1 January 1998 -- Kept inside by the cold and snow
Back on 30 December, a major front moved through and dropped about 12
inches of new snow over everything. The temperature stayed close
enough to freezing (but just below) to make this the kind of snow that
piles deeply all about, and without much drifting like the earlier time.
These were fair-sized flakes, although not strikingly large, whose steady
advance showed that they meant business.
Since it has stayed as cold or colder since then, the great rounded
layer remains, outside every window, as I look out. "Mr. Snowman"
in the clearing rises now from a smoothly-rounded junction with the ground,
and the bare tracks from whence he was rolled are gone. He is a more
formidable snowman in every regard, appearing not to have been formed by
my hands but rather by the freak effects of the snowfall, the result, perhaps,
of some localized "chaotic" process started by that celebrated butterfly
in the tropics. He is now streamlined and has taken on a stature
augmented by nature itself.
I continue to work at keeping a good area cleared for the paths to the
outhouse, woodshed, and spot where the ice-restricted flow of the stream
continues enough, still, to permit a reasonable gathering for Cabin uses.
Earlier clearing efforts had already built heaps along the walkways, which
I realize now I should have dug wider, to prevent cave-ins when this process
brings them above waist-high. I recall the main effort of city snow-shovelling,
which is to dig one's vehicle a path through the piled embankment created
by the plow opening the street. Here, it is the sheer volume of snow
itself, at altitude and away from warming coastal weather, that strains
my back.
The sun has returned this day, and the skies are invitingly bright,
but the temperatures have also become forbiddingly cold, even during the
day, keeping my outings to a minimum. I spend time indoors, therefore,
with this sun pouring into the windows and across the floor, working on
the small amount of clutter reduction and clean-up that this simplified
living space requires. In real life, of course, I am not so
fortunate to have this lack of distraction, and it seems no individual
matter ever gets the time spent on it that its own rightful merits would
suggest. One form of hurried work on one neglected task is soon aggravated
by the time- or severity-critical appearance of another job that
must be completed.
It would be so much better to have attention fully devoted to the satisfaction
of working on each of these sequential tasks; to remove the memories of
what no longer is and fears of what will come next, these only being fears
because they will also involve such a frantic state. Why is it that
time must be blurred into a continuum of all moments, when the only one
of consequence is the one, after all, that we experience? I realize
that this is a very old question, one that can only be asked by such a
creature as a human, with keenness of memory and imagination of the future
to match.
RB
5 January 1998 -- A life with limits and restraint
It has warmed enough from the sun and temperatures hovering around freezing
to melt a fair amount of the rooftop snow into a curtain of icicles below
the eaves. The sun has that wonderful "prism" effect, as it refracts
through this natural decor that does not come down as soon as Christmas
is over. It will be with me for at least two more months.
Occasionally, the right gust of wind will shake the high evergreen stand
in the direction of the road and the river, and a heavy-laden branch or
two will loose its contents upon the roof. Thump! None of that
stand looks weak enough to blow over onto the structure. I would
be more concerned if I were built on the other side of the clearing, up
against some of those towering hardwoods. I have walked so often
through those woods, stepping every hundred yards or so over a great, fallen
trunk, looking back at the jagged, splintered stump where it decided to
give way.
Going out now, though, means getting into snowshoes and taking many
precautions as to clothing. Life just isn't that simple out there.
But being in the adversity of cold takes me immediately to an understanding
of my own human limitations, so I do like to venture that way every so
often. It is almost as though being tested physically is a form of
invigoration or a tonic, whereby humans gain courage. Paul notes,
"my strength is made perfect in weakness". There, indeed, would be
a serenity to embody completely, down in that real world--to have such
grace as to gain satisfaction even in infirmity.
A good course of deprivation may therefore be in order. That,
after all, is one of the postulated conditions of the Cabin: no media
inputs or electrical conveniences. In this regard, I have indeed
loved my opportunities for real life backpacking. It is something,
out there, how even washing your aluminum mess kit by hand can have satisfaction,
and you seek no greater pleasure beyond that perfect spot to sit,
such as on one of those great fallen logs. In these days that I've
been inside the Cabin, puttering around as it were, it amazes me what things
can take on new satisfactions, as they never would at my city home or office
because of how the electrical and electronic apparati would drown them
out.
