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 Mailing address: bo@bo-hemian.com |
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4 April 1998 -- A rainy day indoors
After having just gotten out of bed a short spell back, I'm sitting in front of the fire, Cabin-bound, on another of those rainy days. Although hardly late enough in the season that this could not have been another snow-dumping, the cold remains such that I'd hardly think of spending much time out there, as I might have as an 8-year-old in one of those splendid summer squalls. Those were the days when I had no important documents on my person that would become soaked through; those were the days when it did not seem unreasonable to become completely wet.
I wonder and become concerned, at times, about how much I am truly able to "enjoy" being holed up in my dwelling, which is more of a problem in real life. There, stepping out and walking down the street or starting to drive somewhere means facing, at once, a great many people in my way. I've often tried to remind myself that I tend to be in their way as well. There is, also, the tendency of city dwellers (even in the suburban reaches) not to have as much dialogue with their immediate neighbors. Here at the Cabin, of course, I have no neighbors, but back down there, those anonymous ones are all about, yet unknown.
Perhaps I do not take enough blame for this state of affairs upon myself; personal accountability is, after all, the current fashionable school of thought. I am certain that I do things to close others off from contact with me. It cannot possibly be so bad; individual results must vary. The population of the "normal", a group I still insist exists though I cannot find a soul who will admit to being a member, will generally reach out better than I do, no matter what the setting. Today, and here, however, I have shut them out for the moment.
The rain pounds steadily upon the roof and I see puddles form in the low spots outside, amongst the rapidly-melting snow cover. The clouds pass overhead, in their various tones of a single gray hue, and on occasion I see the peaks in the distance become obscured. The trees that I can see out the back, from the kitchen window, are starting into their vibrant green foliage of spring. It is clear that another season has come upon us. The Easter holiday approaches, with all the newness it implies. But first we must commemorate the Passion, and another group that was huddled indoors, as an indifferent and occasionally-hostile crowd surrounded them in the streets.
I should not compare my own alienation in any way with that earlier Movement, however, for my motivation to be set apart hardly seems to be based upon any form of love or fellowship. Its only compassion appears to reside in my own attempts at retreat from an excessive external environment, one which I am called, time and time again, to re-enter. I shall be glad when these oppressive days of wetness and mire pass from the hollow and I might have a chance to get back outside. But better still will be that time when my real life is such that I do not seek enclosure as a matter of course; when all becomes open and I no longer keep my doors closed and my face set apart from the faces of so many others who see it, yet walk away sadly, realizing it is not the time to bother.
RB
8 April 1998 -- The sense of spring
With the sun out again today, and temperatures approaching 60 F, I have a good chance to spend some time outdoors, amid the lessening remnants of snowdrifts and the increasing appearance of new growth. What a feeling it is, to be out in the open again! This is how I remember the Cabin most vividly from the dream, set within an expanse of wildflowers and tall grass, with the occasional breeze to remind me that I was no longer held within the confines of an artificial indoor environment.
I step into the sun from the front porch, not quite ready for this new set of surroundings. I walk about the dooryard and then off into the rock-studded brush, and as I clear the far corner of the building, I hear the unwaveringly solid sound of the river below, a low roar that stays firmly in background the way the ventillation and computer fan noises at my office desk in the city will do. Last time I was down the steps there, the water was at one of the higher levels it knows during the year, forming an almost unbroken, foaming cascade of white, trailing off towards its confluence with the other branch.
I decide to take the old steel chair from the front porch and find somewhere to set it, out in the clearing, since the rocks become very hard to sit upon for long. Perhaps there is a patch of grass out there large enough for a person to stretch out upon. I need to look for one this year. I settle myself down to the single task, which knows no conflict within the superstructure of an ordinary weekly routine, of sitting and feeling this air of the new season; of looking about at the new buds and unfolding leaves; the ground cover re-emerging from its dormancy where the snow had now gone.
With the Cabin, the truck, and the roar of the river behind me, I look outward towards the great enclosing crescent of the ridge, across which all the deciduous trees are now coming back into their own. Above, I see again the majesty of the hawks, on their purposeful, highly-efficient flight plans. And there--off by that rock almost to the base of the rise--it is a rabbit! I should hardly be surprised to see one here, nor the deer for that matter, since these can thrive well enough to be regarded as pests in many suburban areas. For a moment, I think of Rawlings' "The Yearling", and how it was that people in the late 19th century had to co-exist with the untamed wild and its various residents.
