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 Mailing address: bo@bo-hemian.com |
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3 May 1998 -- Surveying the damage
I step out the front door today, where drops of water still randomly fall from the edge of the porch roof, and make my way outside again, after two days of heavy rain. All throughout the clearing, the green stalks and leaves of the grass are loaded with similar drops, catching the sun's glint as my shoes become quickly soaked.
Back on 1 May, the storm front marched in, grey and darker grey, and the entire feeling became that of an inevitable lashing-out from the sky. Then, the rain itself came upon the Cabin site, sheets of large drops, and all I could do was sit inside, looking out the window, watching it pour down over the roof. I kept a fire in the fireplace, as a sign that I had a livable refuge from such conditions, since it is not the standard human way to tolerate such soaking. Perhaps it does well for the new growth on the trees, and for the underbrush that will stand a more vibrant green all about when I hike back up the ridge again. The rain became so intense I could no longer see to any significant height on that ridge, however.
I began to worry about the state of the Cabin exterior. I had gone over everything visually and patched what I could when the weather broke a week back. But although the roof looked sound from ground level, after 2 hours of pounding rain, which was leaving the eaves in a nearly-solid sheet, I began to notice the first appearance of a stream of droplets, through the wood panelling of the ceiling. This was where the kitchen wing joins the main building at a right angle. The nearest I could figure was that the flashing above had fractured at some point over the winter and had now failed with complete inundation.
I went to the back door to find some coffee cans to place under the drips, thinking of what this repair might be like. I will probably need to bring up a roofing contractor, I remind myself again, as I begin surveying the outdoors on this day. I notice that the river has built up to a louder, more intense flow, so I walk around back and go on down, to observe that parts of the previous banks have washed away and that the last few steps are under water in the turbid flow. This will be hard on the first drinking water filter element, with all that sediment.
Although I talk of living for the moment, this is one moment that, on its own, seems a bit annoying, if not grim. So I see that there is a need as well in living to place short-term crisis into a long-term context. The water will recede and become clear once again. I'll get the roof repaired in due time. I think it is my overworked set of nerves, from all those days, in and out, in the city, that can make such matters of ordinary living appear to be catastrophic and almost a persecution. This whole landscape including the Cabin; and indeed my life, have a long time to persist, and I cannot react with terror to events that truly have long periods to be resolved and eventually forgotten.
RB
7 May 1998 -- The duties and reward of community
It's a modestly warm evening here at the Cabin, although I know it should be cold enough overnight that I will appreciate the down comforter on my bed. With the sun's light making its exit, I stand for a moment on the front porch, one hand against a timber-upright, looking out into the twilight and the clearing. When there is little left to see, I finally turn about and head inside with my flashlight, to light the kerosene lamp, which I notice needs refilling from the can by the back door.
I wonder if it is really true that I have found myself in isolation again. I remember all too well the continual inputs and conditioned vigilance that fill my real life, even in off-duty hours. There's no place "safe" any more, it seems. So I sit to myself, here on the Cabin sofa, passing the notion of isolation through my mind a few times. Alone. Nobody can really stand it for long, and in the life I'm made to lead, that is rarely a problem. There's always someone to attend to, in one way or another. If only I could improve the quality of these myriad interactions and then seek out more of them! But so often, I just see them as something else to do; more items to cross off my list.
Stretching out placidly under the glowing lamp, looking towards the ceiling, I realize how far I have left to go in truly appreciating the others around me. It must be my lingering habit of misapprehending these typically good-intentioned acquaintances that drives me away so often. Here, with just me, I need not conduct the heart-rending labor of patient endurance that the other world below finds so essential in living among others. I do not have to second-guess my own inner feelings, the way I find myself needing to deduce the intent of others on the street and at the office.
