4 June 1999 -- My expectations are out of view
I've been out in the bright sun of the clearing for some time today,
thinking over "what really matters" in the convoluted contrivance of my
real city life. I enjoy the vantage point I have here, far removed
from that well-paced track of daunting concerns at home, around the office,
and in the local community. Life in these hills does not hinge upon
the extent to which I perform some duty or another within the social network.
But should I fail to produce results down there, as explicitly outlined
by contractual agreement or implicitly expected as part of a relationship,
I will receive my due punishment. The others will downgrade me on
their lists and the credit bureaus will erode my standing in their databases.
So the battle goes on, to keep my place, often by doing rather odd things
that the others see as having worth. As I fight to fulfill my interpretation
of "what they want of me", I often fail to see how negotiable many of those
terms really are. I highly doubt that they would want me to ruin
myself, just to uphold every last letter of my word. I am reminded
of the warning against "oaths" in the Sermon on the Mount, where my "yes"
should be "yes" and my "no" should be "no". But if every "yes" is
to have equal force within the scope of my obligations, then I would think
a corollary to that warning is to think long and hard before saying "yes".
When I leave the world of reminders of all the things I thought I could
do in one moment of inspiration or another, they naturally recede from
prominence. With only the sky, the grass, the rocks, and the woods
surrounding me, I can put some of those ambitions into a more proper perspective.
Still, the expectations remain of me, and when I return, I'll just be that
much further behind on them. Maybe I am seeing my "creditors" as
too many and too stringent. True, there is little room for interpretation
on the amounts due for taxes, the mortgage and the truck payment, but these
can be met, the moment I find a life in which I am more at ease.
I should ideally limit myself to the essentials of making a living and
not actively turning away the outreach of the few whom I might recognize
as "friends".
Sometimes I feel the need for isolation up here at the Cabin because
of my temptations to impulsive overcommitment and overextension.
I suppose there is valid cause for praise in having such disposition to
serving the others, but when my sense of internal reward and rightful pride
is so lacking, the chase becomes futile. I have often thought that
I could benefit in seeing myself as others do, for I have the dubious distinction,
by far, of being my own worst critic. Sometimes, when I'm back there
in the midst of them, I strain my ears at a safe distance and pick up fragments
here and there of what their perceptions of me might be. Inevitably,
though, I do not get the whole picture. I see their chance statements
of merit as isolated peaks, surrounded by wide chasms of great depth, made
all the deeper by off-hand comments of constructive criticism that I misinterpret
as condemnation. Though I cannot confirm it, I can objectively discount
this model of a barren personal wasteland as false. Still, it is
the most convincing picture I have of my place among the others.
I often dream of seeing all truth opened before me, and entering into
the world that really is; the one where I see so many others living in
their envious harmony. But mine has been a life of decades of avoidance,
and I cannot imagine it being that easy, even though I am told, "knock,
and the door will be opened to you". I am convinced there is some
secret code to that "knock", and it will be quite the job finding out what
it is.
RB
7 June 1999 -- Staying out to see the stars
My real life has allotted me another moment to be here at the Cabin,
to think in peace. It is one of those sultry and humid evenings,
of the kind that follow a hot day, and I've finally been able to come outside.
Being out in the clearing like this takes me back to youthful times, such
as going to the fireworks, outdoor band concerts, or high school graduation,
20 and more years ago. As a grown man, I hardly seek out those open-air
crowds any more as dusk approaches. I am interested simply in getting
myself bedded down, for that early start the next morning to try to get
caught up at work. The open-endedness of those various celebrations
is gone, traded in for predictability and comfort the way that earlier
generation traded in Corvette convertibles and Ford Mustangs for Cadillac
Sevilles and LTD sedans.
I'm propped up with my seating pad against one of the many lichen-covered
boulders, gazing up at the deepening blue that is the maturity of the sunset.
The night is beginning to get that feeling of a closed-in space, now that
the hillsides are dimmed. I am reminded for a brief moment of those
precious few evenings in which I actually did participate in great comings-together.
But now, it's just me, planted here to think some more about whatever my
mind will land on after the city's hustle has finally dampened. Sometimes,
I am greatly disappointed when a long-sought release such as this arrives.
