to assume the inertial state is not often obtained, even during the
"leisure time" they give me back in the city.
I guess the "dichotomy" I'm working with here is the one between external
and internal agents of personal change. Clearly, I am given
the potential for action so that I might act. Otherwise, it eventually
dissipates unused, and often at a certain price to my internal constitution.
That same interface, however, accepts the actions of the outside, so there
must be a way that this is converted to internal vitality, as if
I were a parasite whose host is the world without. This kind of living,
which is characterized by the pose I strike right now as a heavy lump sprawled
out under a throw blanket, is never a socially-popular practice, for the
entire dynamic mechanism, to move at all, requires that someone
"give a hoot" and act with personal intention. The woods up here
are likely insulating my interface with the outside, limiting its bandwidth,
throughput and dynamic range. Enough time like this and I'll just
keep burning up assorted resources for change as I walk around in the rut
of internal loss, even when I do return and take my seat at the
array of expectations and opportunities that city living presents to the
properly-indoctrinated.
Another concept that creeps in here is the matter of spontaneity.
This, certainly, is expressed when the losses across the connection to
one's "outside" are so low as to place the person on a suspiciously-deterministic
"autopilot". The person is queried and the person replies, just as
convention dictates. But wait a minute, this is just as devoid of
"life" as the man who has shut off the gateway to his surroundings.
A predictable and servile component may be useful for economies, both planned
and otherwise, but the real "spark" of the person assigned his ration of
vital capability is in its creative and ultimately "correct" presentation.
This does not have to be an elaborately orchestrated stage show, either--the
subject need only "be himself", which bespeaks unique and individual charm
through one's charisms. To speak of "self" is to incorporate
and invest a piece of goodwill beneath a single authority and operating
system. This becomes a well-circulated "fluid", when interconnections
are indeed made, and a curious-but-expected "multiplier effect" causes
a pleasing geometric, or even exponential, growth.
So I lay here on a fairly cold winter's afternoon, oblivious to such
incredible realities as the New Orleans Superbowl, a joint operation that
I'm supposed to be a part of if I'm the typical American man. I will
grant that it is a pleasing picture to think of a man whose source
is in balanced connectivity to the sinks on the other side of his
interface, and I suspect he will live a correspondingly less-strained life
with such traffic being exchanged. Oh, to think of the great and
optimal paradise, if only we all had ourselves properly "attuned"!
Since so many fall short, however, myself included, I must become resigned
to an imperfect firmament. It is certainly growing and strong, but
as a "creation", it has no particular final sanctity. I must remind
myself that I am but one man, and that's it. I am a part of
billions of others' exteriors, so that should be my primary view
of the spatial partition that is my "self"--they define me.
It is something to think about.
"Bo"
7 February 2002 -- Trapped indoors again
It's another of those grubby gray and mottled-white days in the hollow,
where I feel as if I've been stuffed into some sort of translucent-fabric
"sack", to be carried by an uncaring captor to places unseen and unknown.
Like such an item of casually-packaged cargo, I feel jostled about on account
of real-life realities, of the kind that never make an effort to present
themselves in a harmonious formation. I typically count as an "injustice"
the way that one corner of my life can control all the others, but then
I suppose it is just one life, after all. Looking out the front
window into the clearing, I see an approximately-smooth snow surface, though
I know it to be warm enough to be melting, as evidenced by the large quantity
of moisture that clouds the air immediately above. The stalks of
last year's growth and the random, gnarled shrubs are not "dark" enough
to dispel the sense that all is grey, or white that is soon ready
to descend into grey, when the effect is complete.
I have a modest fire burning today and have been able to walk about
the Cabin in shorts and a T-shirt, but it will be a long time before such
attire will cross the barrier now in place between this and the outside
world. Things must still be "thought through" whenever they involve
anything beyond the cedar-sided walls of the main structure, only there
is a lot I can "make of it" in here when I am properly inspired.