So different are the enemies I face in my real life. While no rattlers or bears are ready to attack, death still lurks in being entrapped in the sedentary way, travelling more some days vertically in elevators than horizontally in the open. The outdoors seems a strange place to be at times, when living that life. Even in the parks, the crowds busy themselves in agitation, speeding past on bicycles or playing sports or constructing picnic field kitchens. I continue to sit, as long as my electronic media-shortened attention span will let me. I try for some of that direct experience from the senses, rather than the cerebrally-processed self-dialogue that runs inside my head. Life in the present--how elusive it can be.
RB
12 April 1998 -- Life's victory over death
I try, once again, to settle my mind down to "what really matters", as I sit inside on the sofa this Easter Sunday. Since colder weather has moved in, it is not as inviting to be outdoors, even though the sun shines bright.
Easter, as the story is told, celebrates the triumph of life over the powers that produce death. Thus it is, that some have classified all matters of "the world" into the category of "death", while affairs concerning the heart, the spirit, and so on fall into the other bucket, "life". The attention of the "well-adjusted" person seems drawn more to these latter "life" pursuits than to those unfortunate, necessary evils related to the world; to the flesh; to physical reality. Why, after all, would any person spend much time chasing after excellence in those things which are certain to pass and are doomed to decay; to become obsolete, often within his own lifetime?
I have looked, from my standpoint as a semi-disinterested observer, at these pursuits towards which the masses flock. The underlying activity in something such as, say, romantic involvement is simplicity itself. There are no undergraduate degrees in the subject; it is, to use the old phrase, "doing what comes naturally". But there is great paradox in this "simplicity" for those accustomed to handling all things as scientific, engineering, or business problems. A most simple matter of expressing devotion, love, and care, when it is posed as a "problem", becomes an impossible stalemate. The minute a systematic or scientific approach is applied to one of these matters of the heart or soul, the bottom falls right out, since it is the subject matter itself that provides the practitioner with the needed answers for "what do I do next?"
It saddens me to think of the great many who truly walk in "life's" light, yet are not sufficiently endowed with capability to deal in that other, crass and materialistic realm. They are often unable to keep their worthwhile enterprises underway. Conversely, I'm thinking of my own need to behold and appreciate simple things that are foolishness to "the world", generally on account of that very simplicity. These are what will keep me afloat, and not the show and gadgetry of "making a living". No one can "make" anything to compare with true "living", using such spiritually impoverished effort.
Sure, the intricacy of worldly apparatus, and the ability to put it in place, command a certain allegiance and compensation. But those who can only dream of doing as much, yet go on to their loving relationships; their families; their long-standing devotion, command an even greater respect. This may be why I cherish these visits to the Cabin, for here I do not seek first to achieve the accolades of erudite accomplishment within the structure of industry and commerce. No, in this place, I finally slow down enough to realize that there is enough goodness in any given item of God's creation, even my own imperfect self, to inspire a lifetime of wonder.
Paradoxical and transcendental, yes, are the attributes that distinguish something of "life" from the great many apparently-complex trappings of "death", be they of the flesh and its satisfaction, greed for its own sake and none other, or the senseless ridicule and deprecation of others from a position of false pride. I turn around and spend some time looking out the window, to see the clearing and take special note of today's assortment of wildflowers, amid the tall and growing grass.
RB
16 April 1998 -- A moment's escape to the clearing
With the return of warmer conditions, I've had another chance to get outside today. How I love to come out into the clearing and just stand still, with only the sounds of the river, the occasional wind through the treetops, and the birds, off in their various perches! I should think if it were dead quiet out here on this spring day, I would find it noisier than this.
It is enough to make me think that a setting of stillness, with no rushed activity or frantic efforts to change anything, would be the ideal way for most, given a choice. To be so settled as not to have another matter come hurtling upon me in immediate need of addressing, and just to dwell in such a state as this, fits the model of the one who has successfully "escaped all", such as to live in the South Pacific on one's own Island. I have seen, on frequent occasion, the travel industry's attempts to let people have this--for a week, maybe. But this artificial serenity is only possible by getting right back on the plane and returning to the routine. This is the life of the one who must work.