I never know whether my thoughts will continue spontaneously or if I will
just be looking at a dead end.
I have often spoke of the rational and objective "knowledge" I have
of the vast world of opportunity that nevertheless remains for me when
I find myself in the pit. There are people to meet, places to go, and as
always, lots of work to do. But without being convinced internally,
by inspiration rather than reasoning, those occupations just lie there
on the ground, many to be lost as they are trodden underfoot by the march
of time. When I was 17, for example, I know I could have made better
use of my supply of leisure time than I did. Would I have found a
different life today if I had gone to all those parties and taken the rightful
lickings of heartbreak and humiliation that are the due of every adolescent?
I have no way of knowing.
I am thinking of the place I have in "the community" surrounding my
real-life home. I know I'm squandering countless chances to relive
a bit of that wondrous sense of riding along on the communal tide that
is there. As a minor dependent, I found myself thrown into those
swelling waters, whether I wanted to be there or not. The subordinate
status of being a kid left no option to pull away as I did when I drove
up the road this afternoon. Now that I am grown, I have implemented an
isolation of my own volition. I am the one who ran away this
evening. I have lost my right to complain, since I
did it to myself.
So much is lost...if I were to try now to catch up, I would stumble
aimlessly about in the sophisticated social circles of people "my age",
and they would surely discount me as not being a serious contender.
Or at least that is the present conviction of my heart. As long as
I spend my off-hours away from "them", I will never know what real compassion
and forgiveness are. I try now to dredge up a little more of that
unbiased knowledge of what people are really like. I have
only the cold, sharp and silent points of the stars for companions this
evening. How I wonder what they are, yes, just as I wonder about
the others in town, so far away. I bring to mind the image of my
favorite Van Gogh, the Starry
Night, with its sky full of great, wide, flowing sources of radiance.
There has to be a similar brilliance I cannot yet see in the people down
there below--and in myself as well.
RB
11 June 1999 -- Shielded in the darkness of the
valley
I decide to head out the back door and into the ravine today, since
the sun is out in some strength. Ever since I established this dwelling
in summer 1997, I've known of the dual cooling capacity of the river and
its tree cover. I step carefully down the twisting path of rocks
to the water collection point for my cistern and stand for a moment, looking
at the flow and becoming engulfed in that sound that the sleep technologists
never quite get right with their machines. Since I am wearing my
sport sandals today, I can step right into the water and work my ankles
some, this way and that, on the various smooth stones along the bottom.
The current on my lower legs is a most effective hydrotherapy for the cramped
stiffness developed by walking all week on concrete in street shoes.
I made sure to bring my hiking staff along this time, for I know how the
current could catch me off balance.
Today I walk downstream a short distance atop the stones, about 1/4
mile, to a point having notable cliffs rising above the right side as I
approach. I take a seat on a log at the base of the cliff, at a time
of day when the sun is still climbing towards noon and there is enough
shade left to shield myself completely from whatever radiation can make
it through the trees. The river roars along, creating a further sense
of shielding from all those angry-sounding noises of the city streets.
This is an enclosure that makes the shelter of my one-man city townhome
seem as flimsy as the cardboard boxes we kids used to make into forts,
every time a new refrigerator or washing machine came. Behind me
is the massive granite of the ravine-side, with its further ramparts proceeding
to the high top of the northeastern ridge. The southwest has its
own hillside barrier against direct exposure to the outside world.
So long as just I am here, it hardly seems "selfish" to have
designated thousands of imaginary acres for my own private use, as a medieval
despot might cordon off a private game reserve. But ever since I
was in kindergarten, I was taught to share. That was the big
word, really, in the lives of late 60's kids. The dream of true egalitarianism
across social and economic lines still seemed possible, especially when
so many of prominent heeling decided to move into squalor in their rebellion
against middle-class values. Still, I have great hesitation towards
writing any human characters with "speaking parts" (besides myself) into
this story. The greatest loneliness I might ever get is replaced
in an instant with apprehension when I hear I have company. Worse
still is needing to wait until a given hour to be at a planned event.
