1 January 1999 -- Progressing through emptiness
As I return from the outhouse this afternoon, I truly feel the cold
of this first day of Calendar Year 1999. The clearing to my left
is a windswept snowfield, with a topmost layer of hard-frozen crystals
blowing to form further particular drift-contours. This is indeed
the "picture" of winter, like the ones we used to see as schoolkids in
those 16 mm nature films, the ones that describe the life cycle of some
mammal or another. Of course, 15 or 20 minutes later, spring would
come to the rescue. I have longer to wait than that.
At the moment, the feeling of emptiness seems enhanced somewhat by the
overcast skies and the imminent arrival of another early nightfall.
I pull my parka closures tighter against the wind. These conditions
are not to be taken lightly, I say to myself, as I finally reach the front
door and become swamped by the relative warmth created by the ever-burning
fire. Yes, these are the simplest of surroundings out here, but there
can be times when I do not appreciate them as much as others. Moods
are difficult and often-frustrating phenomena for a person to weather.
I find a constantly-varying threshold applied to activities at the Cabin
(and in the city as well), depending upon my instantaneous level of inspiration.
It is to my constant annoyance and inconvenience that so many pastimes
can appear appropriate at one time, but I'm left scrambling for something--anything--to
do at another. It seems that the only way to ride out such variation
is to live the life of patience, perseverance, and endurance during those
less-than-desirable times.
Yes, it seems a bit bleak at the Cabin today, and the cold is most apparent
to me, but the experience of the last 17 months tells me that this is not
a fixed decree. Indeed, as Isaiah tells us, "they that wait upon
the Lord shall renew their strength". What amazes me is the relatively
short order in which such deliverance from tedium can occur--sometimes
in the same day. This is the ultimate "chaotically"-defined variable,
I remind myself, and my life has so many inputs that I have no way of knowing
how to affect its trajectory. I can only describe it statistically
and in terms of known limits and typical values.
I am heartened at those times when I can see the totality of my emotions
in this larger sense, but even that requires a certain level of inspiration
that does not occur on demand. So I am left this afternoon in the
living room, without the PC or the cable channels. Chances are they
wouldn't do much good if I had them, anyway. I am hoping that the
remainder of this winter, up at the end of the dirt track, does not have
such a character. Better times are a possibility not forbidden by any physical
or physiological laws of which I am aware. But this particular location
of sentiment is not an unfamiliar place. I have been here, yes, but
always on my way through, like landing on the "Just Visiting" side of the
Jail corner on a Monopoly board. Within this metaphor, I believe
I have the "Get Out Free" card laying around somewhere, anyway.
All is well--I just need to let the process occur as it always does.
One day, maybe, I'll settle to a consistent equilibrium state, like that
of so many of the "normal", but perhaps that would be a form of boredom
all its own.
RB
5 January 1999 -- A most personal evening's visitation
Nightfall has brought an end to another clear, cold day. At least
this once, I do not have the sense of entering some isolated nether region
as I settle in to my defined, familiar space within the pine panelled walls.
It feels good this evening to have more of a desire to be at rest.
The sun was so bright today, almost in a mockery of the human limitations
that keep me indoors. At the time of the dream,
one of my principal joys was being just as much at home in the large area
surrounding the Cabin as I was when I walked about upon the simple wooden
planks of the floor. Perhaps I am not fully acclimated to these days
when the temperature refuses to rise above freezing. I have lived
too long now in the southern Mid-Atlantic, back in my city life.
Yes, it has grown dark out there now; the last hint of deepened indigo-azure
has left what little sky I see through the trees filling the ravine as
I look out the back window. The fireplace supplies enough light for
me to see my way clear of obstacles as I walk around the end of my bunk
and light the kerosene lamp beside the sofa. It is time to stoke
that fire, the encroaching cold reminds me, so I proceed to the other side
of the room and find more wood in the bin.
I have a delightfully-contented sense of having finally grown tired
this evening. As I know from long experience, the state of being
"tired" comes in many assorted varieties, some laden with the anxiety of
impending nervous collapse, others seeking to drive me to sleep with the
insistence of general anesthesia, and still others, after excessive physical
exertion, in which my body will not conduct a further campaign of motion.
Tonight, my somnolence is accompanied by an assurance that I have no pressing
need to solve all of my problems in an instant. This is a rather
rare state that I highly prize. It is the precursor, I have found,
to further adventures in prosecuting the "authentic" life.