The problem is that weather like this, after so many months of winter,
does not yield much in the way of inspiration. I could
attempt the exercise where I let myself sink in to the bed or sofa, to
see problems more for what they really are, only my "defensive" pose from
recent city life does not permit such a release. Sitting on the sofa,
I look some more out the front window, at that wide-but-confined space
above the clearing. This is where, in the warmer months, I will have
that grand experience of a volume that one would not call "contained"
so much as it contains the Cabin, the trails, the river, and all
that is in them.
I really should not let myself entertain the notion that I am truly
"incarcerated" by the annoyances and gentle "constraints" that make up
that rather plush life in technology's bosom. I have it so good,
or so it goes, that I need only sit still and let my prosperity increase,
to paraphrase the kindly message of the televangelists and the seminar
hucksters. Maybe I see an image of being entrapped today because
that is the only way I can imagine myself being saved from...myself.
I need the stifling weight of monotonous and empty fixture to let
the "better" threads of my processes continue, the ones that appear driven
from the outside by clearly benevolent agents on my behalf.
Oh, it will all be so good, when the days at my own hands are behind me;
when I've completely "turned over" my will and my life. I care not
to listen right now to the strange sounds that come from within, for they
just get me into more entanglements.
My life, therefore, is my fault, as if I had indeed "asked to have been
born". I know I've erred, and on frequent occasion, or all would
run as I wish, with desires and corresponding capabilities in perfect balance.
If anything, I am fortunate to have the freedom not to continue
on the path of acquisition, vain longing and boastful discourse that so
often leaves me in the lurch. The others expect that I have aspirations,
of course, only it is not in their particular interest to have me acting
on the raw traffic that is at the central core of these desires.
No, it should be muffled, filtered, transformed and sanitized, so that
the effluent is acceptable to a sustainable living experience among the
many. I realize that I'm not likely to completely shut off
the noxious generator of all of that "noise", so central is it to the personality
of the petty and vindictive modern man in a world characterized by its
competition. Open displays of that actual content, however, are clearly
out of place, as they constitute "indecent exposure".
I need only settle back into the background and non-violently ride for
awhile in the massive tableaux that have me embedded within their decor.
I suppose I am using a gray, cold and wet day at the Cabin to symbolize
the way I feel when I must tell myself to "be quiet", but then it does
seem to "work" for that purpose. To be reduced to a simpering state
where I am reminded to my face of the needs of a warm-blooded creature
may be extreme, but then so are the transcripts that I might make of the
outrageous posturings I see within. I suppose I lose face among the
politically incorrect when I see myself needing restraint, and for them
I hope to stand in a better pose someday soon, free of the manacles and
irons. I just doubt I'm going to get far, is all, doing "my own thing".
There is a clear process that invites me daily to its orthodoxy,
and it promises a real life in which I am a partner, and not a subordinate.
"Bo"
11 February 2002 -- A fair vision on a cold day
The sun has returned today, to bring to the snow-cover the brilliance
it appears to deserve. Since the season is moving with all certainty
towards the Equinox next month, I might actually have cause for "encouragement"
by conditions so bright, except for the cold that remains to ward off such
a premature conclusion. It looked nice enough, nonetheless, to put
on a medium-weight jacket and come out to sit for awhile in the metal chair
on the front porch. I'm gazing off into the distance, where whole
trees are reduced to mere point forms where they stand out at all.
The high rocky outcrops of the various upper peaks look like they'd be
cold, windswept endurance-challenges, only down here with the Cabin behind
me I have a residual sense of "shelter". The wind that has found
its way down this far into the hollow has had a lot of buffering, so sustained
occupation in these "elements" feels possible and reasonable.
I suppose there is a lot of ordinary old hope to be found in
my being outside today, of the kind that does not appear on demand.