I can only imagine that the ones who crave all of that contact managed
to hear the right messages when they were growing up. More
importantly, they have integrated them into caring, giving, and yes, sharing
lives. I wonder often what kept those words from being written onto
my own heart in a way that I could read them. I have conscious recollection
of them, from all of those attempts at socialization by the church and
school communities. Is it really possible for someone to build a
shield so intensely opaque against such benevolent intentions that most
do not find their way to their intended target?
It is indeed very shady and cool down here under the cliff. I
shall remain at least until the sun peeks over the ledge above and begins
to drive me out. Outside the walls of this 1000-acre hollow flows
a staggering bandwidth of human compassion and emotional outreach; indeed,
it passes directly overhead as I sit in my enormous battlement. One
day, I'll have constructed another shield, of other materials, that favors
the passage of these components. Such a defense will keep
me from being critically injured by the thoughtlessness, affrontery and
open antagonism that I cannot expect to go away any time soon. Indeed,
I cannot claim innocence from such offense when I walk out on them and
go to hide, leaving them to feel unwanted. But then, I have
to hear my own internal dialogue, and that probably is punishment enough.
RB
15 June 1999 -- Slowing down enough to recognize
truth
The summer up here in the hollow has now turned the corner towards its
main stretch; the heat will soon no longer have novelty. At least
it will not be quite so hot as in the city, down there near sea level,
where my real life takes place. Many times, the atmospheric conditions
themselves are not the problem until they are combined with particular
activities, such as walking about in business attire and dodging traffic
to get across the street. The expectation of the managers and "the
system" in general, however, is that I carry on or else get out of the
game. They give me a place in their order on the one hand, then disregard
on the other what it takes to stay there.
I recognize that it is dangerously easy to call people hypocritical,
only to suffer personal hypocrisy for having the same criticized faults.
Up here at the Cabin, the problem is worse, since the others are not here.
I end up evaluating the biased internal picture I have of people, a very
easy and undefended target. I should ideally be saying these things
right to their faces. But it is hard to stay polite for long in polite
society by doing that. I become cynically disheartened when I realize
that the others in my city life have generally been socialized to say only
"nice" things to my face. I always wonder, of the many faults that
seem so obvious to me, which ones are they seeing and which ones only I
see.
I really don't care too much about their discussions behind my back,
for I "scandalize my name" internally with much greater precision than
they ever could. In self-righteous indignation I even hear myself saying,
"go ahead and let them cast me out", for then I'd have more time just to
be out here in the woods and doing what seems best to me. It is not
so simple as that, though. Since I acknowledge many personal failings,
I obviously cannot make proper use of my time. I'd just be doing
the wrong things, without interruption, and slowly sliding to decay.
It's pain both ways--either the multiple annoyances of keeping up a social
calendar or the loss of contact with what is true by not standing in the
presence of witnesses.
Well, my default behavior seems to be coming to these woods--it is what
happens when I have a choice. It is my ground state. Maybe
I need to learn appreciation of such a tendency to solitude. Much
of my present-day shame comes from seeing others in life and in the media
living those fabulously-networked lives, with the final message being,
"if this isn't you, then you aren't really living". Maybe I'm really
"allowed" to be as strange as I am compared to that flickering picture
on the tube. The others, then, might not be choking back as much
contempt as I think. On this June day, however, the ultimate reasons
for trying to adopt this most plausible view and get more involved do not
seem as clear as they have at other times. Life just isn't giving
me a whole lot of attractive choices right now, so I will indeed be at
the ground state for awhile.
I do my Cabin routine of deliberately crashing myself into my bunk,
in the humid mid-day stickiness that is only helped in part by the slight
breeze through the screened windows. I find that after I've been
in the stretched-out position long enough, pondering my state and my affairs,
there slowly appears a new agenda of opportunity that I had been moving
too fast to see beforehand. The day I can slow myself down like this
in a group setting will be quite the occasion. Then, I'll see in
others what I normally miss by spending too much mental CPU time trying
to second guess them. On that day, I'll see only the reality at their
surfaces. It is all happening in plain sight, and that's the problem,
for I do not trust what I see.