Today, I have spent some time, carrying and heating water for the purposes
of bathing and washing clothes. I look, for example, at a pitch stain
to remove from my trousers and it is central to my attention, not a job
I'm attempting while listening to a program on the radio. I work
at it, using the washboard and scrubber, and yes, my fingernails, until
the clothing is once again presentable. And my hair--this cleanup
is not the rote, assembly-line, half-asleep process that precedes driving
to work in the morning. No, it is something to linger upon, as I
feel the water go over the top of my head and rinse out the scrubbed-away
accumulation.
At the Cabin, I no longer take these simple things for granted, for
they all involve significant effort. I then realize how jaded my
life has become in the American Middle Class. It will not let me
be simple because of the persuasiveness of worldly enticements. It
is time to learn to "Just Not Do It" when "It" is compulsively frivolous.
Discernment of what not to do...there's the gift to have.
RB
9 January 1998 -- A change in the winter routine
It is very wet outside today, since a system of well-above-freezing
air has chosen to make a home here in the hollow for a few days.
I decide this would be a good time to apply another coat of sealant to
my full-leather boots, which have gotten a lot of wear going up those rocky
trails to the top of the ridge. I sit them in front of the fireplace
to let them heat for soaking up the wax, as per the instructions, after
which they shed the slush-filled ground cover well when I go back out.
Most city snow in my real life must be handled in these conditions,
where one is basically moving shovels full of liquid water, and the inevitable
trips to cardiac emergency appear on the news. I have become quite
accustomed
to the biting cold of the last few weeks; it has assumed the familiarity
of routine and predictability. But weather is like this, and what
do I do but go along?
Down by the stream, the runoff has pushed up the flow again, and my
collection-point for water, at this temperature, has become something of
a mud-hole, just like the commonly-trampled areas up by the dooryard.
Out across the clearing, a great fog has risen over the warmed snow, leaving
the higher points of the ridge in obscurity. My snowman has melted
sufficiently to lose his willow-arms, as they fell one at a time to his
side, and now, he's too short for the arms to have the right proportion.
Oh well, I'll make another one when the snow is right again, I say to myself,
laying the two sticks up by the front door under the porch so they won't
get lost. This atmosphere, just as when the snow falls, has a certained
hushed feeling; the air is similarly laden, only with a different kind
of moisture. It is a time to be lived through like a dream, or to
be more precise, those times when the sun was bright and the air crisp
seem now like the fading dream.
It occurs to me again what strong cues a person gets from external environment,
these operating on the unconscious level to create given states of mind.
When it becomes possible to establish an environment with very little change,
as in the city routine, I think that the fatigue of something akin to boredom,
but not really classical boredom, begins to cause weakness, often in the
same, repetitively-stressed centers of fear.
There are some who would find any amount of repetitive routine to be
distasteful, and perhaps they are closer than I am to knowing what is good
to avoid catastrophic failure. Then, there are the ones like I have
become in city living, who hold and cherish their staid routine, even though
it involves great everyday pressures, since the response to those pressures
is well rehearsed and less likely to fail. Such a person indeed has
an interesting and somewhat paradoxical view: in responding to many
unneeded but well-expected pressures, failure on the individual task level
is not likely, yet the buildup of residual strain holds in store the potential
of failure on a larger scale that is denied with great success. I
do not know how to judge which approach to life has greater merit.
Each way of taking on stress knows pain in its own way.
RB
13 January 1998 -- Discerning which work is worth doing
I've had awhile today to live at a lesser level of distraction, here in
the less-connected world of the Cabin. If you've read me much at
all, you'd have heard me describe enduring much distraction, but perhaps
it is a valuable living skill in a real world that expects me to keep dozens
of threads of thought going at one time. Although such a life can
indeed be lived for the moment, it remains that the memory has to maintain,
somewhere, plural continuities of thought for when the present moment moves
on to another of its many tracks. This is the substance of economic,
interpersonal, and spiritual commitment. But it is hard for those
who would take on a large number of these works, when such persons prove
unfit to handle the complete load.
