2 March 2002 -- Not much I can really do
With the snow piled up as it is all over outside, I have the usual sense
of being "held fast" here in the relative warmth and dryness of the Cabin
living room. It is still grey outside, and cold enough to give no
real indication of the eventually-approaching final thaw of spring.
When I look out the front window, I still see trees without foliage and
scrub brush that hardly looks ready to support its typical summer population
of insects. There are icicles hanging from the eaves, since the temperatures
have been close to freezing, and the draft through the plate glass panes
is firm in declaring just what "season" it is. I suppose I shouldn't
really yearn for sentiments other than those of the present to be here,
for that means I am giving up something in the way of satisfaction in the
moment at hand. I don't know, though--this "grubby" kind of cold
day just doesn't seem to fit into any nice and consistent system of aesthetics
that I've ever encountered. Yet I am given such days nonetheless,
and in great abundance, so I must do what I can to see the glory that is
incipient in such a scene.
"Ordinary" living, it would seem, is at issue and under scrutiny, when
I have so little to gush on about when I'm here at the Cabin. Every
situation has its cause for gratitude, I must remind myself, so when I
lay here on the sofa in an unmotivated and motionless stupor, I am clearly
ignoring truths that should be self-evident. I feel somewhat weighted
by all that has come my way in recent times, to the point where all manner
of glory could unfold before my eyes and I'd simply refuse to open them.
I sigh deeply and continue to let time pass. It always amazes me,
the way inspiration can still overcome a man as tired as I've become at
age 40. It is almost as if I don't have any influence over what is
going on, and that I should just lay here some more and wait for the other
attendant forces to arrive, so as to patch things up on their own head
of steam.
Narration concerning something so empty as a day like this is
getting to be a tiresome effort in itself. If I were really out
in the woods right now, I could at least fill this page with all sorts
of lifelike tidbits, rather than the beat-up old stereotype of the wilderness
that passes as my "place". I could well be dealing with a shortage
of imagination or inspiration, which means that I fall like a lump into
one place and have little to do but be there. I think to my physical
members, and they are not complaining in any single, specific voice, so
I am most likely "blessed" in that regard alone. Why, this whole
process could go anywhere; it is balanced on a knife-edge
that only looks like a high-walled rut. I suppose I could
spend more time going over the chores that would logically be required
in keeping up a Cabin, only those tend to resemble the ones of my city
home. No, I'm after something else.
I guess evening is on its way in, and with it the kind of cold that
truly becomes "dangerous". I note that I have enough wood in
the box beside the fireplace, and the main distraction that might come
along will be needing to use the outhouse. That feeling is
not with me now, however, so much as is the one of emptiness in
my deepest of gut. It's all grey outside, and with a slight quantity
of additional snow falling to blow about over the 8 inches currently on
the ground. Outside, I guess it's pretty empty, too. The fact
is, though, that I'm letting myself "coast" along here, in these hours
of inactivity, and I always wind up in relatively enviable states at the
end of such an exercise in self-denial. I am grateful of how these
old human bodies tend to "right themselves", despite the manipulative and/or
abusive inputs they receive. I need only lay here, yes, and surprisingly-splendid
turns of events will be my inheritance.
There it is, in force at the pit of my stomach; that central feeling
that can be so surprisingly turned to my advantage. Everything slows
down, or so they teach in thermodynamics, and it has been my fortune to
know a great many conditions of real rest at the end of those declines.
Most times, however, proven sources of temporary stimulation are at hand,
and there seems to be little point to walking off into a hinterland of
empty time for a return of that weaker enrichment, which has a better chance
of lasting. Perhaps I have some sort of underlying process
in the operation of my soul that needs a lot of that "quiet time"
before it looks like anything next to the line-up of quick fixes.
I am beginning to realize just how tired I have become today, with
the arrival of early evening--this may be the result of trying so hard.
Since I can do so little on my own, I would suppose that enough has
been done on my part, and I decide at last to let things drop completely.
"Bo"
6 March 2002 -- A pose of minimal exposure
The snow may well be on its final legs out there in the clearing, only
it's still March, which makes it cold enough to extend the process for
quite some time. With the sun as bright as it is this afternoon,
I'd expect there to be wholesale melting, but one trip to the outhouse
in that potent wind is enough to dispel that connotation.
In my typical search for signs, I can assure myself that the sun
really is higher in the sky now than it was in December and January,
and the world outside is significantly less in shadow as a result.