I seat myself, heavily and deliberately, into the padding of my rocker,
wondering if I might make an evening of this. Oh, but I will certainly
"lose it" if I dwell on it consciously; I have the proverbial butterfly
upon my shoulder, after such frantic days down there in the urban madness,
chasing down satisfaction that tauntingly stays from my reach. The
world tosses about the prospects of love, peace and happiness, like items
stolen by malevolent 6th-grade classmates who laugh at the superiority
of their offensive maneuvers. I think to myself of the tragedy of
a life like that, spent in such wasteful pursuit. The makings of
contentment and the full substance of joy are right in front of me, yet
so often out of reach. My covetousness reaches proportions that clearly
get me in trouble with the Law of the Commandments. But here, tonight,
in this room, I hold it in my hand.
"It", of course, is not something to be used by itself. "It" is
a facilitator that inspires worthy accomplishments of lasting satisfaction
and personal edification. With enough new heat in this end of the
room, I go to stretch myself out on the bed. I have that rare chance to
behold what I have, without the process of observation changing its character.
No, it is no grandiose artifice; no monument of vainglory
over which I might build an idolatrous shrine of false pride. "It"
is just me. Today's race is over, and while others of fleeter foot
might receive their recognition in the victors' circle, I am satisfied
in having stepped to the starting line at all.
RB
9 January 1999 -- Stepping out for some air
The truly harsh and inhospitable cold of the last couple of weeks came
to an end yesterday, to leave the woodlands surrounding the dry warmth
of the Cabin with another antagonizing presence. The accumulated
snow that was free to follow the wind and form its drifted shapes became
held where it was, when temperatures finally rose above freezing and stayed
there. Now, rather than noticing the air when trying to get
about between the buildings or down to the river, one notices the water.
This morning, it exists simultaneously in all three of the phases we
learned about in 3rd grade science. A considerable layer of solid
snow, in its inherent permeability, allows for endless channels of liquid
water to pour off, and the overall humidity of the scene supports a rather
dense fog.
While I appreciate finally being able to get out some and walk around
without the stinging assault of cold, this dampness forms its own challenge.
I am glad to have inspected the wax sealing on my full-leather boots recently,
or I would have cold, soaked feet after a certain amount of this.
I stand today, out by the woodshed, enjoying the chance to get into any
manner of open air with my parka hood lowered and without gloves.
The beaten, shovelled-clear pathway is turning to a thoroughfare of mud,
and supporting a small current, trapped between the sides of the piled,
dirty snow on either side.
My breathing forms dense clouds of condensation in front of me as I
try to discern detail along the hillside approach to the ridge, which remains
hidden in the fog. I open the wood-plank shed door and load up another
armful of wood, which I will use to dry my various clothes when I get back
inside. I shall not be able to stay out here long this weekend, for
duty, actual or as interpreted, has its firm hand upon me, telling
me to come back and have at it. Still, as I unload the firewood and
remove those sopping-wet garments to place before the hearth, I know I
needed to take some time off.
Maybe I'm letting myself become one of those who has lost all boundary
between work and pleasure, in favor of the first. But it is not as
simple as that, for my eyes remain blinded to those tasks of self-respect
and self-improvement that those about me would have me place at a higher
priority. Indeed, it would profit me little to gain any appreciable
accumulation from the world, yet still lose my life.
Wearing my still-dry fleecewear, I take in the radiant heat of the fireplace,
sitting with a cup of tea. Somewhere in the heart I cannot deny that
I have, I can hear the others wanting me, just me, to be more involved
in their social goings-on; the matters of business can wait. I would
be a hypocrite to call my word my bond, for I have indeed pledged through
implication to be with them more than I am. In rejecting evil and
yearning for God's kingdom during those rare moments of actual fellowship,
I have made a contract to get involved and stay that way. By Monday,
yes, I'll be back down there, absorbing at least the social contact that
is a necessary by-product of my more defined obligations in various settings
of career and community activity. Today, however, I shall sit for
awhile in this envelopment of fog and dampness, without direct contact
with the others. It is not the way to be for long, since a man's
impression of what's really back there can become grotesquely distorted.
There is no way out of it--life must go on.
RB
13 January 1999 -- Trying to find an answer
I've arrived for another visit, to the room that never changes except
by my express intent, set within square miles of empty, snow-filled hills
over which I have no power of change at all. Another day has passed,
which is no great event in any time scale, even that of a human life, which
might span 30,000 of them. My intent this evening is to step back
from those would-be crises of the present-day moment, the ones that seem
to cry for decisive and immediate action. So much of my misery is
the apparent by-product of over-reaction in the past to situations that
really had more sensible solutions, if only I had taken time to assess
them completely and rationally.