If only this whole world would slow down a bit and we could look at one another with the love and respect that is so deserved and overdue. But, I note cynically, that was tried in the 1960's, in the celebrated Age of Aquarius ("no more falsehood or derision..."), and they couldn't keep it up for long. I must, then, take this crowd about me on faith, and look past the indifference so many of us have been taught in the name of success. Behind all of those hardened faces are real, living, compassionate human beings. Yes, it is time to slow down and take a second look at those with whom I find myself in that real life. There was a time, to be sure, when communities stayed intact for generations; when we did not have to spend each day trying to learn new faces and forget the old ones. Of course, those were also times of poverty and hardship, which we left as soon as technical prowess permitted it.
The varnished pine walls reflect the softness of the lamp's glow. This evening, I shall be a community of one--but then, when the bonds of which humans are capable are truly formed, is there not still just one? I don't know--the call to unity from separation is indeed powerful, but its attempts so often fail. It's prayer time again, yes. I drop my tired self into the unifying presence of God, who holds us all in his hand. This is the best I can do for now; let go.
RB
11 May 1998 -- A brief visit to town
Since the weather is not cooperating in terms of sun or warmth for being outdoors today, I take this opportunity to drive the truck down the long dirt track at the river's edge, to where it exits with purposefully little fanfare to meet the "main" 2-lane State Highway, as it passes through a dip and over the stone culvert bridge. Immediately to the right, past the bridge, I see the town.
I pull in to discard what refuse I could bring, according to an agreement I have with the local store merchant. I then walk up to the back door and knock my polite knock, whereupon the storekeeper, well accustomed to my order, helps me load up the rear of my vehicle with several new crates. I suspect he has more than one customer like me, who does not linger for idle conversation, and will soon disappear once again into the woods. I break the silence this time to ask who could help me with my roof repairs, and I get the card, which I place into my pocket.
At times, I think I could set up a successful dwelling here in town, since I don't seem to cause too much offense in my rather hushed ways. But if it is possible for every person "to know each other" in a town with as many as 5000 people (which I still can't believe, by the way), I realize I would soon be scoped out, investigated, and indeed fully "known" in this hamlet of 500. They'd soon know of my idiosyncrasies and I would soon be cast into an unescapable mold of social expectation.
I start the truck and head back out for my almost-hidden turnoff by the water's edge, which I made a point to locate far enough away from the banks to be out of the way of the fly fishermen from town. I close off the life of the settlement behind me, gradually, as I climb through 1800 vertical feet and return to the perch of the Cabin site. A misty, still-cool condition prevails today, not what I'd like for May. But at least I do not have those stifling ties of the city (or even the village below), so I know I have a chance at rest on my terms, as soon as I get my supplies unloaded.
I stop to listen to my internal dialogue just now--"on my terms". I begin to think of how I may be selfishly seeking to avoid the responsibility of duties towards others, which, after all, define of the social being I was born to be. Then I think of how often it is that I have envied the "normal", like those ones earning a real living down in the village, who do not shirk their civic standing. They would find my very debate over the value of love towards one's God, self, and neighbor to be badly out of place.
By myself, at this Cabin, my "society" is none other than that of the untamed woods themselves, and I am far too much of an other-dependent, "domesticated" creature to think this to be my natural habitat. But it is quiet, and I do have a chance to hear some of the absurdity of what I'm so often thinking, as a defense against those normal pains of "normal" living. "Love my neighbor? Really? So that I may be ignored, spurned, and forgotten once again?" But that seems to be the game, and it is not always less than or equal to zero sum.
RB
The sun, at last! There is no mistaking the start of a day like this, I think, as I first stir out of bed and glance across the room to the living room window. After dressing in my clothes that are "just enough", and not the tight, stifling attire of office work, I step outside to get the full view of the hollow. The birds in the trees all around are into their fullest performance, accompanied by the continuing, flowing sound of the river behind me. Although it is briskly cold, and the grass around the sides of the Cabin quickly soaks my loosely-laced canvas sneakers, I can tell by the intensity of this sun that such conditions will be temporary. A day to spend outdoors, to be sure!