Perhaps as sad commentary, I have so internalized the solid structure of
time and the seasons that I do not "look ahead" as the more fanciful folks
might. It is as if I had a whole set of concerns and programs in
motion at some "higher level", accompanied by the dubious good fortune
not to have taken many hits on the front of what is truly "real".
If I were more "capable", or so the excuses go, "I'd have a more central
and 'responsible' place among the many". Who wouldn't like that,
anyway?
There is indeed an enormous "promise" implicit in staying in touch with
the larger scheme, yet I still dare to hole up inside my single shell and
call myself "sufficient". That's how it's supposed to go,
in social gatherings, anyway--a man cannot long participate where he is
berated without ceasing for what he has yet to have. Sometimes I
can bring myself to one of the defensive positions I've used with some
success within the movings of the machine. This is where I lower
my profile and essentially "play dead", in hopes that the itinerant egos
out there will be off to juicier pickings in the next room. I realize
that I paint a picture of exaggerated savagery when I start seeing the
contacts to come my way as zero-sum "opponents". If I actually let
out that I'm expecting such treatment, moreover, the truly vicious
will "smell my fear", while the pure of heart will keep their distance.
Thus, I would seem to be living at the bottom of a gradient that goes from
"acceptable" to "worse".
It is such fun to hide out at a distance, though--it is only
when they begin writing me into their plans that their activities
begin to become something other than "entertainment". As they draw
near to my fetid hovel, and by this I am referring to matters of deficient
personality, their gesticulations into action become my direct marching
orders, when I'd rather just be here on the sofa or in the armchair near
the fire. Thus it is that I press myself into ever-finer interstices,
so that can avoid their attempts to pry me loose. No one back in
the village has the slightest idea what is being thought or done up here
at the end of the hidden river road. I don't know...joint life should
be a lot easier than this, despite the assorted assurances I hear
in conversation that interpersonal relationships are by their very essence
a difficult undertaking. I get into these terrible positions without
them, however, and begin to believe I've done something to deserve
the particular placement I seem to have been given, along the continuum
of the eternal abodes.
I think to my physical members and can feel that I am tired again.
This should certainly aid in my keeping out of the way. One of life's
greater victories, as I see it, is to enter a span of time that does not
"hurt" to have pass, during which I am satisfied in what I am doing, and
in which I need lend no exorbitant maintenance to some intricate circle
of interrelationship. I know this tends to glorify the non-living,
and it also builds false hope that the stagnant and the empty can express
meaningful projections to compete with the vibrancy that suggests the very
workings of God himself. Maybe I'm attempting some sort of vanity
in which I try to hold still and keep progress from "happening", so that
I might step off of the great and gyrating machine, to live indefinitely
and at peace. With the miles of woods in the way, the others are
not bothered by me, or so I think. My credo is that of the benign,
after all, so they have little real reason to look, anyway. I can
see that I do need some rest today.
This place I've made for myself is most likely the way it is because
conservation of what is at hand still makes sense, but just barely so,
over the various philosophies that see their final actualization in utter
absorption and dispersion throughout the greater volume. To the ones
who see unity where I do not, I have to give a lot of credit, though I
still have the nominal satisfaction of walking away with most of what I
had at the outset, every time I leave to spend time alone. These
are arguably "unhealthy" surroundings, since I do not benefit from the
invigorating main flow that the "normal" are processing. Could I
really just be an old machine that is creaking out its last motions, to
be at some final state that merits my scrapping by nature and its living
minions?
Nevertheless, until further notice, I will speak only when spoken to,
and as I see, I will notice and remember, but not respond. I will
eventually be consumed by my immersion among the many, but such a fate
attends just about any way of being I can dream up.
"Bo"
10 March 2002 -- Attending to further necessities
Though the melting snow is making things thoroughly wet outside
today, the sun allows the wanderer to forgive that side-effect of weather's
ultimate resolution. Even in the wind-chill that pervades every open
spot, I feel inclined to stay out whenever I find myself there. I
bring in a load of wood for the stove, where I'm fixing to cook another
order of hot-seasoned beans and rice. Those who originally cultivated
the mighty chilé in neolithic days could hardly imagine the number
of meals it has enabled, just for me. Looking onto the white-but-wet
"side yard" as I stir the pot, I wonder what else I might have around the
Cabin to make this a "real" dinner. There's always that shelf-stable
pork, I remind myself, but there's also the whole pantry cabinet full of
canned goods. I guess I'll whip up a pot of that famous-brand no-beans
chili, allusions to what Upton Sinclair would not feed his dog in 1906
aside. Of course, using this kind of ration means I must accumulate
and "pack out" sizable amounts of garbage, and I need to make the outdoor
container for that purpose bear- and raccoon-proof as well.
