3 July 1999 -- I have time on my hands
This Holiday Weekend commemorating American Independence has left me
with the freedom to be at the Cabin as much as I'd like during the next
3 days. It was rather hot and humid when I left my real life this
morning to drive on up, so I'm sure I'm not missing much in terms of weather
conditions. The sun is with me here as well, though not accompanied
by the same extent of haze and stickiness. It is still getting to
what one might call "very cool", if not indeed "cold", during the nights
at this altitude.
The problem of "what to do" has been plaguing me lately, both in real
life and here in these hills. As 40 draws near, I regret more than
ever the sense that I am "wasting time". Whereas I once had the problem
of "killing time" that was on my hands, now it seems like I'm holding a
precious, feeble creature that I need to do my best to keep alive.
I begin to wonder, then, about the ethics of three days devoted to my path
of least resistance when it comes to leisure; that of wandering off alone
to do nothing.
The effort I make at simplification at the Cabin is so studied that
this "nothing" begins to be a "something" on account of what it is not--no
working to satisfy schedules and deadlines; no friends or acquaintances
or "practitioners" to meet at set times and places; no compulsive switching
on of television programming or online content. I have instead the
problems of keeping the water cistern full, building wood cooking and heating
fires, straightening out what little I have, and today, trying to stay
cool with no air conditioning. I have long had a presumption that
greater merit lies in these "low-tech" preoccupations and pastimes, simply
because I get too worn out by participation in activities as the city affords
them.
This brings up the more fundamental question of whether my personal
time is even something for which I am obliged to find "good" use.
Since this is a "free" enough country that a person who pays his way is
allowed to be as frivolous as he can get away with being, I see no legal
precedent to bind me. I'm sitting on the back porch now, under the
shade of the trees above the ravine, idly staring out into the rivercut.
Should I really be back there in the heat of things, getting involved?
This quandary becomes an immobilization at times. No, I don't
want to be with the others, but no, I also don't want to be by myself.
I become bound to passing time I know is being wasted, since it
is spent with no one at all, not even myself.
I can only be glad for the diversity of my mood and my circumstances,
for even the worst of those infinite loops eventually ends when its governing
states change beneath it. Here at the Cabin, night will fall and
I will be able to return to my bunk, not the most inviting thing to do
right now. Sometimes, my own underlying makeup is transformed; I
experience a "renewal of the mind", as Paul advises the Romans. At
one time, I prayed often about being poor in spirit, hoping to qualify
under a beatitude, but now I am even more disadvantaged by not praying
as I should.
It gets to a point of "desperation" sometimes, where I must conclude
that prayer is the only hope. I am reminded of a Christian T-shirt
that read, "Now that you've tried everything else, try God". That,
of course, is what I'd have spit out without as much thought in my more
spiritually-inclined days--things done in the interest of the Kingdom are
always "good" uses of my time. But how do I do that, now that
I'm at the Cabin? Or when I'm sitting in my real-life home, alone?
I suspect I need to think of all the good times I've had with the others
over the years; of how they are more than just annoyances. Absence
of such diversions indeed makes the heart grow fonder. I hope I am
still able to appreciate social affairs when the conditions change again,
and I need once more to be in the midst of them.
"Bo"
7 July 1999 -- It really isn't that important
I've been out in the clearing today, resting in the shade on the southern
side of one of the largest boulders among the scrub brush. Because
of the heat that has found its way even up here, I keep my canteen at hand
and have dressed in loose clothing. I hear the long, droning strains
of the insect population surrounding me and also the bird song that remains
this late in the day from that wondrous crack-of-dawn show I heard through
the screens as I woke this morning. It's the same way of life every
day, pretty much, throughout each distinct season at the Cabin. It
is hot enough today that I feel myself correspondingly slow down, to where
I can appreciate the pace of such a life for long periods at a time.
I have seen what happens, time and again, when I grab at "simple" solutions
to what start out, really, as only small problems I should have ignored.
Nothing is ever bad enough to merit the drastic remedies I seek,
and today I am trying to disarm my hair-trigger response and let things
be.
