1 December 1997 -- Problems laying in wait
Shorter days have arrived, since the Solstice is so near, and with the
great fields of drift-sculpted snow all about outside, the Cabin has changed
a lot from when I first saw it in the dream.
Now, there is such a distinction between outside and indoors, where it
all seemed to blend together during the summer. This must be why
so many places like this in real life now stand shuttered and closed for
the season, their owners instead busying themselves in the city and preparing
for Christmas. But I still crave the simplicity and time to think
things through at this place.
It seems that what I often call a "problem" in real life is really a
rather trivial matter that would not be one if it were not part of a large
number of other, similar trivial matters. The metaphor is one of
being attacked by vicious socially-organized insects. The difficulty,
also, of being beset by many small difficulties is that they have many
more opportunities to appear in unexpected ways.
Once again, I return to one of my repeated themes, that of how I am
forced to live in constant vigilance and endure continual non-specific
stress, down there in the city. I almost think I would find it an
easier stress, say, if I really got snowed in and ran out of food or if
the woodshed got too low from too many cold nights. Then, the problem
would not be laying in wait for me, like a sniper during guerilla warfare,
but would be immediately before me, where I could see it.
I should like to progress entirely, though, from fear-motivated living,
and instead find myself carried along by irrational hope; unexpected joy,
like so many I have seen. These not only see the glass half-full
but imagine it filled the rest of the way, to overflowing. I wonder
at times how easy it might be to acquire such skill from others, if I only
tried. Within Christian community, it almost seems the obligation
of many I encounter to perform such instruction. Perhaps this constitutes
the essential case for living in large numbers of people, for it increases
one's odds of finding these individuals when they are most needed.
But then...no...there I will find also the network of extended intricacies
and swarm of small annoyances that always attend having too many involvements.
My mind now goes back, for some odd reason, to one of the great events
of the year when I was about 8 years old, the "Charlie Brown's Christmas"
Special. Charlie Brown is as annoyed as I am now and is told "you're
the only one I know who can take something as beautiful as Christmas and
make it into a problem". Those were fine days, I think now, before
I had to be grown up. Yes, I was carried along by many a joy in those
times. Now I must be grown and face what my father had to then.
I doubt much has changed in what the real-life annoyances are. But
then, social support must also be similar to what carried the last generation,
and in this I find hope. I'm not the first to come this way, and
will not be the last.
RB
4 December 1997 -- Reactions to the harshness of
the elements
The condition of snow cover outside is something I'm learning more and
more to accept as the way things will be. Maybe the temperate zones,
especially at these higher altitudes, were not really "meant" for humans...but
then who goes about deciding purposes for environments and who "may" live
there? Although God established things to be as they are, it is a
tenet of faith that I have free will, and am not specifically held back
from spending time in a shelter which must be "thought about" a little
more in these months to be habitable.
I almost think that humans might have been truly "meant for" assuming
challenging roles in the world, lest they become complacent in taking the
simplest way out every time and winding up bored. This makes me wonder
why I can't see facing all that stress and despair down there in real life
as just another hostile environment that poses its own unique challenge.
The streets are often called an "asphalt jungle", and "urban hiking" has
become enough of a sport to merit its own style of althletic shoe.
The world of business, too, is often depicted in terms of survival against
the elements.
Maybe what I don't like about such struggle is that the opposing "elements"
are just other people, for whom I pose a similar, reciprocal challenge.
A man enduring hardship in the Wild, like here at the Cabin, can always
excuse the Wild, since it treats all mammalian life forms with more or
less the same affront. But to endure urban hardship means resenting
the conflicting practices of others just like myself, and when I judge
them for creating a difficult life for me, I judge myself at the same time.
Those that have read this Diary for some time have seen me as a man
who still doesn't quite know what to do with society. But society
can have its benefits, since its essentially-human constituency will also
show compassion along with competitiveness. It was well below freezing
last night; perhaps 10 degrees F. If I had stepped out the front
door with insufficient cover, especially with the wind that was blowing
the hard-crystalline snow across the clearing, I could not have appealed
to anything within that environment that would relent. No, I would
eventually die of hypothermia, no matter what.