I return, therefore, to the fundamental question of what to keep and
what to live without. It has grown cold here again, I note, as I
look out the front window into a raw, grey, overcast day; I certainly cannot
do without the fire and a sound roof. But back there in the city...I
shudder to think of the load of pointless and not-so-pointless routine
I carry about with me at all times. For every hour of the 168 given
to me in a week, there are the things I must do. It is especially
futile when a number of jobs must be done at once, as in the caricature
of the man with a phone in each ear who also reads from his desk.
It has become good lately to complete jobs as soon as they come to my
attention, one after another, rather than concurrently. This ordering,
I can see, has created the triumph of the "Industrial Revolution", since
specialized production work is done at a better, more efficient rate. The
job is well-defined, immediately necessary, and not open to the distraction
of creative interpretation beyond that specified in the production plan.
Specialized by necessity and ability, then, I suffer the fallacy of
attempting perfection in all things, when in truth I have certain pursuits;
my profession, as it were, that are my only hope of coming close.
As an experienced technologist, back there amid the noise in my particular
"organization", I just show up, last out the day, and my cup runneth over.
Yes, I must let my light shine before men, and not complain on account
of my lot. This is the truth that will make me free. I cannot
hope to sit in the silence for a living, the way countless millions besides
me would as well. They can do it much better, anyway.
The marketplace, although it is a climate as tough as this winter, has
curiously assimilated me, as one who has found a way to appreciate the
elegant unity of technological theory and practice, without the standard
response of revulsion. Having made my deal thus among men, I somewhat
sadly conclude that the wilderness, imagined or real, shall for all time
be only a counterpoise to my industrially-oriented work in the city; an
exercise in balance.
RB
17 January 1998 -- A frantic search for peace
Outside today, it is again cold and grey; the scene is one of assorted
tones of almost a single hue. The fire inside the Cabin breaks a
bit of this up, as well as some of the essential linens such as the sofa
slipcover, the draperies, and the down comforter on my bunk. It is
to this last place of rest that I collapse today, clad in my fleecewear,
which helps even out the temperature difference between the hearth and
the alcove under the back roof.
I am trying my best to "be still and know" those truths that
the overly-busy life, even in this setting, can keep from my appreciation.
This is a more difficult exercise than it might seem, for one whose mind
is continuously starting up again, once tentative silence has been established.
Those many threads of thought I mentioned when I was here last are more
than ready to be pulled forward into the vacuum of such a state. My ultimate
goal, as always, is to focus awareness away from those internal mental
processes whose initial objective reality has long ago passed. The
reality of the given moment is generally more objective because it has
not undergone the transmutations of repeated worry, concerned analysis,
and fearful conclusion.
I shift myself somewhat on the bed, sinking into the comforter to a
better position. I begin to realize that this forced attempt at internal
silence is flawed, since it carries with it a rather loud internal monologue,
expressly ordering everything to "shut up!". I wonder if real silence
would come to me over enough time; with enough practice; with enough removal
from those external reminders of the interfering concerns. I almost
think it will come only when I do some housekeeping as regards those various
intruding thoughts, examining them directly and persuading them with the
respect they are due to show a little more civility.
I sit back up, after this failure at forced quiet, and look about the
room. Over there--yes--there is the heap of old magazines I said
I was going to rearrange soon. I have taken a liking to 1940's and
1950's periodicals, which depict what looks, at least, like a simpler time.
I pick each one carefully from the table near the sofa, for they are antique
collectibles, after all, and spend no small amount of time placing them
back into a stack under the end table. Then I note my parka, thrown
loosely against the door when I came in earlier. I pick it up, straighten
out the creases methodically, and put it back on its peg for next time.