The new sun, at its still-low angle, cooperates with the flourishing greenery to develop a color that is very difficult to describe in words. One might call it "golden", although it is surely too green, in truth, for that. As the morning progresses, I know I was right about this sun's capability, since the dew is soon past and I begin to want my nylon shorts instead of my heavy woolen trousers. This, I realize, is a good day for airing things out. I open all the windows inside and take out all the linens I can, to hang on the line strung from one corner of the Cabin to a far pine tree near the ravine. I sit, in these open-air surroundings, in the metal chair taken from the porch, letting myself "air out" a little, too.
It occurs to me that this kind of relaxation is not as hard to achieve in my real city life as I tend to think. There are places, after all, with as much room and as many trees as this clearing, and not far from my home. I do not live downtown. It just seems..."different" here, where there is a guarantee that no impending commitment is coming due; that no one will suddenly appear in my way, making me step aside, annoyed, as I hurry along through to keep schedule. Yet, I am reminded that God makes the same sun to shine here and in the city, too.
I sit for some time, about 50 yards out from the front door, looking back at the broad fabric of my bedclothing and sofa slipcover, as they wave slightly with the breeze, and in no particular way. The Cabin will now assume a secondary role to these outdoors as a whole, now that I can be in them so comfortably. This place is so settling, since I am not called to dull the pain of an outdoors that is merely something in the way between home and work; from one indoor chamber to another. The sun is soon high into the cloudless sky, and I am beginning to sweat a little, just sitting still.
One day, perhaps, when this visualization routine; this Einsteinian "thought experiment", becomes instilled enough into my meditative practice, I will know it in real life, and at many more opportunities than I currently see. There is a patch of highly-manicured outdoors between our office high-rise buildings, admittedly a lot smaller than the clearing here, where I sometimes see people at this stage of rest on their "lunch hour". I pass them with my carry-out parcel, thinking I need to return to my post; to be of use. But business can wait. We have voice mail and e-mail and good old paper mail, for catching up. Living now, however, cannot be put off until later.
RB
19 May 1998 -- Dreams and hard truth
I'm thinking back now, almost 10 months ago, to what the dream about this place was like. It was a day with bright sun like this, although later in the season, and I stepped into the room, looking tentatively at the simple furniture and decor. It is not easy to remember the true content of a dream, and I don't set a whole lot of store by them anyway, but the essence was peace and quiet, the old partners.
That phrase, "peace and quiet", seems like a platitude these days, since it has been said so often in so many popular literary outlets (in this, of course, I include television). I think I would have to leave my real city life for a very long time before true peace or quiet had a chance to settle in. I have such an addiction to worry, fear, and doubt, right along with my consumerism. Whenever they leave, I almost feel neglected, and have to go out looking for more. "What's wrong," I might ask--"could I really be granted this chance to sit on the sofa and feel the soft breeze coming through the open screens? Something must be around the corner...it always is." If the only thing I have to fear is Fear itself, well, I'm still pretty scared.
I look back now through the large front window, as the breeze makes itself seen among the grass-tops. The sun has been out a number of days now, and it's getting warmer. I try to imagine myself in a style of "real" or "authentic" living here. I try to see all of my concerns not only behind me, way back in the city, but actually eliminated, as if I had a chance to start over, in a life more to my liking. No more traffic; no more civil authority bearing down; no more judgment from the less-than-knowing, who only see my surface and think they know what's inside.
I take a long deep breath, then exhale, attempting to feel contentment in this imagined prospect. It is so hard to rid myself of nagging fear. I begin to feel my own, ruthless self take the place of those oppressive forces of urban living, as though the pain has to go on, even if I must take matters into my own hands. This hardly resembles a dream any more; I expect now to wake up in a cold sweat, reassuring myself that life will resume its usual dull, desperate mediocrity. I think again about that gospel Commandment; "love your neighbor as yourself". Some years back, I realized the necessity implied there of loving myself first, or the neighbors won't get much of a deal.