But when I amble through large crowds of people around lunch time where
I work in real life, my own behavior and reactions have a large say in
the stress I endure from the situation. Were I sufficiently amenable,
I could even be one of that type who likes living in the downtown
of a major city such as New York or Chicago. But currently, I need
a regular getaway from those conditions, into a setting of more impersonal
atmospheric effects. I would prefer stark surroundings which I can
readily understand more often than the fluid, intangible, emotion-laden
settings so often found in the crowd scenes. My mind has started
runing through the lyrics of "Silver Bells", which strangely celebrates
that "it's Christmas Time in the City", while I instead sit by the fire
in my "Winter Wonderland".
RB
8 December 1997 -- The uniform colors of desolation
It sure has been cold for awhile now! My experience growing up
in the upper Midwest was that a person became slowly accustomed to consistently
cold weather, until what must be a true physiological change took over
towards the month of January. In real life, I moved South to the
southern Mid-Atlantic, where true cold does not stay for long.
The sun was out again today, rising as it does over the ridge to return
the scene to that familar, brilliant white. You have only three real
colors out there today...the blue of the sky, the white of the snow, and
the assorted dark shapes that can assert no other color in comparison than
a dark sort-of-brown. These objects, in the spring, will regain their
individual colorimetric identities as green trees, grayish-green rock outcroppings,
and the vermillion stain of the Cabin's exterior walls. That same
sun has shifted on, to create another "season" of economic vigor for the
Sun Belt, the Carribean, and points further south.
I stand out there in my long johns, wool hat, and down parka, thinking
for a moment of the crowds now gathering in the tropics and sub-tropics.
I go to use that unheated outhouse and gather up more wood from the shed,
with my densely-condensed breath preceeding me. The tourists, meanwhile,
crawl from those splendid outdoor pools, and head for the Italian Ice stands
near the hotel. But would I enjoy being in such a place right now?
Such climes, as any watcher of The
Love Boat knows, bespeak passion, passion of a kind I cannot endure,
since it also involves the second sword's edge of heartbreak.
I haul my splintered armload towards the front door and spot a raccoon
doing its best to find a pathway down by the stream, among the many deer
tracks I've seen there. It, too, is a dark sort-of-brown. Out
on that beach, what would I see? Those women, who are obviously
part of someone else's life, walking along the waterfront at the
beach, and then the properly-proportioned men who are their complement
in that separate existence. I would be working just as hard to maintain
myself along that seaside as I am along this river here.
With my arms growing tired from the load, I kick the Cabin door the
rest of the way open and dump the wood onto the nearly-gone pile.
I carefully place that one new piece on top of the low flames and embers
inside the fieldstone hearth. I glance towards the kitchen, realizing
it's getting time to heat up some water on that old stove and bathe, as
well as wash some of my more-used articles of clothing. There aren't
many of them, since all the storage I have are the pegs on the knotty-pine
wall near the alcove and a fine, low dresser, which always has a dark sort-of-brown
maple finish, that I was able to haul up in the truck
during the summer. How out of place it would be in an oceanfront
high-rise, with the wicker and brightly-colored fabric accents all about.
There's that raccoon again, prowling about by the back porch. It
has probably smelled my cooking by now, to which it has no rightful share
as a wild creature. That's what any National
Parks ranger will tell you, anyway.
RB
12 December 1997 -- Placed at the proper location
There have been a series of grey, overcast days, with occasional flurries,
here and there. This weather is what usually greets me in real life
when I get off the plane for Christmas at Detroit Metro Airport...only
there, I walk out into a world of salt-sprayed cars and weathered pavement.
Still, it is easier to know the Holiday spirit in such conditions than
down in the great terminator between North and South where my city home
lies. This is especially possible when the ground has a chance to
hold the snow for a significant time, as it has here, rather than standing
in that brownish-greenish color through most of the winter, to be occluded
only on freak occasion by dumpings no one can handle.