The heat is not so intense at 3765 feet that I cannot sit peacefully
and read a book outside, or simply close my eyes and listen. I am
tired of the panicked rampage of getting through city life, the one of
"putting out fires". I am not forced to live that way, as
are some by their 60-hour work-weeks. In theory, I should not have
to invent a facility like these woods to give my body, nerves and soul
the rest they need. Peace is with me, ever returning to land in my
hands, yet I continue to dash it to the ground when I spot some new emergency.
Many of these perceived duties are not even in my jurisdiction, yet I'm
off.
When will I learn that the others will cover for me? Much
of what I end up trying to do for them is ineffective or not what they
wanted, anyway. I need to get the "good eye" of the ball player at
bat who does not swing at wide pitches outside the strike zone. This
is a call to split-second discernment, something that cannot be made into
an ongoing internal dialogue. It needs to become an unconscious "reflex".
This appears to be how matters of "true love" and spiritual devotion work
for the ones with better social procedure than my own.
I begin to think it good that I do not expose my supposed "beneficiaries"
to too many of my second-rate imitations of real attention. My act
must be visible a mile away. I always return from these leaves of
absence to find most of what I left intact and ready to go. The others
"can do very well without me", to use Eliza Doolittle's response to Prof.
Higgins' less-than-sincere attempts to elevate her status in My Fair
Lady. I cannot last long, however, with the same amount of neglect
for myself. The "normal" world seems designed for those who can do
a lot of their own maintenance between scheduled service stops.
It is local noon and the rock shadow is short enough to leave my feet
exposed to the sun, though there is still plenty of shadow left to keep
the rest of me cool. I listen some more to that drawn-out ringing
of the insects, and I can now hear the river a bit more distinctly.
I am indeed slowed down by the heat today, yet I still feel remnants of
the impulsive call to over-activity, which will resume when the sounds
of the wide-open are replaced by the reminders of the city. The world
successfully goes on without me, for now. It is an odd situation;
I am at the same time not that important and exceedingly important.
Perhaps the two importances are, respectively, to the others and to myself.
This is a consolation, when I find myself running away in what looks like
"selfish" retreat. I am always allowed to do what I can for
myself.
"Bo"
11 July 1999 -- Going over the rules of the game
I was glad today that I could finally complete the latest installments
on my varied obligations in real life and drive back out here to the hollow.
I have wondered before why I even bother getting involved and facing annoyances
beyond those of absolute necessity, like my job. I usually conclude
that higher principles place this "calling" before me and make it look
as attractive as it does at commitment time. My eyes, obviously,
are bigger than my stomach in that regard.
As I relax in the living room in the solitude of this somewhat cooler
day for July, I think of the others I've seen with too much on their plate.
Maybe they're getting by on mediocre, high-volume works because that's
all that can be expected of anyone. More likely, they've probably
become skilled journeymen in the craft of living with others and have no
wasted motion. I become torn between expending the great amount of
care I need to produce even an inferior product of human outreach and simply
specializing myself further in those arcane, worldly concerns that count
very little in terms of the Kingdom of God. I'm supposed to profit
from both if I take the former and make it my specialty, but I have too
often seen a meager return on time and effort spent this way.
I suspect the others will accept and forgive my continued bumbling attempts
to live as one of them, but do I really want to be a patronized
recipient of sympathy? I suppose there could be worse outcomes--if
I were truly mean-spirited, I'd be shunned altogether. Thinking
back to my last contact, I was not expressly dismissed and mustered out
of the company of the crowd when I withdrew my presence today. I
would imagine, though, that I could be resented for holding back; that
they have a harder time with me when I'm not there than when I am.
I so rarely have a correct take on what is on others' minds, since I cannot
think as they do. I'm not ready, however, to take any more beatings
from myself for imagined failings in their midst. No, not today,
at least.
I finally rise from the sofa and head out the open screen door, hearing
it bang behind me as I step into the sun of early afternoon. It occurs
to me that there is even less I can do out in these woods to participate
in the "community" of my surroundings. I am not a tree or a fern,
I do not hunt game like a hawk or a fox, and I cannot survive exposure
like a deer. It is true that I can walk around the hollow and let
my thoughts assume the pattern that the environmental setting and my own
sentiment might engender, but these "calls to action" are many dB below
the calling to serve in city life.