"Bo"
19 June 1999 -- Another precious ration of
free time
I drove up the road along the river this morning in an attempt to live
as Thoreau did at Walden--"deliberately". Still, it is hard to know
just what to do with the time in my life that does not have someone else's
design upon it. I fight for all I'm worth to get away for "leisure",
then find few truly meritorious activities that I, personally, would
want to do. It has been my ongoing assumption that this Cabin dwelling,
away from some of the less satisfying of the immediately-available diversions
at my city home, would provide genuine reward in "authentic" uses for this
hard-won "personal" time.
Today, it is very much a scene of brilliant green, expressed
in its assorted subtleties of hue, texture and brightness. I recall
the old psychedelic advertisement for Good 'n' Fruity Candy: "Lime
is love / and love is green / and love is all around". I think that
is how the verses went. I go out to walk aimlessly around, in the
area near the back door and the woodshed, looking for some genuinely "proper"
use of my time. I note the new growth on the tall pines, as well
as on the various deciduous trees that provide their backdrop. The
branches push outward, yes, and express the bright green that shows their
optimism over the established limb structure that has settled into its
more subdued tones.
I should like to be the kind that could just sit here for hours on end,
going off into some reverie while looking at those new branch-tips.
I don't seem to have a mind that settled, however, and I must move on,
through the brush. The sun is out in force today, and it certainly
helps to highlight the possibilities for occupying contemplation.
This, indeed, will be a long day, since the Space
Calendar tells me the Solstice will occur at 7:49 PM UTC, two days
from now. My mind goes for a moment to picture the festivity in that
far northern part of the world, where the daily constraint of nightfall
has been removed and people are as free as they'll be all year. The
temperate latitudes, of course, have no such respite. The scheduled
routine just goes on and on.
I walk on past the woodshed and the outhouse, to where the two-track
dirt road finally ends and I have parked the truck.
I know that the routine has fixed points in time that approach me as I
stand here looking down the road to where it disappears around a turn into
the trees and undergrowth below. I am powerless to stop the advance
of commitment's resumption, but I'm beginning to wonder if I would really
want to do that. There is such paradoxical comfort in being made
to do something; in not being accountable for "wasting time".
I still have some hours left today before another of those notches on
the time-line grabs hold and jerks me back to life amid the others.
I try to dismiss the many spurious imperatives I hear in my mind; the voices
of myself and myself as others have persuaded me to speak. Inherent in
the use of "free time" is the exercise of whatever I have that resembles
my own will. But such motivation is at a remarkable low at the present.
I almost find myself pleading with the events of the future; that they
come upon me and remove the misery of this indecision.
Times like these are when I am best able to implement the third of the
12 Steps--turning my will and my life over to the care of God as I understand
him. That often seems to be an odd decision; the abandonment of personal
discretion at the exact moment I have finally found it. There is
a crucial difference, though; I am not within the plan of other people,
latching on to their fallibility instead of my own. Through
the counsel of that "higher power", there are ways of seeing and being
that are "right", and with no room for controversy. I go to
sit on the porch chair, as the sun advances high into the sky. My gaze
is upon the clearing, considering its green-ness. "What a color",
I say to myself--"those candy people were obviously onto something."
"Bo"
22 June 1999 -- The proper place to fix my gaze
The heat is coming back in force, now that summer is "officially" under
way. It is not so hot today as to cause true misery, but neither
can it be ignored. The foliage that grows wild everywhere outside
of the Cabin site is finally dry enough that it does not cause soaked clothing
when I walk through it after sunrise. Of course, I have heard of
the various drought conditions back in my real life region and know that
rain at this time of year is generally well worth a pair or two of wet
sneakers and days better spent inside.
This morning, I wade out into the tall brush, looking down frequently
at the rock protrusions from the mossy soil that would twist my ankle if
I were not careful. The wildflowers are quite the sight today.
I freely admit to not knowing their names, but then I recall the famous
line about "a rose by any other name" from Romeo and Juliet.
I need not have an intricate working knowledge of any of this to appreciate
and participate in it nonetheless. I enjoyed television as a kid,
long before I ever understood basic electronics.
It is personally enriching, I should think, to picture myself
in such a setting, but I am immediately stricken by the guilt of leaving
the others. Often, on account of some trifling inconvenience
or perceived "wrong" that has become blown out of proportion in my mind,
I pack up and go. I return the discomfort of a regrettable inadvertency
with a deliberate act of scornful abandonment. It matters not "who
started it"; I have struck the first blow when this happens.