The rice comes to a boil as I begin heating the chili on another of
the cast-iron stove lids, in the pot usually assigned such duty.
I will have to heat a fair amount of water tonight to wash dishes, but
at least my inwards will be satisfied with this grade of chow. I
dump the beans from their can into the rolling boil in the main pot, while
I also remember to stir the other, equally-deserving vessel. This
is all starting to play tricks with my head, since I felt capable of skipping
lunch today. I could almost eat the chili at room temperature, as
with servicemen in the field who have no way of heating their M's, RE.
I know I won't be quite as sharp of mind after dumping such a load onto
my system, but then what is a man to do? I cannot go indefinitely
in the way of the fasting ascetic, and it's Sunday, anyway. While
keeping an eye on the stove, I walk to the cabinet on the other side of
the sink-basin and grab one of my tin plates. This will be ready,
and soon enough. The chili is finally bubbling at a constant, rapid
rate, meaning I have to stir it with very little ceasing. The rice-pot
I have covered, in its place a bit farther removed from the epicenter of
the flames in the firebox below.
At last, I come to the opinion that these victuals are ready.
I drain off the rice and beans, to fill the main portion of my Army-issue
meal tray, and pour the chili into both of the other sections. I
take my meal to the table and express what gratitude I can that I have
enough to eat, then dig in, all the while maintaining my bottle of Louisiana
hot sauce at my side. Yes, sir, this is the kind of food a man wants
when he's camping. It is all so sensual, this experience of "all-out
food". In this setting, of course, I get plenty of time to appreciate
the small nuances of flavor and texture that make up one's food, only my
hunger stands on the other side of this process, requesting that I chow
down with all reasonable haste. When I begin to feel full at last,
I enter the final phases of cleaning my plate, with the predictable glow
from the sub-sternal region telling me that dinner has been served.
Knowing I need to wash a mess of dishes now, I set up the big saucepan
atop the stove flames, filled with water to make the dish-washing seem
effective.
I scrub away at my various implements, pouring the run-off into
the PVC pipe leading to the drain field out back, and get things put away
for the night. It is growing dark now, though the clear skies mean
that the sun has plenty to say, still, about how things look outside the
kitchen window. There are long shadows from the woodshed,
outhouse and truck alike, and I suspect it will freeze solid again overnight,
once the sun is no longer able to enforce what it does best. I light
the kerosene lamp on its holder near the stove, for I am interested in
its cheery incandescent glow at this juncture. When I have dried
the last of my eating utensils and returned them to the drawer, I go to
sit on the armchair in front of the fireplace, perhaps wishing just a little
that I had cooked up some cured pork as well for dinner. I
note now that it is pretty close to dark outside, and with that event,
the evening's distinct activity set must now be readied.
I'm not sure exactly what I'll do here tonight, though it is
the typical case that when I've been at the Cabin enough of the afternoon
to need to cook dinner, I will then spend the night. The chow
has a solid, settled-feel on my gut, considering the quantity of hot seasoning
it contained. The fire in the fireplace has a sense of "reassurance"
to it, since it is the provision for my sustained presence in this rather-cramped
yet simple room, planted in the hollow. With the arrival of all that
food "across my terminals", of course, I am returned to the worldly and
the shallow, but then what is really new about that? Those well-intentioned
sessions of fasting need to come to their temporary end, anyway, no matter
what time it is in the church year. I suppose I will just have to
"live with" the rough treatment I get as a member of creation, a fraternity
in which I was never given a guarantee of easy going. I am unable
to derive a whole lot more beyond this--but I know I'll live well enough
for now, and hopefully engage in true nobility in the days to come.
"Bo"
14 March 2002 -- The day and its invitation
Decidedly milder outdoor conditions have arrived, and the gritty patches
of snow that remain do little to counteract the uplifting "feel" of a bright
day that looks, for once, a bit like spring. Wearing only my lighter-weight
jacket, which seems a little warm itself, I have set up the porch chair
near the outdoor campfire ring. I prop up my feet onto two of the
rocks that have re-emerged from the deeper cover, and I do what I can to
partake of the implicit potential of such a day. I am well
aware that aspiration and motivation are often "fooled" by appearances
such as these, the ones that would invite an all-out commencement of the
pursuit of the plainly-evident joy that is just around the corner.