I would be bold enough to think that the main and offensive bulk of winter
is now behind me, and that the warmer part of 2002 is some form of "entitlement"
that is already late in coming. Since there is probably a whole lot
of truly rough weather still between this day and the final onset
of spring, I must sadly remind myself that I cannot always trust in the
way things "appear". Thus, my experience on the porch today, while
perhaps cheerful to the inner romantic irrationality of my heart, will
look like pure foolishness when the clouds return and the blowing snow
is again in my face whenever I take a trip outdoors. I would certainly
enjoy life more if I could extrapolate on momentary signs of those
"better" aspects of my governing conditions--it looks so mild with
all of that sunshine, even if the scenery is overwhelmingly white from
the unbroken snow.
I consider myself fortunate that I can at least feel the "entry requirements"
for real inspiration when it comes to such matters. I might
be at the threshold of further enrichment and growth if I, too, get the
cues that keep the more optimistic folks in their enviable mode.
I doubt that I'm really "too old" or "set in my ways" to move on to higher
aspirations, only I do know where I get the most reassuring comfort
in living, and that is from staying with "what works". The outside
observer must consider it strange that I march ahead with the same grim
outlook when the doorways to compensating joy are so close at hand and
identifiable. The sun is there, and I know it is good. Why
can't I just run with that? I take a deep breath of the bracingly-cold
air, then watch the condensation drift off upon my exhalation. Aside
from what I can hear of the river in back, it is delightfully quiet
out here as well. "Oh, but that's just because there's so little
life," I remind myself with all due cynicism.
Thinking only of the beauty of this bright day, and despite its domination
by the snow, I am almost of a mind to find suitable footwear and go out
into the clearing itself. Sure, the snow is the better part of a
foot deep in most places, but that wouldn't affect me so long as I kept
looking to the finer points of the firmly-present sun and crisp blue sky
above. There is little point to taking such a walk, though, so I
decide instead to build upon what I can feel from the drier position up
here on the wooden-plank porch platform. There was enough melting
in recent days to clear away the bulk of the snow and ice that had been
out here, with only a few patches left to kick at with my feet. When
the snow returns, of course, this will be but a memory. On that day,
I will wonder how I could have seen spring so fully suggested by nothing
more than clear skies and sunshine. I will be back inside, huddled
before the fire, as certainly as I was back in December.
Oh, but then this is just the barest of beginnings! I have
time left on this earth to go through many onsets of fairer weather, both
literally and in metaphor. There is a place for me so grand that
I cannot believe I am actually seeing signs of it, given this life that
has its arguable disposition of "misery". It could indeed be so bright
that it is shining through layer upon layer of built-up emotional callous
and doubt, to reach the likes of a life-hardened, pessimistic man such
as myself. It is all a matter of patience, and not acting
too abruptly or unreasonably. There is a casual course that promises
every bit of a better life, and it is not a hard challenge. I need
only sit back as I am in this chair and acknowledge the glory that is manifest
in even this small glimpse. Over-reaction and valiant effort are
not its requirements, but instead a spirit willing to be still and appreciate
what is undeniably "good". Appearances, it would seem, do
count for something.
"Bo"
15 February 2002 -- Towards the basic way
With so many matters attempting to capture my attention in real life,
I figured I'd come to the Cabin today and make an effort at simplification,
consolidation, reduction and reconsideration. The frozen winter scene
outside the front window has only changed in that grey skies are
now overhead; the rocks and the low-lying scrub remain as they have been
amid the snow cover. Really, I have quite a "long time" in this state
before the warm reprieve finally arrives in late March. If only I
could heed the call to stop starting what will be difficult or impossible
to finish, I might have a truly "manageable" set of concerns before me.
I am stretched out on the sofa at present, with the softly diffused outdoor
light landing plainly throughout the room. I want to let my whole
overcharged system slow down, for I am aware of a set of boundaries that
it has overflowed, and to which it should be properly returned.