And on it goes, my mind engaged more fully than usual on these tasks
that are immediately before me. I am not in a frantic chase
to accomplish a vast number of soon-to-be-overdue projects, all at once.
This tells of the essence of "One Day at a Time" living, I say to myself.
I realize that a certain peace begins to take its place in the mind that
is simply occupied, while none can abide in the one which has nothing to
do but retrieve fragments of old worry, annoyance, and fear.
RB
21 January 1998 -- Keeping a proper schedule
I had left the curtains open, with there being no one to look in, when
I went to bed last night. At dawn, the sun coming over the ridge into this
clear day's sky suddenly falls in a bright shaft to flood the Cabin.
I put away my last thoughts of continued undisturbed sleep, with this grand
entrance, and begin rustling slowly about within my covers, realizing that
only the last of the fire remains and I need to do some stoking-up.
The few winds that had blown overhead to lull me to sleep have now ended,
and the wooden floor creaks beneath the throw rugs as I stumble into the
room and stretch myself out.
City mornings always begin much earlier than this, in the middle of
the night, really. The same incandescence I last see when drifting off
is the one to hit me anew, as the alarm chirps its insistent call to meet
schedule. O, what essential tyranny of collective living is represented
in that simple household implement, the clock! All must happen in
unison or nothing will happen at all. The measure of my success in
that realm is the value of my time and the dearness of its availability
for the needs of others. Yet does that profit me so much as being
able to stand an extra minute or two in this bright sun, collecting my
senses instead of hurrying to collect my wages?
I have grown weary of short-term rush to meet immediate deadlines in
my office-world existence. As goal upon completed goal is stacked
for the tallying behind me, I lose sight of my longer-term reasons for
enduring the routine. Such butchery it is, when the great continuity
of a man's life has been attacked by calendar and clock, divided and subdivided
until the remaining fragments no longer resemble the life from which they
were taken!
I step, finally, from the brilliance of the window, whose radiance makes
me forget for the moment that cold has settled upon the Cabin room, and
work with the few good embers of the ongoing fire, feeding in the finely-split
kindling until I have enough flame. I sit awhile longer before this
new day's hearth, in my cherrywood rocker, thinking. I ruminate over
the "appointments" I have this day; to find enough to satisfy basic hunger,
rather than eating on account of stress; to work enough on clean-up and
general maintenance so that it does not pile up into a sudden emergency
one day that will resemble a project deadline from the office.
These things will occur in their own time, not times that are
allotted in the interstices of a larger schedule of higher priority.
The fire becames enough to supply reasonable warmth, so I am able to sit
and wake up the rest of the way. Down in the city, the crowds funnel
in, making ready for the great collaboration. I have to admit there
was a certain satisfaction to performing in a collective, last time I was
there. To hear affirmations from others, as well as from myself,
that all is well and I am needed is something I miss in this Cabin living.
RB
25 January 1998 -- Freedom through interdependence
A large storm formation moved through on the 23rd and 24th. The resultant
blizzard conditions, which have now become familiar at this advanced stage
of winter, once again left a heavy new snow cover across the landscape.
I would put it at 6 - 8 inches, but since it was colder this time there
was the inevitable local drifting. My thaw-reduced snow-figure, no
longer deserving the dignity of being called a "snowman", is now a curiously-shaped
lump in the clearing, which would cause me to investigate, had I not put
it there myself. One side is well-endowed and rounded with the new
snow, which was driven by wind, while the opposite betrays the craggy,
molten-away, original surface.
This "snowed-in" time allows me to take a long look at the relative
virtues of solitude and living in the company of others. Much has
been said in recent years about the desirability of interpersonal ties
and networking; usually sold under the name of "community". In this
is implicit a set of agreed-upon and binding rules which one is not free
to disregard, should he or she wish to remain as a "community" member.
This I find curious in view of the other, comparable trend in thought towards
self-determination
and individual "empowerment". It is almost as though these
are two aspects that must be traded off against one another, in the way
the American Bill of Rights grants freedoms only extensive to the limits
of similar rights accorded others.