I sadly conclude, as I have in times past, that I'm walking around with
a "latent", bound-up capability in those affairs of the heart that thwart
me now. I've heard the ones who preach to me the value of "letting
my light shine before men", as if it were in plain view and I could actually
grant it such permission. I also have realized that I have little
to learn from lamenting my shortcomings, except for how to stay within
their grip by reinforcing their inevitability. But it seems apparent,
at least for now, that I will keep on in this subdued way of life for some
time, since I am marginally getting away with it. I will usually
accept long years of tedium I know I can survive in place of a few days
of sheer terror I'm not at all sure about, to paraphrase the saying about
aviation.
I can only hope to see a few more chances to beat the high cost of entry
to the mainstream, where those with their vast treasures in heaven act
with hearts so well disposed. I must watch carefully when I return
for these opportunities as the others may present them. I only wish
I did not need to play the game of sustaining emotional injury and then
being forgiven; being allowed to return to such high-stakes action for
round after round of win-and-lose. But I am continually and inexplicably
drawn back to that table, so I better start working on my basics.
"Bo"
14 July 1999 -- A decision between two extremes
The summer is now in the middle of its "cruise", to use the analogy
of a jetliner flight. Sometime up ahead--and I know it is
coming--the transition in climate will begin, with its descent to cold
days and keeping the fire well-stoked while I'm here at the Cabin.
I have experienced what others say about time passing faster with age,
and with so many summers now under my belt, I can easily see this one winding
down before I'm ready. Maybe it's just the slight reminder of autumn
that comes with the cooler weather and the rain that has passed this way
in the last week.
It is clouded over today as I stand by the sink in the back kitchen
wing, cleaning up my few dishes from mid-day's eating--that meal called
"Dinner" by many from the country. The breeze seems a bit stiffer
than one would expect in July, rather like the driving wind that drags
in the cold weather every September. Really, these things should
not bother me so much. It is hard, without air conditioning, to stay
cool all day when it is truly hot up here. Still, it is rather an
exposed, lonely feeling that I have in today's time to myself.
I often try to escape this mood by driving back to the city, only to
find that what I had been missing is laced with enough annoyances and heartbreak
to make its consumption a matter of debate and not one of necessity.
These, indeed, are the times that eat at me; when nothing will completely
"do". I end up entering an active negotiation process with the administrators
of this pain, to find a way clear that won't cost me something I really
need. I suppose I shouldn't do that, since it's like the President
going back on his word and negotiating with terrorists.
With my final item, the cast-iron skillet, washed, dried and hung on
the wall, I stand for a moment and let the room grow silent. The
river's roar below re-establishes itself, and I hear my share of birds
and insects as I look at the generally steady-state scene outside the kitchen
window screen. This really is the middle of nowhere.
In my mind's eye, at least, I finally got what I thought I had wanted.
I try to remind myself that this setting of optimized isolation is still
better than the peak discomfort periods I regularly know when I'm on the
city streets of Northern Virginia in real life.
I turn from the kitchen window and walk into the darkened living room,
under the open framework of the ceiling timbers. This whole room
is mine, free and clear, for whatever it's worth. I look to the fieldstone
fireplace, which has been dormant for some weeks, and at the few portraits
and adornments I've allowed it to have. The knotty-pine wall panels
do not have their usual warm glow without the sun or full kerosene lighting
as at night. The entire indoors is one large shadow. I walk
to the sofa and look out the front window to the top of the ridge in the
northeast. A fairly solid and gray cloud cover has developed, and
I do believe I see a slight bit of rain starting up.
I suppose I could leave to go back now and jump headlong into
the great social diversions, with an aim to storm those demons of irritation
like a crack commando force. That's what they want me to do down
there a lot of the time--simply deny that I have difficulties that are
beyond me and go on living a lie. They would like nothing more than
to see me emerge from weeks, months, and years of this stolid resolve to
absorb pain and keep coming back for more. Then, they'll bestow upon me
some certain honor for living an "upright and responsible life".
Well, maybe that's my only choice--to "endure hardship like a good soldier".