The image in my mind is of a creature being lured into motion on the basis
of an offer that the ad-men would do well to emulate. There is some
sort of fanciful "deal" facing me at most moments, just as I am tempted
to go cavorting about in the still-snowy brush of the clearing, rather
than head back inside where it is warm, which is what reality dictates.
Being up here in the hollow, of course, means that I have said "no"
to a good many of those opportunities, in favor of the single, steady state.
I suppose I look obstinate and unreasonable, as I turn down the worthwhile
wares of those great merchants of hope and progress, but they always have
their price. This, after all, is one of the "injustices" I
am inclined to cite about city living; how it's such a rat race, where
anything worth having will leave the seeker wanting in some other aspect
when the dealing is done. It could well be that I see the greater
of those pursuits in the same five-and-dime triviality of day-to-day transactions,
and so, I do not secure the furnishings that slowly come to the "better
balanced" shopper. Among that high-functioning group of "normal"
folks, I see plenty of caving in to pleasure, only they make it all so
hallowed and sanctified, despite the teachings of the elders about the
folly of chasing the temporal. In my failure to get going on as many
of those projects as most men my age have under way, however, I am left
always near the starting line, mis-shapen and truncated; in my own form
of glib "satisfaction".
It is still fairly cold out here, I remind myself, though the
sun is doing its best to win me over. What a time it will be, when
the gates are finally open on the 2002 "season"! This time of year
seems to be an invitation, and to even more than the pursuit of
those gifts that accrue to the earnestly-seeking in the city. I shift
my feet slightly on the two hunks of broken granite that were near-enough
by in 1997 to put into the ring. I can hear the river, and at a substantial
stage, off to the right in the ravine. Never mind that the water
is essentially the first flowing of previously-frozen ground cover.
I grab my woolen GI watch cap from the pocket of my jacket, since I'm feeling
a bit more of the cold now, and I pull the edges over my ears. I
take a deep breath of the air as I've found it, then let out a long sigh.
Nothing much is really going to happen up here today, and I have every
chance of returning to the hustle in real life with everything as I left
it. That is the beauty of these woods, of course--the ability to
hold at just what I have. I suppose I should rightfully be "disgusted"
with myself for "selling out" like this, only the entry requirements in
that more extravagant game always leave me wanting.
Might there really be a way for me to play some of those games of the
majority; to be respected as a worthwhile contender? I lean back
in the chair, whose spring-loaded creaks do not seem fully a part of this
scene. If I were truly serious, I'd be at my preparations
a little more than I am now. What good is it, to start on massive
undertakings, while not appreciating and respecting the enormity of their
required commitments? At times, I feel pressured to make conciliatory
statements of general agreement to those who would service me, rather than
speak the truth of a mind that merely seeks the final settled state of
peace. I take another of those deep breaths, and the exhaled result
is very much able to condense in this bright yet frigid air. "I must
get back to basics", I tell myself, "and resume my serendipitous courting
of the truly 'simple' life". Though the others have inspired much
in the way of my initiative, they are not going to get all they
think they are. This is a reminder to keep a tighter pair of lips
when it comes time to sign up for another of those undertakings.
The clearing is certainly a simple enough place today, even when framed
by the mighty hillsides above. The sun comes out onto such a scene
and does its work, though none of the kind that I can play an administrative
part in. I cannot tell, at a point like this, if I am "wise" to be
spending my time this way. I get the feeling that true simplicity
is something better embodied by the significantly occupied. All of
the faculties that I leave unused when I am here are distorted from their
original positions; my frustration of their canonical use is a clear case
of omission in my behavior. Maybe it just doesn't matter if I "do
things right", or at least if I do them to a finely-honed perfection each
time I arrive at the workplace or social scene. A man, after all,
must be something of the lesser, in order that he might begin any of the
many possible ways of his "betterment". If anything, if I'm going
to be alone, I need to remove the harsh stare of my own eyes from myself.
There is a story, yes, to this day and to this hollow, and it differs from
my own.