I see the difference as I look out the front window, behind the sofa,
over the clearing and out to the stark tree-forms that rise up the incline,
with the light snow falling as it so often does to remind me of where I
am amid the four seasons. The occasional, final, curled and brittle
brown leaf gets driven from one of the trees, skittering across the top
of the accumulation, until it, too, becomes part of the underlayment.
Since it's clouded over, it has not been as cold, so I've spent some
time out in the yard and down by the stream, whose banks are beginning
to ice up. It is fed, I've discovered, by no small number of springs
at points above me, so the flow has stayed fairly consistent, although
the spring thaw should be an event to behold, when it comes. The
Cabin site and the clearing are rather unusual topography to find so close
to the river bottom. It just seemed like the place to build, since
I could have a back porch at roughly the same elevation as the front.
This takes me to ponder some of the homesites I've seen in Metro Washington,
DC, where land is dear and so many homes in our area are built across a
certain amount of sloping terrain. There is often no choice there
as to where a settlement should go. There were, in much earlier times,
those places where one would naturally build, such as the high plateau
along the Potomac where George Washington lived at Mount
Vernon. Yes, certain places call out to be homesites, while the
rest are just land having "location, location, location". I could
imagine this basin about the Cabin being nearer a city and having various
and sundry luxury homes perched all along the ridge, like the ones I saw
when I visited the Hudson River Valley at West
Point recently. Whether this is an affront to Nature, I'll leave
to those who find Nature itself to be deified.
I look awhile longer through the plate glass panes at the grey, snowy
scene outside. This setting will be with me for awhile, during my
visits to the Cabin. Yet, it is decidedly peaceful, since even the
harsh outdoor conditions can form an enclosure which promotes a sense of
rest. There is nothing I really have to do today, out along the trails
or up at the top of the cliff. I can just be here. Although
the northern cities share weather features like this, they are still invested
with roads, business, shopping; infrastructure. When I get
to Detroit, it will be the heart of the Christmas celebration, no matter
what the weather, which will only be an essential inconvenience.
RB
16 December 1997 -- This snow is good packing
The sun came back out a day or so ago, along with higher temperatures
near freezing (and at times slightly above), so that the blowing snow accumulation
had a chance to fuse down into the "good packing" kind we always loved
so much as kids. Wearing my wool trousers and polypro thermals, I
trudge out into the clearing near the front door and proceed to try my
hand at rolling some construction-sized snowballs.
When I was young and living in Michigan, we kids were usually more interested
in snow forts than in snowmen. The idea, I suppose, was to reconstruct
a battlefield and bombard one another's defenses with well-packed snowballs.
I never saw it as the fun some boys did--many of my peltings, it seemed,
were merited by the true contempt of others, not at all in the category
of "play fighting". On the cable TV down there in the city, I have
now seen an ad for a scooping device called "The Sno Baller," which purportedly
does not pack them so hard as to cause injury. Well, there is no
one here today at whom I can throw any manner of snowball, so I figure
I better go for a snowman.
I wonder if I am secretly admitting that I am simply too isolated in
this place, as I stack the classic three balls of decreasing size, right
where I can see it out the front window of the Cabin. I walk back
into the brush down towards the river and break a couple of fallen willow
branches into arms, then locate stones for the eyes and mouth. This
will do. This brings back the verse from "Winter Wonderland":
"In the meadow we can build a snowman / and pretend that he is Parson Brown
/ he'll say 'are you married?' / we'll say 'no man / but you can do the
job when you're in town'"--the narrative of that song is obviously of a
couple who know canonical romance.
I step back from my snow-companion and imagine what his question for
me might be...maybe "how can you want to be so very much by yourself?".
I stand there in the brilliant sun, amid the grassy tracks from which I
have rolled this being off the ground, and try to answer; answer to myself,
actually. I realize that I am causing "Mr. Snowman" some concern,
as I walk away without an answer, go inside and drop myself back into the
sofa.