As evening approaches, the limited set of options in this simpler setting
keep me, by design, from taking on more new diversions. I do not
have 50 or 60 channels of cable programming, not to mention the bottomless
pit of the online realm. I have my rustic kitchen with its pantry,
wood-fired cast-iron stove and oaken table, the sofa, lamp and few reading
materials in the living room and the bunk in the alcove. There is
the work of tending the hearth and hauling wood, plus cooking meals and
cleaning up by hand. Immersion in these repetitive and predictable
pursuits has greater stability over time than seeking some new and more
exciting experience on the spur of each moment.
I've become so worn by instant gratification and effortless acquisition,
as great as they might seem at the immediate point of fulfillment.
Soon, it's all over, and I'm left to recall that I have...that...down
there to return to as an ongoing life. All that pointless chase was
for nothing, except a temporary diversion from woes that only annoy me
at certain critical times anyway. I'm convinced that there must be
a solution in which I can tough it out and hold my position. When
a crisis is thoughtfully exposed to the distributed lessons of my many
years, it does not seem to cry for the same immediate settlement.
Indeed, "through many dangers, toils and snares / I have already come /
'Twas Grace that kept me safe thus far / and Grace will lead me home".
I go to the sofa, where I feel a bit of the draft that steadily creeps
in from the front window, and stretch out, looking upwards at the timbers
of the ceiling. I begin a review of the staggering collection of
traumatic events that have marked so many of my 37 years, wondering how
I could have so completely resolved them all. What assurance do I
have this time that everything will be all right? I would
like to have better recollection of just how these many victories
were won, but I have never been big on remembering my strong points--only
my failings.
As I rest up in the silence and think over my options for when I return
to the city, I come to realize that there is no need to formulate any great
and intricate strategy to conduct the one and only one campaign that can
possibly win. No, there are many valid answers to life's problems;
it is always an open-ended essay question, with plenty of partial credit
for demonstrated effort. I hear the wind rise to rattle the panes
of the window, and note, in the fading twilight, a new, heavy cloud front
moving in. It is cold enough for more snow, but I've known my share
of that during my time here. Time is passing, and this by itself
is good.
RB
17 January 1999 -- Too bright to look outside
It is another day of brilliant sun and clear blue sky, made all the
more brilliant by the expanse of new snow over the clearing. From
the front window, now behind a row of lengthening icicles that remind me
of prison bars, I can see that the sun is near the position of local noon,
where it no longer blinds me directly when I gaze out. Still, I am
glad for the photo-activated tint of my glasses. I would probably
need ski goggles as well, were I to walk about out there today. The
sun passes obliquely through the crystalline irregularity of those icicles,
forming endless patterns of chromatic refraction.
The clearing and the ridge form a scene that I can behold mightily through
the front window of the Cabin, yet I know it so sparingly "in the round".
If only I were a creature of greater temperature toleration--that realm
seems well-suited to the aesthetic appreciation of the human mind, as much
so as the land of green growth and undergrowth that I so thoroughly explored
during the summer. Then, I had no restraints. Perhaps it is
not good to look out there for long on a day like today, for I only become
covetous of what I cannot have, the long hours I might spend if it were
not for the threat of frostbite and exposure.
I finally turn from the window and concentrate upon matters to which
I have realistic access, indoors by the stove and the hearth. The
full light of day provides an opportunity for attending to my sweated-up
laundry, from those times I did take my chances in that beautiful yet hostile
winter environment. I begin heating my largest stock-pot container,
full of water from the cistern, atop the stove. Here, everything
is a "hand-washable", so my woolens should be fairly safe. I pull
the washtub to a position near the hearth, sloshingly filled with the cold-water
portion of the mixture. Then, I retrieve the washboard from its hanging
point near the back door, which is tightly closed against the draft.
I think to all of the social wonderment and joy that could be mine,
if I were down in the city this Sunday, off on some outing, instead of
spending hours washing and drying my clothes and linens. In my narrow
passage through the hard corridors to which I am restricted in that real
life, I see people doing just that. They might think I am callous
to the inherent pleasure and satisfaction of the finer points of life,
but they are wrong. I watch them in their times of love-ridden sentiment,
and being a human like they are, I feel just as susceptible to the draw.
What a vicious cycle of defeat is the life of a man who would live
as they do but who has no "on-ramp", and is thus seen unworthy of the road.
I pour in the pot of boiling water and start with my polypropylene long
johns, which need the best the wash has to offer, since they are my principal
"wicking" garments. Back there in the city are the ones living the
real life, while I hide up here in the snowy hills. They take
the greater prize, and must be man (or woman) enough to accept the searing
consequences and responsibilities of having real lives that are worth living.