"Bo"
18 March 2002 -- In limited company
I don't suppose I really have a long time to visit this afternoon,
since my real life is making its usual demands of me. The skies are
grey again today, only I know it's above freezing from the slush at the
bottom of the pathways to the outhouse and woodshed, along with the melt-off
dripping over the straight edges of the asphalt eaves. Weather like
this makes its own demands upon the Cabin exterior, quite apart
from the cold and the wind. I have little to see outside that hasn't
been there for some time, though I could well make an inspirational study
of the number and size of open areas of ground, now that the Equinox is
so close on the 20th. It's still essentially a barren place
in the forest, so I am glad to have the makings of the fireplace, the lanterns,
the woolens and the stove at a time like this. Being rather tired
from the office and all that goes with it, I have thrown my sleeping bag
and pillow onto the floor at the base of the hearth, where I feel rather
up close and "intimate" with the fire. Actually, the floor here needs
a fair amount of sweeping to be rid of fine ash, even if the larger sparks
are arrested by the screen.
I haven't any great plan for "something to do" in the hours ahead, so
I'll likely just drift off into something of a nap, right here on the floor.
I have my books, it's true, and also my WWII-era magazines, only they don't
currently promise much in the way of solace, as comforting as an evening
can be under the living room lamp with my feet up on the coffee table.
I think to what I can of the Cabin's substantial "draw" for me over the
years, only it doesn't always come up that strong. I am tempted to
write another person or two into the story, for that is what sells real
fiction, only I'd be left attempting to think "for two", where the job
for one is hard enough as it is. No, it would just be talking to
myself to give many lines to the folks down in the village or on the roads
leading out to the valley. I'm dealing again with the "great divide"
between myself and the others, who can only be known in person, after all.
I'm sure I'm projecting a lot of unfair characteristics upon them, and
in all fairness, I should start to get tough with myself as well.
Really, it is quite the life of leisure, as I can see, that I am able
to "goof off" on such a regular basis, and all alone. Since I've
never heard any great theophanies in which I have been personally commanded
into closer walks with them, I begin to suspect I am off the hook.
Reality, in its most real form, is a sterile matter, upon which value judgments
do not fit well. Thus, I suppose I'm accusing the more-connected
urban dwellers of being as "unrealistic" as I am, when they jump for joy
in their conjoined state. But wait a minute--they are with bona
fide companions, of the kind that will teach even a tired man something
he didn't already know prior to his sitting down to think. I would
think they've invented some sort of "factual fantasy" in their right-and-proper
discourse. Is this the voice I claim not to have heard? Is
it as it is in the rather humanistic renderings I've seen, of a God who
is in the details, but especially in the multitudes?
Things sure do continue to be empty up here, I finally conclude.
The woods, while full of life, are not true enough to the truth to give
me any net gain from the experience. I could well be in a "dress
rehearsal" for some future reach at "happiness", finding out what it is
that gives me rest and which might also, in the proper circumstances, give
me at least the illusion of joy. I need to ask myself, basically,
what it is about an empty clearing with this small scattering of barely-habitable
buildings that ever sounds as good as it does when I'm hemmed in among
the crowd. There have to be authentic people out there
who would afford a similar quantity of rest, but also with the grand and
synergistic effect of a soul that is properly exposed to another.
If anything, I should be dumping by the bucketful those conclusions that
they are nothing more than a trap, set to exploit the social inclination
that has somehow survived my youth.
No, I don't have long to be involved in the conscious process
of dreaming this dream today. The whole machine of actual
experience is waiting for me to climb back in, even if it's not in the
commander's seat the way it is up here at the Cabin. I never did
claim to enjoy driving all that much anyway, and there seem to be enough
folks who'll take this tired man for a ride, once he shows his face again.
Judgment, indeed, is as over-represented in my view of the external world
as the other folks are under-represented in this private one. I listen
to the fire continue to crackle on, though these are the sounds of mere
make-believe. I cannot escape the governing principles of my genetic
affinities. Though I may be making a lot out of something that is
only here because natural selection valued it, I still have my place back
there. The very matter of "right and wrong" is now puzzling me, as
if it needed to prove its duality. This is what I get when I insist
that all of my "dialogue" occurs within the vanishingly-small, singular
locus that is, in truth, the dwelling place of my soul on this earth.