What manner of man can actually become so consumed by fear that the
most basic pursuits of "happiness" instead appear only an invitation to
certain heartbreak and disappointment? But I don't think I fit the
mold of the true loner...no, I give myself away by seeking real
community in my city life. Indeed, that is the city's truest consolation:
although one is hemmed in on every side by people, among those people are
the good ones, that can be friends. But as I've said before, this
always means commitment; having to be certain places to meet their
schedules, and foregoing my other pursuits. That's just the way it
is; it's why we have the Golden Rule.
RB
20 December 1997 -- Some very short days
I see, from my almanac reference book, that the Winter
Solstice shall come, at 20:07 UTC tomorrow, Sunday, the 21st.
This is always an annual point of hope for me; that the sun can leave me
no further. It will from thenceforth only give me longer days,
until June. Since I picture the Cabin standing at somewhere between
40 and 45 degrees north latitude, the recent days have indeed been short.
I have felt a bit run down today, in the upper respiratory sense, from
one infectious source or another; it must have been something I contracted
on my last trip down the road to town. I've been keeping indoors
as much as possible, while my snowman has stood firm where he was planted
earlier in the week, looking in at me through the front window. In
my real life, it seems, I have been disappointingly ill many a year at
the height of the Christmas celebration. The stress of air travel,
now that I live so far off, does not contribute to my chances of preserving
vitality throughout.
It seems a bit easier to live out when I take to heart that oft-heard
phrase, "Remember the Reason for the Season". The arrival of Jesus,
commemorated during these dark northern hemisphere days, was to bring "tidings
of comfort and joy". That is what is invoked when the carolers
sing "God Rest ye Merry Gentlemen". For those with no time to arrange
for comfort and little inherent tendency towards joy, this sounds like
a very tall order. But there are those who can do it, and I bring
them to mind, as they prepare to conduct their practice of "Home for the
Holidays". This presumes, first of all, that the involved persons
consider their destination to be "home", an attribute I no longer assign
to the place of my birth, but neither as much to the place of my current
residence.
A phrase often used by these travelers that causes me much curiosity
centers about the notion of "doing Christmas". "We're doing Christmas
at my parents' place on Christmas Eve and then at my fiancé's house
Christmas Day." It almost sounds like an obligation; a chore that
has to be gotten out of the way, or a business meeting to add to the pocket-reminder.
I think I need to write in there..."24 December, 25 December; Comfort and
Joy, Comfort and Joy". Being a bit ill can make me feel this way,
I guess.
I should get some sleep tonight. The sun has already gone down
now, since it's been getting very dark, very early. I go to heat
up the kettle and have a cup of tea, using the last of the stove's fire
from cooking up a hearty order of chow from canned goods. Although
not so tasty as the provisions a refrigerator would allow, they beat freeze-dried
backpacking rations and are cheaper than MREs. I drop down into the
plushness of the sofa with my tea, with the kerosene lamp burning overhead.
This time will pass. Brighter times, longer days, are coming.
Yes, there is always a chance for the arrival of comfort and joy in such
midst.
RB
24 December 1997 -- A truly Silent Night
It was cold and grey again outside today, and I spent some good time
just sitting and remaining stretched out on my bunk in the alcove where
the roof comes low, without that schedule of irritations and sudden
surprises. Oh, how great it is to be able to let down the defense
of constant vigilance that is part of the standard hustle-about in city-bound
Christmas! It occurred to me that I may simply be a weakling and
a coward, for not finding the standard "joy" in the chance to assemble
with family, and "see the Blazing Yule before us". Why should I so
readily prefer isolation, at least as an abstract concept, when these particular
individuals cannot truly have malice in their hearts directed my way?
It would be a disservice to real veterans to call this condition
"battle fatigue," but that is what it tends to resemble, at least from
what I have observed on "M*A*S*H" and in the actions of the slapped soldier
in "Patton". There are those who would call my condition a blessing,
since they, themselves, would be as sensitive to all about them if they
could. But these aspirants know the life of the "normal" personality
in its fullest, and I would not call them anything but blessed beyond compare.
Down the hill, where the dirt track diverges from the midst of society,
they find no greater joy than community, as when the residents of "Whoville",
despite the Grinch's efforts, still have their Holiday.