I watch the various birds as they descend from the trees and glide out
to their hidden targets in the clearing. The insect noise is beginning
to pick up now, that familiar ringing drone of a still summer's day.
I find one of the suitable boulders, some height above the Cabin near the
footpath to the waterfall, and assume the approximate posture of the Rodin
sculpture. I realize how little good this does in getting over imagined
hurts; this thinking about it. The inside of my head soon
assumes deafening resonance to unwarranted conclusions, all drawn from
thin air. I find myself endlessly re-living some chance instance
in town; an event that I know was nothing but which affected me still.
"Yes," I conclude to myself, "I have my sensitivity set far too high
again". These bouts of pain from within burst forth without warning,
in the manner of an audio feedback "squeal" from a microphone amid a PA
system. They make me scramble to find the right control--any control.
The wiser ones tell me I should not "let myself" be spurred into over-response
to chance and inconsequential happenings back in that city life. They
apparently have good knowledge of their own controls. Though it looks like
every person might be on a collision course with me, I have seen that they
usually miss and go right on past, like those kilometer-sized asteroids
that cause a scare every so often when they pass just inside the orbit
of the moon.
It always amazes me, when I've driven back in the
truck to meet obligations, how little resentment is left with the other
parties to my transgressions. I can only conclude that the typical
person lives much more in the here and now. It is as though the actual
human presence I place before them at that one moment so absorbs them that
they neglect the larger whole of what I've been in the past and might be
in the future. Perhaps, then, it is not a matter of "turning down
my gain", for then I'd see even less of them in the here and now.
No, the time instead has come for focus. I must view a properly-distinct
and undistorted scene of the truth among the others. I must reject
those spurious and unintended artifacts of aberration at the periphery
that are not an accurate representation of who is before me.
"Bo"
26 June 1999 -- A careful journey, over the ridge
Though the sun has been above the northeastern ridge-top only a scant
hour or so, I can tell it will be hot today. Since skies look fair, I decide
to find some shelter by going for a hike under the forest canopy.
In backcountry this remote, I know to load my pack well, in the event of
unforseen happenings. Emergencies tend to arise out in the woods
in much the same way they do back in city life--when they are least expected.
Unfortunately, I am the kind to take excessive precautions for what I can
imagine happening, only to remain blind to what really ends up giving
me grief.
I step out onto the front porch in my full-leather boots, squinting
some against the harsh glare of the still-low sun. The front dooryard
and the end of the dirt road are now parched and dusty, with assorted crumbling
footprints and tire treads from the rapidly receding spring season.
I begin hiking at a restrained pace along the road, which follows the course
of the river into town. I am eventually headed over the lower ridge
to my left, accessible by an easier trail that departs about 1/2 mile downstream.
I take note of the marking when I reach this point, then head off through
the ravine bottom, paying special attention to my footing on the rocks
as I cross the stream bed. "That would have to be the worst of injuries;
falling into those rocks", I say to myself.
I follow the trail around the low end of the ridge at a fairly-level
3700 feet, and since I know I have all I day, I take the side loop to the
"rightmost" of the summits one sees when looking up into "my" hollow.
When I get to the relatively small, open-rock area atop this hill, I cannot
discern the Cabin, close though it is, because of the trees. The
clearing is there, however, and I get that sense of "participation" in
the terrain that I always do when I'm at a point with an open view.
After about 20 minutes of sitting in the sun, I make sure of my strength
and my equipment and begin back down into the lush green enclosure of the
forest. I can barely follow this particular trail, since I do not
come this way often. Continually on my mind is the fear of getting
lost. I have seen how easy it is to get lost in areas much smaller
than this, and it is a terror for which I'd trade a great many of the city
inconveniences I so often complain about. In a traffic jam, for example,
you know exactly where you are.