"Bo"
22 March 2002 -- Endeavoring to let go
It's starting into the real "season of mud" outside, which means little
opportunity to sit on the ground. When it gets warm enough for me
to be out there for extended periods, though, I will have the bench upstream
of the building and the hammock, which now stands rolled up in a corner
of the woodshed. There is a sort of mild-mannered overcast today,
and it has stayed warm enough to melt large amounts of snow. I should
expect to be seeing new growth emerge on the scrub and the trees, once
it gets a little more habitable in the clearing for such inspection-work.
I do seem to have a longing for the fresh air at this point, though
it is far too cold to open the windows yet for that purpose. I finally
decide to don my field coat and go to the porch, whose worse offensiveness
is the generally-dried mud from my recent trompings-through. For
the number of clouds on hand, it sure seems bright today, as if
my wishful thinking were filling in something that would otherwise be easy
to deny. The scene is no longer defined by the snow, either--the
plant life looks ready to take over, as indeed it will.
There is something of a breeze today, and this is consistent with a
setting that suggests "change". Currently, it causes little more
than wind chill, as I scrunch into a heat-conservative position in my medium-weight
outerwear. I am well-absorbed by the idea that the outdoor "program"
here is so fully perched in the place it is, the one that so readily poses
"life" in a favored competition with "death". Deep down within, I
feel that small amount of "unrest", of the kind that can cause inspiration
to action in the right circumstances or just ordinary discomfort
in others. It occurs to me that this feeling, while most helpful
in the pursuit of success, is not worth keeping on call at all given moments.
If I am fortunate in the day's undertakings up here at the Cabin, I'll
get to my other useful mode, the one of forgiving and tolerant oblivion.
I suppose I have set forth the outline of another duality--the sentiments
towards internal action outwards and external acceptance inward.
I will generally state a dislike of the first of those, seeking instead
to be laid soundly into a well-provisioned lair to enjoy the second at
great length.
I suspect that something in the way I grew up is responsible for my
episodes of baseless discomfort, unless it's worse than that and a result
of inherent predisposition. It is as if I were carrying an unspoken
and terrible imperative, the one that says, "hold on or perish".
I tell myself that it shouldn't be so hard to get to the other condition;
that wonderful passive state, only it is always a matter of initiative
to get there in the first place, and thus a contradiction in terms.
One obviously does not conduct an active campaign in the interest of acceptance,
so I am not surprised that my efforts so routinely fail. Maybe there's
something to enduring a physical load that will help me today.
I suppose this cold wind, all by itself, is an example of that. "That's
nothing more than burden, though," I finally conclude, and I head
back inside to flop out on top of my bunk. Closing my eyes, I let
all those frivolously-started processes ride along, knowing that
they will eventually fail as the man-made approximations they are to real
spiritual support. The time moves along, and I am left to be.
I am not at all sure of how far I'll get towards being "settled" this
mid-day, only I am aware that it is important in my list of priorities.
There is nothing so golden as to be in a low-blame condition that also
does not prompt the "internal drive" into more action. The whole
idea of the Cabin consisted of that: to sit about on the breast of
a large, open space, utterly left to stay right where I am. I turn
to look out the front window, where I see more of that bright overcast
condition, so full as it is of promise. "Why, I will become
engulfed in the frankly external," I tell myself. The others back
in the city don't need that much of me, and the part I demand of
myself offers a great latitude for negotiation. I still feel the
internal stirrings, of course, but they are not as amenable to my own chasing
as they are to the grand shift of circumstance, both on this earth and
in heaven. To be swept into something is fully possible, but
I dare not hope to sweep myself very far. The outside will
always win, at least in the long term, so I begin to think seriously of
letting go of the controls I hold with such blistered hands.
When real peace comes to join me, of course, this will all look
like a joke. I guess that's the sad part; that I have all of this
posturing that looks to be part of an unavoidable plan, while the truly
unavoidable cannot be so readily characterized. It is almost growing
warm inside here, from the greenhouse effect. There is a big
difference indoors here, between night and day, winter and summer.
My folly could well be that I try to build internal workings to rival the
great predispositions, as if I had any real skill as a "creator".
I grow so tired sometimes, of bailing myself out of situations born of
my own fantastic, prideful excesses. It is not, after all, in my
own hands that I truly rest.