It is getting dark now and a light snow has started. Yet, unlike
the metropolitan areas, there are no great underlightings of the cloud
cover, as with the sodium vapor orange of parking lots and organized streetlights.
These clouds are closer in appearance to the clear night's sky, only with
no stars. I'm feeling well enough to don my various garments and
step out the front door for a walk in this most Silent Night. I suppose
I could go turn on the radio in the truck and
raise Christmas music on noisy FM or some far off clear-channel AM skip,
but I'd rather not sit in that cab unless I have to drive in it.
I walk out into the clearing, watching out for the boulder outcrops
and passing my still-vigilant snowman, and see the flakes fall about me,
discernible in the last vestiges of twilight and in silhouette against
the lamp glow in the front window. I suppose this resembles one of
those advertisements for such items as package liquor you might see in
the big glossy magazines. There is nothing right behind me except
the ridge, which I cannot even see. My principal threat is the cold,
since it feels substantially below freezing, although there is no driving
wind to assault my face.
Back in the real world that appears so fearsome, I truly have a position
as "safe" as one could imagine, even on the road in real life, travelling
to Michigan. Bedecked with credit cards, travelers cheques, and plain
old cash, my needs are met, even without the provisions of family.
My state, then, must be one of simple exhaustion, from incessantly watching
too many sources of imagined trouble. It's time to lay those non-existent
burdens down, and concentrate on where true treasure lies.
RB
28 December 1997 -- Chasing what does not satisfy
I am sprawled on the floor in front of the fireplace, on the thick rug
thrown there, watching the flames and absorbing the radiance of their heat.
It is cold and crisp tonight, yet the sky has cleared and the stars were
fiercely sharp points scattered above when I was last outside to use the
outhouse.
It has occurred to me today, as it has at earlier times while I've been
at the Cabin, that I would make this something of the "upscale" life out
here, even though I posit no electricity or running water. Part and
parcel of this quiet utopia is access via my Ford Explorer and the ability
to fend off some of nature's extremes with high-tech fabrics and gadgetry
acquired only in "outfitter stores" like you see in the midst of sprawling
traffic in the city. I don't think I ever made a declaration that
the finer provisions of the world are in themselves such terrible things,
but instead, that the environment in which the world makes me live in order
to have them (traffic, crowds, noise, etc.) is the objectionable element.
But maybe that's more than I can really hope for--serenity made livable
through technology.
The spirit of Cabin life is not one where I can simply go to my bookmarks
list and immediately find what I want, call up on the phone, and
give a credit card number. No, there must be time spent pondering
situations for their intrinsic merit and shortcomings, carefully holding
in my mind both the good and the bad; accepting all as part of the deal.
This, really, is how a life is lived over the long term, with a broader
perspective and less immediate recourse to impulsive action.
I have noticed a trend in my own expectations, however, that works against
this, and it is hardly new. It basically follows the old "keeping
up with the Joneses" problem that began in the American suburbia of the
1950's and 1960's. Can I simply stand here in the late 1990's and
be satisfied that my needs have been supplied, or must I look to
my peers and walk about in shame for that one last thing that I
do not have? City living is such that personal space is at a premium,
but the perception of lack or sufficiency in this regard is highly subjective.
Out here at the Cabin, of course, all the space I can see is personal to
me, but I wonder at times how long my real life will impel me to drive
up that dirt track, alone.
Maybe that's it, the being alone...there is no one to compare myself
to and see a state of wanting that I can do nothing about. This reminds
me of the quip uttered by Benjamin the Mule in Orwell's Animal Farm.
He realized that his tail was given him to sweep away the flies, but he
would much rather have "no flies and no tail". I seek out isolation
to sweep away the annoyances of city life, but how great it would be to
have no annoyances and no need for isolation! Maybe that is the realistic
"total package" that my ordained city life presents me: plenty of
convenience, courtesy of the technology I can afford, yet the apparently
unescapable pain of nerves worn to their limit from vain struggles for
what I really do not need. I think it is time to get out the
old winnowing fan and work on my pile of perceived "needs".
It has become contaminated again with frivolous wants.
RB
Ahead to January 1998