There is a certain correctness, to be sure, in the life of dedication to goals and ideals, although working on them does not always appear so undeniably peaceful. This gets to the notion of one's calling,or Vocation, a matter to be discerned by those of faith through prayer. Do I really seek first the Kingdom of God and all of his righteousness by standing here in this clearing, doing nothing but listening to the sounds of the woods and the stream? I begin to realize how poor I am as a judge of "what to do next", when I'm on my own. This is something I cannot deduce by my own reasoning and resources; it always takes the voice of higher authority.
As Paul tells the Romans, all things do work together for the good, for those who love God and are called to according to his purpose, but some of those "things" initially appear as rather strange and incongruous members of such a cooperating set. I go to take a momentary seat on one of the granite outcroppings in the settled yet slightly moving air of the clearing. The snow is now gone from sight, and a damp freshness of the new season's crop rises into the air. A person such as myself might not have been "planted" permanently to "bloom" in this one setting, inviting as the prospect might appear. I cannot stay out here on my Island forever.
Down in that real world in which I so regularly know discord and irritation are others whom God has set in my path, so that I might make best use of his goodness in keeping me, day by day. I must therefore seek to help them, and be helped by them in return, through a genuine sentiment of interest and loving care. I think back to my own youth and years of coming into my own in the world. Where would I have gone, if everyone were out in their own clearing, just listening to the river, instead of looking out for me and doing their part to help me along? As I'm reminded by the lyrics of the Doobie Brothers, "Without love, where would you be right now?" I turn and head back along the trail, towards the chores of the Cabin and the road back to town, knowing that more assignments lay ahead.
RB
20 April 1998 -- This is not the time
After getting up this morning and finding enough to eat from the pantry supplies, I can see that there is a certain amount of sun, so I decide I want to spend some time sitting on the front porch. I have to put on my spring-weight shell, since the air is decidedly brisk and a steady wind is passing by, yet it carries no blowing leaves or other such reminders of the fall days when weather conditions were similar. Instead the green of the trees is continuing to intensify, all about the ridge.
Soon the trails ought to be free enough of muck to permit hiking again to the summits out there. Right now, I could lace up my solid leather boots and tromp my way up, stepping through all the streams of run-off and making a real mess of my feet. But such going is slow and I care not for the cleanup. So I sit under the roof of the front porch, on the old metal chair, which creaks until I reached a permanent position. I just look out and up, to those prominent rocks that comprise the peaks of the ridge's chain. I picture what it will be like, when conditions improve and I get a chance to stand on them again. They're in sight, yet the way up is not ready as of yet.
I realize I shouldn't look at those peaks for too long, because soon enough, my desire to take the trails, no matter what, would put me at best in some very messy places and at worst could cause an accident from slipping. It is simply unfair, I think to myself, that with good weather and such an exciting place as the ridgetop clearly in view, I should nonetheless be deterred by the details of the trail below, which must pass through more than 1000 feet of vertical elevation and around numerous switchbacks.
Would others, perhaps, see a day like this and say, "who cares about the mud--let's go!"? Would I see them in my 12 x 50 field glasses, an hour or two later, as small specks that were nonetheless waving their arms in exaltation? I realize, upon such speculation, what hesitation resides in me; how little my current real life lets me ignore seeming inconvenience and risk.
I continue to sit on the porch, looking out, watching the grass blow in the wind. It cannot really be, I reason, that I am truly set in my ways and will never be like the risk-takers I'd see having such intense life experience, looking back from that mountaintop. For all things, as I recall from Ecclesiastes, there is a season. I suppose a corollary to that is that the particular season for those things varies from person to person. The ground will be dry again in a couple of months and I'll be up there, too. Perhaps it is time to fix my attention elsewhere for awhile, on things around the Cabin that I can attend to while I wait. The winter must surely have caused some damage I haven't found as of yet. Time to get out the tools. With all in order down here, I shall then be truly prepared to go for the summits again this year.
RB
24 April 1998 -- Sitting with the campfire
Real life has pointed my mind in so many different directions at once lately that I am glad to have a moment to be here at the Cabin, where it is easier to look at just the one scene in front of me and put full attention into it. It has remained warm enough to be outside more often, so I have decided, this evening, to light up a fire in the stone ring, a distance into the clearing from the front door.