The agitation of which I am aware has its value, of course, as the underlying
origin of inspiration and change. Still, I am often in search of
a restoration of basics, and this shouldn't, in theory, require new
outlays. I am not sure how it is that simple sufficiency has become
such an ideological abstraction and out-of-reach "ideal", when the necessary
substance is, by definition, already a part of my indwelling supply.
I feel my mind wandering off to a place as vacant as this clearing, as
I attempt to implement the "unfettered way", in a housing unit that is
merely incidental to the topography of the hollow and its ridge.
The land, yes, is the "bigger story", in its difficult-to-upset permanence,
even in the face of extreme weather and the mortal progress of its living
members. I could weave so many tales within such an ample space,
one that does not depend upon my fervent intervention to persist.
I feel my body growing heavy now in the upholstery of the sofa, and
I am vaguely aware of a slight draft that the fire has not completely chased.
There is no need for "defense" of my presence or my provisions; it can
all just "lay there", undisturbed by the demands of commerce or opinion.
The notion that this is the result of deliberate effort is still
with me, however. I know that underneath it all, I have this burning
process, and it will spur me into the truck and back to the city,
once I am persuaded of the legitimacy and validity of its current agenda.
I should like, at times, to wrench that troublesome and mischievous component
from the place it resides, somewhere near the solar plexus, and just let
the rest of me deal with the mess it has created when it had the upper
hand. I suppose I'm talking here about my "will", and the difficult
exercise I'm attempting is to hold it down and let my system regain its
balance.
There is something of a distributed tension throughout this ostensibly-"resting"
hulk that I've dragged into the forest today. I am aware of the need
to redirect this motivating presence to the wholesome, authentic
and true, which is to imply that most of what I was chasing after in my
recent real life was insincere and pointless. It is difficult to
classify such an internal agent, when I realize the place it evidently
has in whatever life I end up pursuing. It does not really
look like it's supposed to express itself in explosive, magnificent displays
of erudite action--these are the posturings of a vain "show-off".
Rather, I should attempt to place it in front of my very next essential
task and let it work according to the standards of propriety that I've
already discerned as a grown man. There is a basic plan that is my
underlying model, and everything else is derived from my own self-congratulatory
hubris.
I sigh deeply, knowing that somewhere amid the whole mess confronting
me when I return to real life there lies the specification and structure
of my intrinsic essentials. There are certainly ongoing tasks that
are worthy of my effort, but they are hard at times to distinguish
from the "fluff" that currently chokes my schedule. It is most likely
a stout framework; this central structure, so I really shouldn't be too
afraid of falling down. I know, however, that the contributions I've
made to its development have not generally been deliberate and focused.
Until I can build with confidence upon my personal character, I must therefore
enter these periodical and laborious duties of "unloading" myself.
I suppose this is just how it is, being human, in the flesh and in the
world. I feel blessed, though, that there is the appearance
of inherent stability and right within the whole mess I carry around.
It, more than any of those frantic follies, has the greatest chance of
lasting.
"Bo"
19 February 2002 -- A passage that is guaranteed
As another day of substantial cold comes to its logical conclusion up
here in the generally snow-covered hollow, I feel I could do well with
a good night's rest, after the extent of activity I've attempted
in keeping up the trappings of my real life. I have a nominal fire
burning and the kerosene lanterns lit, so it would seem that the "transition"
has pretty well taken place already. I am quick to "ignore" the light
that remains, especially from the kitchen window. If I stand there
at just the right position at this time of day, I can see the sun passing
through the bare tree cover of the far ridge. In the summer, when
the crickets and the sound of the river are to be heard instead outside
the screen of that same window, the foliage is already dark and impenetrable
at this stage of the twilight. It would seem, therefore, that the
topography, the mountains and the terrain have more of a "say" in winter,
while the warmer months are spent more fully within that which lives.
Indeed, and I am tired out, so much so that it feels good just
to toss my sleeping bag down near the fire and let the wooden floor hold
me up above the rough gravel and contained bare soil of the dead-air space
inside the fieldstone foundation. There is sure to be a welcome equilibrium
waiting for me, when this exercise is carried far enough into the night.