I get up at last and go out to sit on the porch, more in the direct line of the breeze. Am I going to learn much about loving myself, while I'm alone like this? It tends to be an acquired skill, this love. Out here, in the woods, I'm removing the assault of the stimuli, but I'm sure I'm taking away many valuable messages at the same time. It gets back to the fundamental problem of keeping what is good, rejecting what is frivolous and harmful, and having the wisdom to know which is which. As beautiful as the hollow, the ridge, the river, and the trees can be, they will not teach me to love. This can only be a place where it might have a chance to grow, when planted elsewhere, and by that I mean in the civilized community, down there where I really have to live. God knows what he's doing.
RB
23 May 1998 -- Needing to slow down
Things have clouded over some outside, although the conditions are not like those that caused the roof to leak during that one exceptional downpour. I remember the card I have from the roofing man in town whom I must bring out, soon, to look at the junction up there of those two sections of roof. Even here at the Cabin, I have jobs stacked on top of jobs. I remember a plaque I've seen at my Grandma's house; "The hurrier I go, the behinder I get". I keep telling myself to slow down. But that seems counter-intuitive; how does more get done at a slower rate? Is it really true that the quality of work accomplished during relaxation is higher, so the overall result is more satisfactory?
I think back to the city, down below, where I really live. It has decided, as a collective, to observe the ritual of Memorial Day Weekend, when Summer is officially declared open. I, for one, find it preferable to stay put during these times of mass leisure travel, when everyone frantically hits the road. Were it not such a hassle to travel downtown, I might be one to stand in quiet observance on Monday the 25th, at Arlington Cemetery and the Vietnam Memorial. But the pace of my thoughts won't let me slow down for that, anyway. It just keeps building, as I think of more and more that I "have to do".
I wonder just how much more driven we humans can become--this has to be the upper limit to technological growth, productivity, and the expanding economy of the 1990's. We cannot progressively "breed" ourselves to participate in this faster, more distracted way. I know that I have seen my personal limits. I decline for now, as an example, to carry wireless telephone devices (cell phones; pagers), since they are not part of my job requirements at present, and the internet is already loading me down.
But I have also seen that I am not as important as an excessively self-centered model might predict. I can leave all of my "connections" for several days and return to catch up with my duties, generally unscathed. Perhaps my job is part of the fading, inefficient "old" economy, if I can still do such a thing. But it is not good, I remind myself, to classify people according to their abilities to adjust to modern ways. This leads only to the fallacies of "The Bell Curve" and the slippery slope of condemnation and prejudice.
It's indeed going to rain some today, so I pick up one of my WWII-era magazines for awhile. The American fighting men came from all walks, or so the story goes, as opposed to the alleged sourcing of Vietnam's combatants from the "underclass". But regardless of who really did what, the social institutions and state of technology from 1941 - 1945 had more safeguards against the kind of thought-overload that makes me come to this Cabin. I suppose that those who could work a faster-paced life didn't have the opportunities of upward mobility they do today. But I see them not as opportunities--they're only temptations. I can only do what I can do. This is a tenet of Simplicity--I must feel complete with what I can realistically have and not continually seek completion in more and more frivolous wants that do not satisfy.
RB
27 May 1998 -- Alone at the summit
I head out across the clearing today, in no particular hurry, and into the woods. I've packed plenty of water and that food a person can only live on during times of exertion, plus an extra clothing layer for life in the wind up near the top. From the Cabin, the ridge is an imposing sight all about, as it stretches up to the various granite outcrop summits. It seems to be something of an enclosure. But as I make my way along the path in my scuffed-yet-serviceable full leather boots, I begin participating in the sloping terrain myself, as I pass around the switchbacks and up the increasingly stone-paved way.
I remind myself, as I settle into the long stretch upwards, that I am in no hurry. I look about at the rich growths of fern and lichen, and the ever-hopeful seedlings, not afraid to assert themselves in this settled tree community. I can occasionally glimpse a view through the foliage and see the hollow, now stretching away to the southwest, and the increasingly-steep rise of the other side makes me aware of my progress. Finally, I make a switchback around a long boulder wall and see the clear sky of the other side at last. Soon, I have reached the Divide; the ridge top itself. I pass through a section of sparse, scrubby mixed trees of little new growth, for which I feel pity, since they must wonder why they're up here.
