Even if our efforts of attention seem for years to be producing no result, one day a light that is in exact proportion to them will flood the soul.
— SIMONE WEIL, REMINDER TAPED TO MY CABIN DOOR
AUGUST 1, 2001
LATE EVENING: 41°F. Calm and raining with the moon shining through. After sending the check-in email, I received a reply from Alejandra. She has the packages Patti sent and says German will be here on the 9th. I sent Patti a new shopping list. I’m not sure how she’ll get the additional items to German.
Today was calm and sunny with prairie-cloud formations. It’s rare to see such clouds floating in a clear sky. I went to Staines to fish and cut firewood. The outboard still acts weird when starting. It runs for a few minutes then dies. I wait for a while to restart it, and it’s fine from then on. I fished deep and caught four, but reeling them up that far was hard on my shoulder.
The saw is still dumping gas out of the muffler when I fill the tank, but works ok when I fill it only halfway. For months, cutting and hauling wood seemed like a burden, but now, even though it hurts my shoulder, it’s difficult to stop since it’s the only task that gets me moving. I miss physical activity and feel restless.
I’ve started to read Solitude by Anthony Storr. Both books I’ve read on solitude justify spending time alone as healthy and valuable. I’ve never questioned that, but apparently many people — psychologists in particular — do. They define humans as exclusively social, and claim we are healthy only when engaged in intimate interpersonal relationships. Now that I think about it, I suppose some people do consider what I’m doing a crazy waste of time.
It’s generally assumed that each of us is a fundamentally separate entity, and that we need to come into relationship with each other through social interaction. But we are more profoundly social than that — we are collective beings. My consciousness is always part of the human matrix whether I’m physically alone or with other people. I’m working to open myself to a deeper level of connectedness that doesn’t depend solely on the form of surface engagement.
Am I being irresponsible when I disengage from social obligations to spend time alone? I’ve been supported financially, emotionally, and intellectually by other people and have a responsibility to contribute to their lives as well. I hope and intend to continue to do that. A key sign of maturity and emotional health is the ability to form intimate and mutually respectful relationships. It seems to me that when I’ve returned from past solitary retreats, my relationships with others have become more meaningful because my relationship with myself has deepened.
We are also Spiritual Beings. To be fully human we need to cultivate a relationship not only with other people but also with our deeper selves and with Spirit. Solitude can be a powerful context and catalyst for this process.
AUGUST 2, 2001
LATE NIGHT: Moonlight casts shadows from tree branches onto the translucent porch roof. Exquisite black on white calligraphy. I wonder why shifting from three-dimensional color to two-dimensional black and white affects me so powerfully. For the past few days, the barometric pressure has been low — about 29.6 — and the weather fairly calm and mostly sunny. Now the pressure has climbed to over 30 and it’s raining and blowing. This is backwards. I had hoped the barometer would help me predict storms, but not so far.
There’s been a shift in consciousness these past few days. An opening into spacious stillness and peace. I’m not always there, but when I notice I’m not and pause to relax, it flows back effortlessly. I can still sense doubt and self-judgment in the background, but they are faint. It feels like solitude is working on me. At times I look ahead to leaving here, and dread losing the sense of openness and belonging. I still have a lot to learn about equanimity, because I’m loath to lose this experience.
At these times, happiness is not the issue; there is peace, love, and joy, and I feel blessed — like we should be this way all the time. When I feel locked out of this space, then there is unhappiness. This is why I resist taking antidepressants to mask my depressive feelings. I really am missing something vital when I’m locked into my small personal self. Sensing the loss and trying to be good enough to get it back might be the source of my perfectionism. But trying to be perfect is not the way home. This feeling of absence is what drives so much of our culture’s destructive materialism: looking for fulfillment in all the wrong places.
Mornings remain difficult. I feel grumpy and resistant to, well, everything. I don’t want to get up and don’t want to stay in bed. My shoulders hurt, and so does my heart.
AUGUST 3, 2001
NIGHT: Grey pus is oozing from around the tooth that’s been bothering me for the past months, and it feels like another tooth it’s attached to with a double crown has broken. I’m going to try to find the balls to pull the infected one. If I can’t get it out, I’ll have to catch a ride to the dentist with German when he comes. That would mean going to Puerto Natales for at least a week, and I really don’t want to leave here. The worst will be if the tooth starts to seriously hurt, since the only way to visit a dentist quickly is to call the navy for emergency rescue. I’ll start antibiotics tonight.
I guess I’ll take a couple of Tylenol 3, smear Orajel on the gum, tie a string to the tooth, and try to yank it out. It’s quite loose, but my teeth have roots that go down forever. So far it’s not very painful, but I’m scared to pull it and have it hurt horribly or break off inside the gum. Assuming I can actually pull the tooth, I’m sort of glad I have to deal with it. The chronic infection may have something to do with my constant aches and lack of energy. I hope it doesn’t explode with pain. I guess it will be what it will be.