Wearing my lighter-weight lined shell and a wool sweater beneath, I have taken the steel porch chair out to a position in front of the ring. It is another crystal-clear twilight, the kind where the sky exhibits a fine distribution of hues, across 180 degrees from the setting sun over the river-cut to the approaching night over the ridge, which shall soon assume lesser prominence and place in my thoughts, as it blends into the starry sky.
I go to the woodshed and carefully select a pile of assorted hardwood, left from the many nights and cold days of the winter behind me, hauling several arms full to the edge of the stone ring. From the toolbench area within the shed, I find my hatchet, which I employ to split enough kindling to get a fire underway. After stacking enough loose chips and bark at the base, I strike a match to the carefully-laid wood and watch the flames come to life, as flames have so often during those times when the Cabin fireplace was a staple of survival.
I settle back into the chair, listening to the owls in the distant trees, and the continuing flow of the river below, but principally focused upon this one growing flame. It shall be my center of attention for the next several hours, lest I put good firewood to waste by dousing it early. I am struck by how a single, major point of focus can let my mind nonetheless sort out its other encumbrances, concerns, and neglected causes for celebration, putting them in proper order. Since I have lit this flame, I am now committed to make some use of this campfire. I cannot just run off and start into another activity; I cannot go back inside and decide to read for awhile under the kerosene lamp.
No, this is where I must stay and sit myself down; my life has a central definition in this building flame, which licks up about the sides of the good oak and maple logs that were meant to sustain heat for longer than a passing moment. I pull myself slightly closer to the ring, as night's chill comes upon me, and absorb some of this heat throughout. Apart from the fire itself, all is growing darker. The stars are beginning to show now, on this moonless night, as I become acquainted with each and every distinct feature of the combustion. I find a stick with which to tend the logs, and keep the process at an optimum. The fire depends upon me to thrive, and I, in turn, take warmth from it. I would soon be cold and have no reason to stay in this beautiful, starry night, were it not for the flame, which I now tend with what amounts to an affection. I shall be at its side for some time, for it has become so familiar to me.
RB
29 April 1998 -- Right in front of my face
It has been another warm day, with sun, where I have found myself content to step outside and just work on a single job at a time. I have noted on frequent occasion how good it is to remove myself from the continual, multi-directional and simultaneous stimulation of the plural media and responsibilities of my real city life. I think to myself that there has to be a way of selectively viewing all of those urban demands that can resemble what I know in the quiet out here at the Cabin, working in effective sequence on one item after another until a sufficient amount is done.
My lament is that I see things with a foreshortened perspective, being of such analytic bent as to work through far-reaching potential consequences of matters that are really only single assignments for the moment. Most are not truly projects assigned as lifelong labors. But it remains that many of the scenarios facing me down there in the city have the appearance of having no end, should I think about them long enough. Perhaps I run into the problem of which Billy Joel sings: "Maybe try to be a straight 'A' student / if you are, then you think too much". Doing without thinking and taking what comes. This, I suppose, is authentic living, but no one really wants to advocate it, for it seems so irresponsible. Yet, without restraint from excessive consideration, a mind can and will become swamped and incapacitated. I have known this personally. It is how people burn out.
So I look at what I'm doing out here, nailing down the boards I can see are starting to work their way loose, realizing how much I valued the integrity of the Cabin exterior during the winter months. I then get out the caulking gun and work at the gaps that cannot be closed that easily. I am sure there are other small disasters of the elements waiting to happen, yet I am also aware of what the single crack in front of me could become, when the cold returns or the rain is driven against it.
I see something like that, directly in front of me, and that is where my attention goes. If I do not work like this, I shall soon have a mind that is preparing for all manner of ruin, while ignoring the obvious. This, I begin to think, is what can be insidious about telecommunications and mass media. They divert our attention, often into things that do not or never will really matter. At the same time, a wonderful chance for a good life slips right past, ignored because it is studied according to worst-case scenario and judged unworthy of the risk.
But how do I know that all the pre-conditions for that worst-case outcome are the ones that will actually come to pass? That is having the presumption of knowing the future. When my present action is always taken according to the best of a number of worst cases, what I wind up with is missed opportunity. That extraordinary series of intermediary conditions might never have been the case. It is time, then, to look at present actions on their own, current merits. That's all I have to work with.
RB