"Bo"
25 March 2002 -- The question of occupation
There is a "hopeful" feeling outside today, with the fairly-direct sun
and temperatures above 50 degrees F. The snow is pretty much converted
now into the mud and other sogginess formed when the atmosphere descends
to join the biosphere, so there is little chance to stretch out anywhere
on the grass. The chill in the air, while diminished from how it
was during the winter, places something of a restraint upon one's conclusion
that milder times have finally arrived. Just as the season of "spring"
implies, the hollow is starting its way through a transition, and
the Cabin cannot yet be fully treated as a "vacation property". No,
it's still something of a grim, utilitarian camp, such as one might have
for hunting or for basic survival, as in the case of the 19th century pioneers.
I'm not even sure how many of those folks in earlier times would have settled
this high on the river, anyway. The highlands, by being so "removed",
are typically given special places in the "scheme" of a jurisdiction, as
if their terrain had won some sort of victory against the hand of man.
I'm in my tentative spot for judging these outdoors--the beat-up old
metal spring chair that has sat on the front porch for nearly 5 years now.
None of the critical elements of this furnishing have rusted enough to
pose a safety hazard, so I keep it right where it is. The front steps
and the path to the door contain a substantial soaking of mud and puddle-water,
from the conditions prevalent across the side yard to the truck and outbuildings.
"If only it were a bit warmer", I say to myself, "so that I could really
take in the reality that the warmer days are coming." Of course,
the plants are only at the very outset of their 2002 growing performance,
so there would be little of that mature, overgrown appearance that makes
the forest look so "lush" at its entrance at the clearing's edge.
Right now, it looks like a production for which the stage crews have not
finished, with all the open tree frameworks rising like so much scaffolding
from the still-exposed granite rocks and mossy soil. The occasional
songbird does come by now, though I have to wonder if I am as much
of an aberration as it is in insisting on being present in the "off-season"
month of March.
I lean back into the chair, until my head scratches up against the vermilion-stained
cedar clapboard siding. It is not so early in the day that the sun
is in my eyes in this northeast-facing position. In something of
a softened panic, I realize that I really don't have a whole lot
of reason to keep coming to these rugged woods. My typical activity
is to sit around or sleep, two distinct omissions from the "world of work".
The person who tires of such deliberations would say, therefore, that "I
should just give it up". As much as the surroundings in this hollow
are indicated as "authentic", the fact is that I am in an active practice
of denial and escape. Back in the city, it is presumed that a man
will have enough to do; the only shortage is one of motivation. There
is something "special", though about the Cabin and its legendary silence.
Even with the birds and the sound of the river, it is the very embodiment
of being unoccupied. Maybe I expect too much in the way of
provisions for my leisure, and that's why I'm never granted total
release into my dreamt-up landscape and dwelling. Why am I
at all "worthy", anyway?
Something is holding me back today, in my attempts at settling
into unfettered oblivion, if nothing more than guilt. The
truly "successful" visit is the one in which I am completely released,
to wander about on the land without pausing at every juncture to look for
folks about to cross my path. Now, however, I cannot "wander" very
easily, on account of the mud. While that is possible during the
summer, I would endeavor to possess the other months here, too. The
ones who have "had to" live so primitively in the past had their many daily
duties and their God-given missions in life, so they didn't need to make
my kind of flimsy excuses for living in surroundings such as these.
I don't know--maybe I need to retrieve some of the wonder of springtime
during my youth, in the years when being nothing more than a student meant
I had a fair approximation of the "unoccupied" condition that sounds
so "restful". We would witness sun, just like today's, and the melting
of the snow in the back yard. Soon came the crocus, daffodil, tulip
and grape hyacinth, these being trusty signposts during the process.
The school year would begin to run out, so that a kid was ultimately able
to enter the final haven of summer vacation.
I suspect that I have far too much "on my mind" at the age of 40 to
see the scene of spring's arrival with eyes like those again. Of
course, some of it, if not most of it, is predicated upon the vaguaries
of "mood", which for me is a physical affliction and/or affectation that
is every bit as compelling as hunger or thirst. I see myself orchestrating
this huge set of varied reactions to the many "inputs" I find in life,
and it is not comfort enough to know that it's "just me", for I do not
have the faculties "they" think I do to turn on a dime and begin a new
way. I look at the implements of personal elaboration that I hold
in my mind's eye on this rather cool day, and I am suddenly taken by the
power of conditioning, for I move them with little or no thought.
What is all of this ritual? Is it the closest I'll have to having
a real "vocation" to which I am called? Stopping does not seem like an
option, and I should perhaps be grateful that I can have convictions
this strong and unyielding. I guess I can't stay out here much longer
on the porch--the routine must move on.