The high point is about 0.3 miles from the trail junction, and slow going on the rocks. The last half of this is in the open, whereupon I don my windshell. I scramble my way around the highest boulder and settle myself onto the very top, looking out at the grand arch that defines the hollow. I can just barely spot the Cabin roof at the edge of what is now a small-looking clearing. I have often heard the summit used metaphorically to describe rare moments of spiritual enlightenment, after which the preacher hurriedly reminds us that the valley goes right along with it. I suppose it is the valley that defines the summit, after all. The extension of analogy to my current experiences of life is hard to avoid.
With respect to the dwelling below, the Cabin, my place of rest, I have only climbed 1000 - 1200 vertical feet today. But when I sit there below, especially with the deceptive flatness of the clearing in front of me, I forget that I am already three times that altitude above sea level. I could go a lot farther down than just the wooden front door and the living room couch. For the people living in the village below me, I appear to be at the headwaters of their river.
It is funny today...I am not experiencing much in the way of the spirit on this trip. This time, it is only isolation at its extreme, which I have the strange habit of craving every so often. Since others live such totally fulfilled lives so far below, I cannot sit here in some vain majesty and condemn their position under my feet in the broader expanse of the plain. There's really not much to do up here, anyway. I wish I knew why it is I so often crawl away from the crowd, up the rising, rarefied edge like this. I sit with this question and stare off into the valley, then outwards towards the spreading lowlands in the distance.
RB
31 May 1998 -- The price of peace
I'm trying, once again, to get my thoughts down to one at a time, rather than the concurrent, constant emergency state of competing demands that seems to occupy an entire day in my real city life. This takes just sitting without doing anything for awhile, which I have tried on frequent occasion up here at the Cabin. Since it is what I'd truly call "hot" today, with a hazy sort of mostly sunny sky, it is a bit easier to assume such a state, for strenuous activity is so hard to accommodate. At least there is no snow removal or as much hauling-in from the woodpile. Plain and simple existence is a little more straightforward.
Now has begun the real season of insect sounds from the vast population throughout the acres of the clearing. It gets to be a replacement for the background roar of the stream, down in the shaded coolness of the ravine, especially since the spring run-off from snowmelt is past. When I have a chance to be here, removed from my media stimuli and concerns of household and work, the days no longer vanish in a sudden flash, leaving me sad at evening's arrival that I didn't get more done. There isn't as much to do in this place to start.
This is how it was in the days of my youth, as I recall. My parents were the ones that had fullness of occupation and preoccupation, while we actually had enough time to be bored for long periods at a time, wandering about the sun-drenched neighborhood on bicycles, doing things like looking for dropped quarters on the street. Quarters, of course, had much greater purchasing power in the 1970's.
At times, I begin to think that the simple answer to too much activity is to just say no; to cap one's level of involvement and then begin examining which pursuits should be pruned away. That is the exercise I perform in this imagined Cabin life, where there are very few distracting obligations indeed. I just sit out here on the porch, as the occasional breezes arrive and the heat of the day increases, as might a 19th century settler in front of his homestead dwelling. But they had their share of concerns, too. I begin to think the notion of truly restful peace, like that of romantic love as portrayed in the entertainment media, is something of a myth. There's always something wrong with it; some circumstance that dashes the hope of utopian exhilaration.
The ones living lives more reasonable than my current one (a large population, by my estimation) are probably walking around with agitation approaching or exceeding my own, most of the time. Yet, they have found inner strength. One might say, God has given them a blessing of confidence that nothing will shake. I suppose it is through the repeated experience of heartbreak and finding his help at every turn that they have this "peace" in the midst of turmoil. They are infused, through and through, by sharing in some of the defining woes (and accompanying joys) of being a human person.
As I sit in the stillness, looking out onto the field and up the slopes of the ridge, I realize that these experiences can and should be mine as well. I am no less human than these "normal" ones I posit in great majority. It is time to begin participating in this strange and difficult package of mixed affliction and elation, for it is inherent in who I am and how I was born.
RB