I come to my Cabin because I feel distraught over being forced into
so much frantic activity that runs contrary to what I would prefer
to do. But, sitting here in the living room on the sofa in front
of the fire, the experience starts losing its lustre when I begin to miss
certain other forms of involvement; ones I actually would prefer.
I have observed, on countless occasions down the road and in the heart
of the city's complexity, that the truest worship and praise occurs in
those "community" settings; i.e., "the church"--and I am not soon willing
to deny a God who loves me, even out here. And thus it is; I cannot
maintain my visits to the Cabin for long.
I have seen the glory of God directly in others, these others that,
when experienced in the city's hustle, can also unfortunately cause desperation
and annoyance. Life seems to have so few real answers to this problem.
At the moment, I am told to live fully in the urban collective, even without
having honed the ability I see in some to tune out the irrelevant.
I am undoubdetly being ordered into this fray to learn a form of desensitization
and discernment of what counts and what doesn't; which are the small things
to disregard.
For the present, however, I cherish my Cabin and its insulation from
everything, the troubles as well as, unfortunately, the blessings.
I see such a visualization and meditation as a wound dressing or an orthopedic
splint for a beaten soul, which shall need quite some time to recover.
And time, well, takes time. Maybe I'll go spend some of it today,
packing what I can of this loose, drifting snow onto the misshapen form
out there to create a new snowman, even though he, like his predecessor,
shall simply stand mute and not provide any substitute for those contacts
I must go back and find for real in the city.
RB
29 January 1998 -- The cost of a personal outpost
Another winter's day has come to a close, and I strike a wooden match
to light the kerosene lamp hanging near my bunk. It occurs to me
that in my real life, where every convenience is electrified and automated,
I need never ignite such a flame in a typical day.
As evening begins, the room again takes on its separate-world feeling,
where everything outside of the walls that the lamp has not specifically
illuminated is part of an unimaginable void. It could lead to a feeling
of overwhelming oppression and suffocating enclosure, to think long enough
about the amount of cold, snowy, and rugged woodland that lies in every
direction, and the equally cold, far-reaching sky that covers it like the
lid on a new piece of cookware.
When I was a boy, I was not unlike many others in wanting to have such
a place of seclusion. I never had a chance to build a treehouse,
or better still, a fort, with such defenses and amenities as the
ones here at the Cabin. At that earlier, necessarily-dependent age,
I was at the mercy of the grown-up world, and fancifully sought to have
someplace to call my own. As I grew older, when people my age were
moving on to independent living all about me, it was a stronger dream than
ever. I had to have it; that personal domain. That would
complete me, yes, and I would want nothing more.
How disillusioning it was when I finally did have a reasonable way to
live on my own. No one really prepared me for the truth: I'd
have to go work, and work responsibly and hard, every day, again at the
mercy of superiors and The System, to maintain that domicile. With
my bent towards cynicism, this makes me wonder what further dreams are
worthy, if they are always paid for with responsibility. I cannot
be the little kid who wants it given to him, with no strings attached.
Some of those who would dream as I do of living an "unplugged" life
in a Cabin like this would have it with no ties to controlling authority,
and no one to answer to. This, as I said when I was here last, is
a popular late 1990's thought pattern. I, on the other hand, am more
the kind to say "freedom is not free", especially when I've seen the swindles
that are arrayed to catch those who do believe in something for nothing.
As I sit on the sofa tonight, flipping some of my old magazines and
reading about what Studs Terkel termed The Good War, I feel the
closeness of my quarters, which are mine alone. The wind stirs from
time to time, causing random creaks in the timber-joints of the frame.
I begin to contemplate being truly alone in real life, as when I
travelled to Southern California in 1996 and stayed
by myself in my own hotel room. "No," I finally say to myself, "I
have seen the ultimate in personal solitude, and it has lost its glamour."
My further life of liberation shall be paradoxically restricted through
the thoughtful consideration of the needs, recommendations, and requirements
of others.
RB
Ahead to February 1998