As Paul reminds us in 2 Timothy, I need to run the race "according to the
rules", and nowhere in the rules does it say I can get away with making
up imaginary solace to my heart's content--that's cheating. I need
to win my peace of mind fair and square, or the victory will be a hollow
one.
"Bo"
18 July 1999 -- Searching for proper appreciation
Recent times in my real life have left me to meet a lot of scheduled
commitments and appointments, one of the alleged "problems with life" I
have so often lamented during these retreats up my private two-track road.
It seems an unwritten but widely-accepted property of human affairs that
nothing but good can come from selfless commitment to others than
one's self. This traditional priority system certainly has the longest
track record, since the "take some time for yourself because 'you're worth
it'" philosophy has only seen real popularity in the last 30 or 40 years.
Whenever I hear someone use that phrase, I always have to ask, "how do
they know I'm worth it?" Do the pop psychologists somehow
recognize that by promoting self-respect among others, they're hedging
their bets in case self-indulgence proves false after all?
Maybe the real answer is a combination of both practices--activity for
my own gratification that I share with others. It is a little hard
to imagine doing that in these woods, for my founding presumption of solitude
does not admit the others into this activity. I often find myself
concluding that I am punishably selfish if I do not return to city life
with some new insight that can make me easier for the others to use and
to get along with.
It is a swelteringly hot day today and the lush shade near the river
bottom feels particularly welcome at this point. When my mind wanders
off to this hollow, at least it does not suffer the disservice of continued
confinement within air-conditioned spaces of mind-numbing mediocrity and
familiarity. As familiar as the large-scale, overall features of
the woods around the Cabin can be, my travels through them reveal an endless
stream of new views upon particular aspects of life in its many forms,
and not just the human one.
I would think one way of making such experiences valuable for others
around me is to use them as a reminder of the many and unexpected subtle
variations that also occur in my supposedly hum-drum city life. I would
not so readily discard my social station as pointless and futile if it
had more of this "texture" to it. That never seems to work very well,
though. My cynicism and lingering doubts quickly remind me that people
tend to be more alike than the different species of plants and animals
in a forest. But when it gets to that point, I end up singling myself
out as "uniquely unique", about as bad as self-indulgence can get, and
certainly beyond the scope of the most permissive self-help authors of
the 70's and 80's.
When I start telling myself there is no one with the troubles I've seen,
I venture from self respect altogether, and into self-pity, something that
no one wants to share. It is strange that to have "mercy" shown upon
one's self is considered a blessing, while its close cousin "pity" is a
sign of a curse. Each involves leniency, but one is from benevolent
concern and the other is from contemptuous loathing. The call, then, is
to be merciful to others in the way I am merciful to myself--my motivation
should be praise, and not disdain.
It is certainly true that I have shown my physical body some mercy today
by coming down here by the river. Now it's time to find analogies
to such shelter from abuse in the tangled mess of the office and my home
life. I think a moment longer, and conclude that the very notion
of "self pity" is contradictory, for I can only regard myself as I am,
and not as less. All else is false illusion. It seems to go
without saying when the famous Sailor Man declares "I am what I am", but
now I see the fortitude and honesty such a statement requires.
"Bo"
21 July 1999 -- Two lives, one reality
I have finally gained the correct "escape velocity" after wrapping up
a number of those mundane tasks that define who I am to others. Soon,
I am slung outwards, to follow the well-traveled trajectory to this alternative
to city living alongside "my" stream. As another lazy summer day
begins to draw to a close, I walk idly about in the shorter brush that
might be called my "front" and "side yards". I feel as if I have
been here for quite some time today but am only becoming aware of it just
now. I manage two concurrent threads--this "life" and my real one--but
I still have some distance to go before I am able to live both at once.
The day I can feel the relaxation of this tranquil hollow as I walk
among the concrete, brick and stone "hollows" of the Crystal
City office complex will be a time of decisive accomplishment.
For now, I'm just too scared to "let go" when I'm walking along those rivers
of cars and trucks, instead of the river here that is fed by springs and
run-off. While on the job or commuting to and fro, I sense a need
to keep 100% of my mind's resources upon the scene before me. It
appears capable of becoming unmanageable without even a moment's notice.