After hearing it grow louder, I finally gain sight of the tributary
that flows downward to meet "my" river at 3000 feet, just after the 2nd
of the two steel culvert bridges on the road up. I have arrived just
above a waterfall to rival the one I visit so often from the area of the
clearing. I assess my situation again: thus far, I'm in good
shape, though even short hikes across trails so rocky can work at a man's
feet and ankles. At the top of the falls, I take off my pack and
lay it near my staff and 2-quart Army canteen, sitting sprawled upon a
great flat boulder. I break out some of my highly-caloric rations,
wanting to make sure I get back with enough strength. There is a
lot of uphill on that trip.
Though I am obviously at a place of some importance for this particular
river, I realize how successfully I've cut my connections to my real life
tormentors, as well as benefactors who seem like tormentors. Most
of my transactions with them can wait and some can simply be dropped.
I try my best to let loose some of my intense need to have a handle on
every possible crisis as soon as it becomes apparent. Some things
will simply have their way with me, and I'll be worse off if I ignore the
other things I can change, as in the Serenity Prayer. I finally
lean back against the rock surface on a piece of rough weather gear, listening
to the roar of the falls. Yes, it will be quite some time before
I have to return today.
"Bo"
30 June 1999 -- Climbing away from misery
The others who surround me as I attempt to live meaningfully amid the
"normal" did not seem to notice when I finally left their presence today
to come up here. I just walked away and saw no one watching when I looked
back. The cynical side of me might say that the lifestyle down in the city
is so demanding that people no longer have time to pay that kind of attention
to one another. I have even heard some say that this is preferable over
small-town living, as it goes on in the village down by the main road,
since one's business is not shared by others to whom it does not pertain.
Actually, I find it odd, in general principle, that I am bothered at
all by this lack of notoriety. Is being noticed that way something I really
want? Do I truly wish to impose sorrow upon them? I've certainly known
what sorrow is like, and my exposure to the Ten Commandments and the Golden
Rule as a kid was substantial. It couldn't possibly be that I want them
to stand in judgment of me for being a laggard and a coward. There is judgment
available with no limit, when I go back down there and fail as I so often
do in matters of friendship, romance, courage or machismo.
I realize, then, that I should not feel disappointment over my event-free
departures. I should instead be carrying out my main "mission" during these
Cabin visits: using the woodland surroundings to place my harried dealings
into a proper, more manageable perspective. I am planted today in my typical
spot on the overstuffed, slipcovered sofa, in this dwelling with no wires
attached. Outside in the clearing and up to the ridge, there is something
of a subtly-shimmering haze, and the air has a rather heavy feeling. It
is not what I'd call "muggy", as in certain recent real-life nights. It
is just that the atmosphere has a "presence" of its own it does not usually
assume in such strength.
I sit some more in this settled-down land of few happenings, my arms
dropped at my side. Among the few items in motion outside are the occasional
branches, which sway in the little breeze there is, and the insects that
rise as they might from their cover in the grass. I am so used to being
part of a large, moving assemblage, one where I must keep constant attention
on the parts that appear to be connected to me. Maybe that's it--maybe
I miss the motion of the human "machine" that dictates and prompts so many
of my actions down there. I sit some more in this still, heavy, silence.
The river carries on without me, and I play no part in the success of the
breeze.
When I think about it long enough, I realize that my compulsory connectivity
in city life is not all that extensive, considering the amount that goes
on in the world. I have a certain few key articulations such as my job,
my immediate family and my longer-term friends, from which just about everything
runs. The other links I am probably right in leaving mostly alone, given
such a model. They do not need my problems any more than I do. Indeed,
for every mal-intention I direct towards another, there is an equal and
opposite one fed right back at me, whether spoken or not, as with Newton's
Laws.
It is sad, the things that drive people apart, especially when I know
I'm not part of the solution. I have come to realize that I am not of sufficient
enlightenment to make much difference in lessening this property of the
human conglomerate. I can only pray that I might witness and share more
authentic "good" in that world, since I know it does exist, and sometimes
right under my nose. People have been preaching "accentuate the positive"
to me for years, and for good reason. Though it seems to serve well an
ulterior sense of justice to complain misanthropically of my treatment
by society as I storm off, such is the beginning of a downward spiral that
can become too steep to climb out of, past some point. I think of the spacetime
models we've been shown of "black holes". I don't care to know what exists
in such a place, given the journey it takes to get there.
"Bo"
Ahead to July 1999