They have paid the price I cannot afford, or at least have incurred sufficient
indebtedness to take delivery. I see and hear of joy, but it's not
for me; not here, not now, and I'm not at all sure when--or even if.
The line strung between the front and back doors is beginning to fill with
wrung-out wash. At least that will get done.
RB
21 January 1999 -- Venturing out again into the
open
I have suited up in my warmest set of under- and outerwear, since I
decided I was not going to sit inside for the entire day today.
I stepped out the front door in my heavy boots and closed-up down parka,
thinking of the days to come when getting out will not require such deliberate
effort. It is really not that cold today; somewhere near freezing, but
the snow remains to impede my ready access to the clearing and the trails.
My cross-country ski tracks from earlier, some barely visible, show
when I had even more determination. I suppose I could do that
today, but then I become restricted to the bindings and the boots, and
it takes a lot of preparation. I have heard of people who actually
camp overnight on skis, as during the operations of those legendary Scandinavian
ski-based infantry. This terrain would be well suited to such an
adventure, but I'd rather not experience such cold firsthand and completely
on my own. I recall backpack-camping once at 3000 feet elevation
in early spring, when the temperature got as cold as today. All I
wanted to do was stay inside my Qualofil mummy bag.
Looking outward as I feel the cold settle in, I see a partial clearing
to the cloud cover, as though the sun would like to come out in full.
I proceed from the front porch, carefully watching my step as I enter into
the open air. I tromp my way through shoveled snow that is deeper
than my knees, wishing I had a real set of leggings at this point, but
still aware of the sufficiency of woolen trousers for short exposure like
this. I then wade into the foot-deep layer that bears no evidence
of my earlier visits. I suppose I shall look often out here at these
footprints, from the living room sofa, until the next snow covers them
over. It was not as difficult, really, to get outside today as my
mind had pictured it during those long hours I spent on the other side
of the window. But it is still an annoyance, and even small
annoyances these days add up. I always play it safe, and keep my
exposure down, for ultimate failure always has as its closing chapter the
stinging retreat to cover, and that is the one that stays in my mind.
The winter sports enthusiasts who read of this place would have been
out every day, skiing, snowshoeing, and all the rest. Sure, they'd
also know some real cold once in awhile, but their coping skills would
be developed; they would be conditioned. More importantly, they would
have come to know the best appreciation of these lands, no matter what
the season. They are the real naturalists, which sadly I am
not. They would have hearts more inclined to revel in the experience that
for me is only an alternative to city agitation that I would take in greater
amounts if it were not so overwhelming at times.
I've found one of the rocks I remember from last summer, with its decent
sitting-place, and I carefully wipe the snow from its top surface.
I boost myself up, with effort that I didn't require when I was younger,
and get my feet out of the snow. The sun has finally found its venue
through the clouds and suddenly changes the entire face and mood of the
clearing. I am sitting near the height of the Cabin roof and can
see the rise of the hillside opposite the river, heading upwards to the
silhouette of the sloping ridge that separates "my hollow" from the one
to the west. About a mile off, that other notable summit (5130 feet)
now has a brightly-lit face of rock and snow. This land is so large,
yet I am at times so restricted, just as a vast bulk of human experience
stands out there, often in vivid display, yet beyond my reach.
RB
25 January 1999 -- Enough to work on for the moment
Evening has settled in on a moderately cold, cloud-covered night during
what I call "the pit of the winter". Gray and non-descript conditions
of little newsworthiness have prevailed around the Cabin, which leaves
me a chance to coast for awhile. I begin to deal with some of the
vast backlog of my unresolved memories.
The life of business and community responsibility within the civil order
of the city seems to be defined by a continuous onslaught of new agenda
items, with a great many on my table at any given moment. This incoming
stream demands ever-vigilant attention, meaning I cannot properly address
lingering resentments over officially-concluded matters. These I retain
in an immense, seething and jumbled repository, a fearsome cauldron of
a "craw" in which many things are stubbornly stuck. I envy the ones
who can routinely establish permanent closure, to use that word
that has become so fashionable in pop-psychology. That is the goal
of proper one-day-at-a-time living; to extract the maximum of experience
and learning from each problem, whether it be well-solved or not, and then
dispose of it and find a new one.
Tonight, however, I cannot pick up any new files from the inbox, for
I sense an internal desk that is already heaped high and in need of some
serious sorting out. There are no work party members at my side,
as I sit by the fire in my cherrywood rocker, the room behind me lit with
the dim glow of the kerosene lamp by the sofa. It is ironically sad
that being unloaded like this will soon leave me in a state of desperation,
as a work addict and restless news junkie going through the stages of withdrawal.