"Bo"
29 March 2002 -- The solution is at hand
The season of spring is well represented by a day like today,
even with patches of snow remaining in the heavier shade and temperatures
that are staying in the 50s F. The sun is a wonderful presence
in the damp chill of the clearing, and I am able to walk about in my extensive
"yard" without wondering about how I am going to escape one meteorological
misery or another. My feet squish down to some depth in the soaked
earth, even where it is harder near the buildings, but this soil is not
the unforgiving humus that one would expect to find in a bag in front of
the local Wal*Mart garden center this time of year. It is a more
refined, chipped-rock material, and one's thoughts do not immediately go
to where the word "mud" would usually send them. I guess the grasses
and shrubs that grow in the main portion of the clearing are a hardy, well-adapted
lot, to have dealt so successfully with an otherwise open rock and gravel
surface.
It is not always the easiest matter to stand at length out here, or
even to sit on the porch, when things are so still. The deep down
hunger is for the ongoing "stream" of content, as metered by the likes
of Ted Turner and Rupert Murdoch. It makes me self conscious, actually
enough, to dwell for long on the point of having come here, instead
of staying there. I think I need to give my internal clocks
a good "jolting" once in awhile, for they take their chronometry far too
lightly when it is measured out in 30 minute increments. I suspect
it is something like 2:00 PM, which is not a good time for television on
a Friday, anyway. I walk to the woodshed, in a steady sequence of
squishes, and open the door. It feels fairly cold in the shade
there, only it is the kind of cold that everyone knows is not long-lived.
Mid-winter desolation in these out-buildings is another story. I
turn and walk to the area of the pines, which are now obtaining a new dose
of that year-long fragrance. From here I can see down to the river,
since there aren't many leaves showing yet on any of the trees.
Walking back along the woods' edge to the back porch, I am reminded
that this place is deserted by definition. Fearful of the others'
irritations, I have also dumped whatever comfort I might derive from the
"connected" life. Really, I should find a way to discern those settings
and contacts that have a greater payback rate, only I suspect I am being
called to some unfathomable spiritual nobility when I seek first the ways
in which others might be "paid". Can the casual observer usually
tell that I am playing such a mercenary game, and might that be why I so
often walk away with that "empty" feeling? This could, of course,
be the lament of any man who still has to have some controlling basis in
the flesh, which is after all a lonely exercise outside of one's own circle.
I conduct these operations in solitude as if I were delivering some indicated
medical treatment, one demanding rigor and attention to protocol.
There can be no answer except in the extreme, for what I am facing is terror
of the kind that typically will cause me to capitulate, given enough
"exposure" to the crowds.
Thus it is, that I shun the fellowship; indeed the fellowship
by which unity can somehow be applied across all humanity. I suspect
they are exerting worthwhile influences upon me during those times I do
let myself into their range, for if they are expressing anything that covers
"everyone", then it is bound to be both effective and difficult to ignore.
Oh, how I wish I could get swept along into the celebration, a drunken
reveller on the street, convinced that "everything's going to be all right".
But then--oh! the repugnance of those times when I see what I'm really
dealing with; a life within the persistent miasma of others' exteriors.
Worldly pain comes upon me, and the promise of more is enough to make me
run. There should be a way to sit out all of what's there,
for it is fairly evident that the great "unity" has been demonstrated.
No matter the terror, my time spent apart and in hiding is the greater
transgression and exposure to lessened outcomes. It is wide open
out here, and I am "safe", yet the cordial congeniality continues.
Throughout all of the ugliness, people are conveniently blind.
Despite the platitudes that tell me to hold on for a better day, I can
see that this scene is not what it could be. It is one of
mud and a chill that would eventually get the better of me, given
enough of a chance. Still, the soil holds every promise of a new
and verdant growth, and a very soon one, too. Why, I can't escape
worthwhile signs, even by dismissing the rest of the crowd. The heavens
and the earth, even out here in my mind's eye, will sing out as only life
at its most essential can permit. It is invariable and inviolable,
this continuity, yet I see it come to so many abrupt "ends" as I decide
why I'm no longer where I want to be in some urban scenario. It's
all alive, and I should give glory to God, the one I complain to
instead about having so little that is affirmative in my sight. Things
must be waited out, at least I know that much. The steady picture
of all of this well-being must take a lot of practice to be kept out of
the dirt.
"Bo"
Ahead to April 2002