Only when I am ensconced somewhere out of real harm's way can I open the
eyes that I have as "Bo" in these woods. It is almost like a timeshare,
where others could live out the role when I'm not here and I'd hardly notice.
I know there is fallacy in believing the two worlds to be mutually exclusive.
This sense of being a desperate refugee; of running away from the unlivable
is a decided oversimplification of what I'm really up against.
The shadows of the tall pines behind the woodshed have started to extend
across this patch of undeveloped field, keeping me from the full force
of the hazy sunshine. The unmowed edge of the clearing resembles
what one might see in front of a long-abandoned urban dwelling, where there
was once life and celebration and bountiful hope. Of course, the
"overgrowth" of this lush land is one of its principal attractions, even
though I must guard against ticks and burrs and poison ivy when I walk
around in it.
I slowly amble back to the front porch, where I seat myself near the
front steps on the stained floor planks. The objective reality of
city living is something I cannot deny or disparage, just to make it a
better "escape" to come here. I must evaluate both environments on
their own true merits. I come to realize the terrible game
I've been playing with my two lives; the public one on the city streets
and the private one in this forest of my imagination. I come to the
Cabin to live this way for awhile, actually reveling in the various privations
of creature comfort, and I exalt its serene setting over a supposed hell
to which I must eventually return. But then, I get called back to
such duty and have to dismiss the entire construct of the Cabin as fanciful
and non-productive. Neither of these impressions is true, yet I keep
trading them off, one against the other in succession.
I can't believe that I have to renounce the "other side" of the boundary
just to make life worth living in the side I happen to be on. There
must be a more neighborly way to coordinate my adjacent personal and community
undertakings. Rather than looking down the river valley from this
vantage point and seeing only tiresome opposition, I should at least remain
neutral about it. I should then feel inclined to cross the border
to that other life more readily, and not as though I'm on a life-or-death
sortie into the "danger zone" whichever way I cross it. The two worlds
will not collapse into equaled-out nothingness, should I throw the
door open. The two "sides" are a complimentary pair, each provably
livable in its own way. What a day, indeed, it will be, when the
two lives become one.
"Bo"
25 July 1999 -- Facing the truth of pain
The blessed relief of evening has finally come to the sun-baked world
of the hollow. It seems that much of one's discomfort during these
"dog days" of summer arises from taking direct solar radiation. This
effect is intensified at the altitude of the Cabin, where ambient temperature
plays less of a part. The twilight has now become so dim that I cannot
easily distinguish objects across the living room. I get up from
the sofa and light the two kerosene lamps in the main wing of the building.
I truly enjoy the feeling of "camping out" at night with these lanterns,
which aren't even as bright as the Coleman gasoline models I grew up with
on family vacations in the 1960's. The problem, though, is that I
so often wonder what it is that I'm truly trying to accomplish by spending
time here. When I was young and went with the decisions of an older
person of presumed right discernment, life might not have been as enjoyable
but at least I could blame my misery on someone else. 30 years have
elapsed, and I now have to live as such an "elder" myself. My freedom
to set my own agenda and priorities leaves me with deep concerns as to
whether I am doing "enough" when I play out my urban role at a minimal
level, then stay to myself the rest of the time.
It has now become fully dark and the cricket noise dominates this vignette
of life in the wide open. It really has cooled off now, unlike
those sticky city nights in the lowlands. I am "free", for now, from
a great many enticements to impulsive involvement. I should think
that a fair number of provably "worthwhile" efforts are started on
impulses, but my own impulsiveness has sent me down too many dead-ends.
As an attempt to cut losses, I now have a life in which every small
event and undertaking is stiflingly micromanaged, without knowledge of
the real, unforseen problems that will enter when things get underway.
I have seen that the more effective approach is to keep the pre-planning
to a minimum and work instead with the moment at hand. Of course,
there are plans that must be made to prevent outright and immediate
failure. My difficulty there is in trying to do too much of that
planning on my own, rather than consulting the cumulative wisdom and guidance
of others who have already been there. But since so many of their
"results may vary", my unavoidable destiny is to live out some hard
times, whenever I choose to branch out to new areas of endeavor.