I do not feel very capable of lofty emotion and attempts at insight, and
these have all been "done" anyway by the better-endowed among the contemplatives.
I'm just here, listening to the somber crackle of the seasoned oak, in
a space that will eventually grow to reach its dimmest, given the lanterns
and the fire. I suppose life is a whole lot more "interesting" when
I think I'm making "a difference" in the fight against decay and ignorance,
but then these are mighty foes. The ones I call "normal" could well
build the foundations of their lives upon ordinary, "empty" living, though
this is hard to imagine. Theirs would then be a world without so
many words.
My internal "voice" has been so very busy, though, in rationalizing
and reconciling my-self with the place I have among those others,
and it is stubborn in wanting to be heard. It is a rather silly small
part of my personal constitution, this orator of such meager audiences,
and I would just as soon put it to bed with the rest of me, only there
are the hours of oncoming sleep that always merit its special observations.
I remind myself, using this "voice", of the adventure of putting in yet
another visit to the Cabin. This is bold, this is brazen; my camping
out in the minimal space of my wooden-frame enclosure. I wonder at
times if "loneliness" would get the better of me, if I had to spend more
than these few fleeting hours alone. Time enough in the one place
seems to accentuate and make special the time I then spend in the other,
in the finest tradition of complementary duality. I can't seem to
"make it" in just one location, and it takes the contrast of this
darkened room to make the city lights seem so reassuringly bright.
It is now past sunset, and I hear the occasional wind on the exterior
structure. This is nothing I haven't done before, only its occurrence
now is important, if for no other reason than that this is
"now". This is how the mediocre is elevated to a substance so glorious
that it can actually be called "life", and attributed with any propriety
to the higher power. The particular and unique blessing of the present
makes all experience into that which should become memorable. It
is riding along a road, I suppose, where the pavement is even, though unremarkable,
yet fully necessary to the safe journey. The traveller cannot encompass
within his meager stature the total distance, but he covers it nonetheless.
This room is growing to its uniform tone of the darker hours, of which
there are many. I take a deep breath, then gaze across to the front
door, closed firmly against the substantial wind. My coat hangs there,
ready for the wearing. The makings of continued existence are by
no means withheld.
At times like these, I begin to go over the untold, and perhaps, indeed,
untellable reality of wandering along like this, one moment in the
midst of the crowd and the next by myself. Am I, more so than others,
given over to "cyclical" variations? Am I a man of moods and a worker
under whimsy? I don't think there is "one way" for me, and
it is probably an oversimplification to declare that there are as few as
two. I continue on, though, in these assorted tracks, always
with something running through my mind. Sleep is the principal
exception to this. If simple subsistence in ordinary behavior is
any great virtue, then I should be finding justification in empty
times and a thoroughly free schedule. I am so tired, I remind
myself. I will not lay down the best of thought-tracks in this condition,
but the distance covered will still accrue. Living, it would seem,
involves displacement versus time, and I should not resent that I cannot
stably be in a single state.
"Bo"
23 February 2002 -- Justice and my assignment
I have found a certain, if nominal, quantity of time to be still on
this February day that feels warm enough to be from March. I do not
feel much in the way of "strong emotion", as if I were somehow guaranteed
a contrasting bliss for those hours that aren't a part of someone else's
schedule, too. Perhaps time will be hard to pass here, too, since
there are events built all around these few "free" hours, which contain
them within their hard and fast framework. I keep telling
myself that I am a "free man" who could let a good bit of it go, only I
also keep heaping on new obligations, and by that same "free" will.
I lay, crashed out on the sofa, in the tightly-clenched pose of one with
commitments. It is a gross ingratitude, of course, to resent any
portion of time that I am permitted to live, and if only I weren't so beat,
I'd find some creative way of jumping about in place, in a true celebration
of existence per se. The health-food hucksters would go off
ranting about St. John's wort, guarana, yohimbe, ephedra and ginseng, I
suppose, but this incapacity does not look so easily solved.