After a time of solitude, I begin to resemble certain of the youth who
have lived their entire lives in the village down at the end of the dirt
road, the ones who stand out on the main highway dreaming of the bright
city lights beyond the rise, and over the hill.
It is no simple matter, dealing with the same, unchanging set of circumstances,
day after day; steeped in the by-products of living an established life.
Such, indeed, is the problem of the settled, as it has been from
the start of what we call "Civilization". This being the case, I
find it difficult to believe that when I finally get away from the unending
clamor and noise of all those people in each other's way, I can only think
of going back for more. Perhaps I am simply a man who shall have
no rest, even in the idealized setting of this hollow and its empty
space to occupy as I please.
I hear now the many voices of the well-intentioned, who fit me into
the mold of a person who "lets himself" be bothered. O, you ones
of wisdom, who know life's great secrets and undoubtedly use them daily
to your benefit! If I had the powers of self-determination you somehow
see in me, I would stand tall as an exemplary citizen of complete ability
and unlimited potential. I do not sit in this isolated room
in the headwaters because of mere choice. I have the rudimentary
faculties of perception, and I know of the inherent goodness of life when
it is really lived. I am just tired of fighting at a continual disadvantage,
even if it is the Good Fight.
Well, before long, I can go to bed and let things slow to even more
of a rest. The world will continue along without me, and my work
will be piled high and waiting, just for me, when I drive back down.
On the other side of that vast tract of woodland, with its thousands of
acres of mountainous buffer, the hot zone remains hot. Meanwhile,
as my fire begins to die down, I feel the truth of Cabin life in January.
The flannel sheets and down comforter will be most useful soon.
RB
29 January 1999 -- Continued life in the barren
stillness
On another gray and cloudy afternoon, I've hauled the last bucket of
icy water from the river, topping off my filtered supply in the kitchen
cistern drum. I feel considerably sweated in my parka from all those
laborious trips, up the rough series of rocks to the back porch.
Since I can do with a bit of cooling off now, I walk back down into the
ravine and find my favorite seat among the many scattered boulders that
form the banks and bed of this tributary stream.
It has not been so cold as to threaten to freeze up the river this year--I
still remember when that happened last winter and I was melting snow for
a short spell. But even with its relative mildness, this "rock bottom"
of the four seasons that I'm living out just now has a feeling of being
here for good. I watch the water as it passes through the same basic
strictures it did in the summer, its course only altered slightly by ice
formations along the various fallen logs and jutting stones. I look
up into the stillness along the sloping sides of the run, and I feel the
cold begin to reassert itself. I see only the occasional bird among
those stark tree-shapes these days, and the insects are waiting out their
more prosperous time for the outdoors along with them.
I look upward on the bank opposite the Cabin, where the absence of foliage
permits a generally clear view to the top of the southwestern ridge.
I see the vast variety and number of those sentinel deciduous trees, knowing
that a truly forsaken landscape would not give such indication of a time
when it will not be this way; when I will instead seek this water for its
refreshing relief in the heat of the sun. For the moment, however,
the quiet day-to-day similarity of these waiting woods remains their principal
feature of definition.
When I'm back at my real life, with its year-round noise and constant
change, I treasure anything that provides such a feeling of stability,
where all matters are fully known and might be met with due preparation.
Perched on this stone at water's edge, I know that a mighty upheaval indeed
would be required to alter this terrain, and as far as I am aware, there
are no pending forestry or mineral rights claims upon this land that could
bring in the heavy equipment. City life, in constrast, ordains that
we live according to the tumultuous redistribution and forced mobility
of a world in which the Unseen Hand has the power to affect millions of
lives in a single decisive sweep of pent-up intolerance for economic inefficiency.
I cannot speak derisively of such a force, for it is closer to the truly
compassionate hand of God than the decrees of well-meaning but humanly-fallible
central planners.
I look some more at the endless population of barren trees along the
slopes, knowing that they are doing the best they can in these hard conditions.
If the year-round climate was more than they could bear, they would not
be here. A similar truth must rest with the bulk of the massed crowds,
acting as best suits their individual interests in those close city quarters.
I need to understand and embody the optimism of the majority down there,
who take what they have coming as a part of their own good and the good
of all. That, indeed, is the way to live, not cursing at each painful
event to no effect, but enduring hardship with...a smile, until the chance
for life's fuller expression has returned, at its own proper time.
RB
Ahead to February 1999