I know from Scripture that all things should work together for the good,
so long as my devotion lies within the Kingdom of God. Yet my built-up
cynicism from years of bad decisions does not leave me in the best position
to jump into faith-centered action without looking. The discernment
I gain by attempts at prayer often seems more questionable than the objective,
audible advice of worldly leaders.
For now, I suppose I'd better lay low, since I'm not hearing a whole
lot that makes sense. I could go out at any time I want and start
up on more initiatives, but trial-and-mostly-error is a slow and depressing
process of personal attrition. The Cabin, though it may be lacking
in dazzling "stimulation", will stay as it is. A great many of life's
parameters that are variable in the city are held constant up here, as
in a controlled scientific experiment. I get the distinct and disturbing
feeling, however, that those changing factors in my real life have a teaching
potential all their own. Rather than unwanted "noise" in an instrumentation
set-up, they are most likely trying to show the results I seek, but I simply
shut them out.
I sit under the flickering kerosene lamp on its stand by the sofa, feeling
the occasional cool breeze enter through the screens of the opened windows.
I realize that I'm not going to get rid of the pain involved with my personal
growth into new areas. I'm in such poor condition, however, that
it doesn't take much to cause a truly disabling injury. I need to
start out slow.
"Bo"
29 July 1999 -- Looking for the optimal load
On this warm afternoon at altitude, I try to close off as many diversions
of my attention as possible. Today is like many of my previous visits
to the Cabin; I could think of nothing better than dropping myself onto
the thick down topcovers of my bunk, the ones that I used for warmth during
two winters. As it was in the dream, I have
the front and rear living room windows open. The droning chorus of
summer insects in the clearing is to my left and the rushing roar of the
river to my right, as I lay face down and bring myself into the straightforward
simplicity of this place.
I don't know what has made me so tired this time. I can
only imagine that I have faculties that need rest in ways other than sleep
and they have been kept awake for days on end. Perhaps it is the
vigilance of keeping at the scheduled routine, which never stops, even
for Saturday and Sunday. I am reminded of the "home front" stories
in my old WWII magazines, telling of production facilities running at 24
x 7 for the Duration. It must have been difficult, in 1946, to think
of such boisterous activity finally facing an end. There is a palpable
excitement to the hustle, one that can carry a person well beyond his or
her proper time to stop. When I finally step free of the mill, I
realize that I've gone and overdone it again. That's the American
way, I suppose, the life beyond reason and personal means.
I try to release the tension in limbs that have been active on a great
many fronts lately. I feel the bunk holding me up, and it does not
have the slightest hint of wanting to turn me onto the floor. That
is the problem with my real life bed in the city when I'm starting before
dawn to beat the worst of the traffic. My mind is the hardest moving
part of me to slow down--I probably burned out its brakes by the time I
got through college. I try to put the affairs of the office and my
home behind me as sufficiently "worked on" to let be, but force of habit
keeps me wondering about them. I start seeing now the rationale for
having full-time hustle: it keeps me from dwelling on the daunting
reality of future duties that will be present obligations before I know
it. I find myself needing "busy work", as we used to call the substitute
teacher assignments in grade school.
I turn my head to face the rear window, where I see nothing but green
forest canopy extending into the river cut. There is a growing pile
of laundry laid under that window, next to the maple wood dresser to which
I must eventually restore it. I reassure myself that I will have
time to work on that, as far as time is rationed at the Cabin. As
I continue to rest, my mind is set free to wander towards some of those
cordoned-off areas of proven hazard; the ones where I contemplate the whole
point of my life. At nearly four decades, I have been over many kinds
of life's terrain. It is difficult to believe that the 7-year-old
who once played on the swings at the municipal park is the same, beaten,
broken, and domesticated "useful member of society" at 37 that somehow
continues to keep going.
I suspect I'd better soon resort to the spiritual side of this exercise,
for I don't get much of an answer when I ask "is this all there is" when
I'm looking at the things of this world. Daily I walk up willingly
and assume the position under my yoke, but I do not get far before I hear
the familiar message of old, "take my yoke upon you and learn of me".
In the soothing calm of these woods, I try to hear that call to the "more
excellent way". It is indeed an easier, lighter load.
"Bo"
Ahead to August 1999