Maybe it is because I think that I can "get somewhere" by entering a
social calendar that I put what I do into that time-bound captor of a schedule.
"Oh, certainly it will be different this time," I reassure myself,
in the typical week or two before the fact when it all looks so distant.
Given a long enough lead-time, I suppose the typical person would commit
to anything. I can't be placing myself in much of a light
by bemoaning the ties that pull me along with the great collective machine.
It's just that so much of what constitutes "membership" is dedicated to
banality and idle nonsense, rather than a strident effort that strikes
at the heart of the problem. Who is it, anyway, that declared the
ill-defined "get-together" as a behavior to characterize "normal" compliance?
Are the perpetual planners so afraid of "nothing to do" that their
ideal is a lifetime fully tessellated with places to be at immovable times
during the 168 hours of the week?
The "paradise" I would seek, from the above ranting, would be rid of
the compulsive punctuality that so fragments the time I have left.
In such a scheme, and to my detriment as one who pays lip service to Christian
orthodoxy, I would have first say in the use of my days. I
am actually so impudent as to believe in a paradise of like-minded individuals,
whose outreach, where it does exist, is always welcome. I
am seeking a solution that is like the correct assembly of one of those
brain-teaser puzzles, which must exist or else the pieces would
not be presented so invitingly. Is my complaint more properly directed
at the divisive discord that keeps each person from falling into that magical
"place", never to be disturbed again? The more pragmatic among my
so-called "peers" would make the inevitable observations concerning pain
and gain, as they "fit in" as best they can into the ill-shapen places
that are the best to be found in a world that was never pronounced so undeniably
"good".
Yes, my curse on this Saturday afternoon is built upon the unfortunate
division that seemingly has to exist from one person to the next.
Realizing that I'm not likely to get along as I'd want to, I withdraw where
possible and live the travesty I call "unity" as a single man in a single
dwelling in a single hollow. It is not in my innate nature to sit
there and take my beating, as I rattle along in my excuse for social sufficiency.
This could well be one of those fundamental flaws in "personality", the
kind of mal-formation that is not mine--or anyone else's--to mold.
To open the sealed compartments where those operations take place
would be a greater peril than any quantity of boredom and inconvenience.
Indeed, I might gain access to the controls and sadly conclude that there
is nothing to be done at my own hand. It is the fate of material
creation to exhibit predefinition, and in negotiating with that particular
existence, to have sight of its own grotesque configuration and unstable
structure.
"Why doesn't he just get over it?" they ask, in the high-flying circles
of the sufficiently content. "He is not one to cry, no; he is an
esteemed American citizen, one of God's principals. If there are
problems with this, then they must be accommodated, and not avoided."
I am terribly "spoiled" by all I have, as one who has not even walked
a mile in his own moccasins. I just need to get past these
critical moments, when everything looks so empty. Indeed,
weeping may endure for a night but joy cometh in the morning. Does
the psalmist presume to argue the unspoken inequity of there being
"weeping" in the first place? I note that I'm still laying here in
a heap on this old sofa, with little having happened but the passage of
another interval of that o-so-precious time that is my birthright
and also my death sentence. That picture of truly finding my "perfect"
place will not leave me, though. At various times, the better-equipped
in terms of enlightenment have no doubt approximated this fine assimilation.
But then, and this is indeed, the problem, I am not them.
Separation is my curse at the same time that it is also my chosen escape.
"Bo"
26 February 2002 -- The arrival of a change
The snow has melted off in recent days to reveal bare spots of not-too-impressive
grass and other withered stalks from last growing season, and it is decidedly
warm at the present moment as I walk around in the mud-slush of
the dooryard in my full leather boots. Still, the gathering cloud
cover developing over the high ridge suggests to me that change
might be in the making. It would be hard to tell, of course, how
much of the "difference" were really nothing more than my subjective response
to unconscious cues. After spending months in sub-freezing weather,
anything that will support liquid water has the taste of balminess and
fairer days to come. The sun has disappeared now behind a
layer of cloud cover, so the loss of that input has made a big difference
right there. I suspect, indeed, that a front is about to overtake
the stationary facilities of the hollow and the Cabin, so I better be ready.
I've finally been outside long enough to lose the excess heat I'd built
up in my over-garments as I made ready before the fire. I am now
better reminded of just where I really am in the year. Though
some would say it's "late season" for any real precipitation, it has
happened, and at altitude the odds are significantly greater than in my
urban real life near sea level. Walking along through the dirty slush
that even overlies the "untouched" areas behind the far walls of the Cabin
building, I note what I can of the exterior, in case it is in store for
another beating. Under the tree cover that rises from the ravine
and the river bottom, it is an even darker shade of grey back here,
nothing like how the morning started. The colorless snow looks a
lot more "correct" in such circumstances than it does in the sun.
I tromp through the wet layer of decaying leaves, gritty snow-ice particles
and bent-over stalks, finally reaching the back porch, where I return to
the kitchen and the indoors.
It seems a good bit darker inside, too, but then I'd expect as
much with the loss of solar lighting and radiant load. I linger for
a moment in my parka, since I am not immediately overheated by the hearth
and stove. With how dark it looks now outside the front window, I
figure the onset of the new weather must be about complete. Still
dressed in my outerwear, I walk to the front window and note that the snow
has indeed begun. It is almost like a summer squall, this snow, and
perhaps a sign that the season really is changing. I will
be just as glad if I do wind up "snowed in" for awhile, given my
frequent failings in living the fullest life in the light of day.
Finally stripping my jacket and hanging it on the peg near the front door,
I sigh deeply and let myself have a seat on the sofa. From the draft
I feel off the window, it may well be below freezing at this point, though
the ground will melt a fair quantity of the heavy flakes that are landing
out there right now.
It should be so simple, this being alone, yet I never let it develop
as fully as the facilities and faculties I have maintained for its practice.
Do I really want to make the long, exposed trip to the more "reasonable"
form of social compliance? That would transform even the hideaway
of this Cabin into some sort of communal "gathering place", which really
won't work. It is correct, this dark grey scene, for the isolation
I realize does not need any extensive practice; it is a "no-brainer".
It is most likely "extreme" of me to want such total obscurity, yet I have
seen how often I have whittled away at the more perfect dis-union that
my stronger occasional impulses would give me. Yes, it is snowing
now, and the bare patches are finally beginning to yield to this latest
cover. The notion of an open, green and fragrant outdoors is not
mine to have, and I wouldn't appreciate it, anyway. There is such
safety and control to be found in detachment, and the miles of snowy woodland
between here and the village assist me well in its cultivation.
I seem to have followed a certain "downward" course in this latest change
in the weather, part of the many maneuvers that characterize this life
of many moods. I currently feel as if I'm "winning" against the cheerful
proponents of involvement, when I avoid speaking the spoken word to immediately-adjacent
others. I like to let myself drop into a coarse and sluggish state
of lesser response, like the hibernating black bear, perhaps. I should
not be who I never was and never really will be. I realize this is
not the finest approach to real Lenten "humility", which I've always understood
to be an active disposition, but then who made me a spiritual master,
anyway? I haven't much interest in lighting the kerosene lamps, despite
the overcast and the steady snowfall. The creatures for whom this
is really "home" do not announce their settlements in such a way.
If I'm fortunate, I'll wind up "properly" reduced when this day is over,
in that appreciative stance where all looks inviting, rather than this
disparaging one where nothing does.
Things have indeed moved on, as one would expect of life and life's
intricate network of support.
"Bo"
Ahead to March 2002