AUGUST 4, 2001
NIGHT: Brilliantly clear and calm with a heavy frost over everything. The moon rose into a crystal sky and a mirror sea. It’s so relaxing not to have wind. Today the returning sun touched the roof and front yard! Being relegated to the shade is almost over.
I’ve noticed myself thinking that I don’t trust the weather. This isn’t the same as being cautious because the sea can get rough in a hurry. That’s a physical condition I must prepare for and adapt to. This feeling of distrust is emotional self-defensiveness; almost paranoia, as though Nature is out to get me. When I think of going to the glacier, I imagine a storm stranding me on a spray-battered rock, or having to call for help because the outboard packed it in. What I desire is to have calm clear weather, have the motor work perfectly, and find good campsites easily. Anxiety blossoms when I compare the two imagined situations: one I want and one I don’t want, but expect.
Cat is so civilized. Today I confirmed that he goes to the low tide water’s edge to shit. It’s interesting to watch how I feel about Cat. I often go out to the porch quietly enough not to wake him, because I don’t want him to stare at me and want affection. I feel imposed upon, like he’s breaking into my private space. If he wants loving and I don’t feel like it, I try to ignore him or give him just a quick scratch and a word to let him know he’s not alone. Sometimes I let him pull me into affection, even when I don’t feel like it.
The tooth is about the same. I can twist it almost 45 degrees and wiggle it up and down. Seems like it should pop out easily, but when I pull there ’s no give at all. I guess if I have the courage to pull hard enough in spite of the pain, it will come out. When I’ve had teeth pulled in the past, the dentist always carefully scraped the socket to be sure all the infection was cleaned out. I imagine that would hurt like hell without Novocain, so I may poke a piece of string into the socket to keep it open and draining for a week while the antibiotics do their work. I emailed Patti to ask if there ’s anything I should be especially careful of when I pull it and to admit that I’m pretty frightened of the pain.
AUGUST 5, 2001
NIGHT: I received a reply from Patti with answers and reassurance. She said that in the larger picture this is no big deal and won’t be nearly as painful as my shoulders have been. She reminded me that people have been pulling their own teeth for centuries. She told me to stop being such a wuss; tie the tooth to the door, slam the door, get on with my life. Excellent advice! I feel inspired! Only problem is I don’t have a door heavy enough to slam. Guess I’ll have to tie the tooth to a heavy rock and drop the rock. Maybe it will come out without a huge hassle or excruciating pain. On the other hand, maybe not. I think I’ll wait a couple of more days.
AUGUST 6, 2001
LATE AFTERNOON: Glum day. Well, I asked for rain to fill the barrel. It can be deafening on the porch when rain drums the tarp roof. Inside the cabin is quieter because there’s a layer of fiberboard under the tarp. As usual, I sat on the porch most of day, but now I’m glad to be in this cozy nest. A few months ago I had to blow and fiddle, sometimes for an hour, to start the fire. Now I’ve learned to keep the chimney clean, use cypress for kindling, and split wood ahead to let it dry. When the fire is occasionally fussy, I’m not so freaked since I know that with patience it will burn and I won’t die from the cold.
It’s not going into solitude or the wilderness that brings a sense of peace. It’s getting away from our normal life ’s concerns and engagements. Usually we stay only a brief time in the wilderness and our disquiet doesn’t catch up with us. I’ve been here long enough that this has become my normal life, and all my usual concerns are in operation. But there are fewer distractions and escapes here, so I can see the process more clearly and must face my concerns more directly.
For a long time I believed that all art is grounded in coping with the pain of having an individual self. As a photographer, I could either depict my pain to glorify or rationalize it, or create escapist images to distract myself and others from our common pain. But both approaches reinforce the separate self and the suffering that arises from it. I decided to give up photography and work to dissolve the self and its inherent suffering. I no longer see the issue as so black and white. Art can simply be part of living and, perhaps, even a path toward self-abandonment; perhaps. Or maybe my dream of losing the self is just that, and I would do well to find a more realistic approach to existential pain. Meanwhile, the rain falls, and the tide and my breath ebb and flow.
AUGUST 7, 2001
NIGHT: This morning I knew I couldn’t put it off any longer. I meditated, exercised, built a fire, and fetched a rock from the low-tide beach. Finding the perfect tooth-pulling rock took a while. It had to be the right shape and texture so the string wouldn’t slip off, and heavy enough to pull the tooth with a single jerk. It would be nasty to drop the rock and have it yank on the tooth, but not hard enough to actually pull it out. Then I’d have to drop it again....
I shaved in case my face might be sore and swollen for a few days, smeared Orajel on the gum, took two Tylenol 3, and held ice against my cheek while I meditated for a while longer to calm my mind. I took off my shirt so blood wouldn’t splatter on it, and laid padding on the floor to muffle the thud of the rock.
I tied one end of a four-foot piece of strong nylon string to the abscessed tooth. It was a front upper and would, I hoped, get jerked straight down and out when the rock snapped the string tight. I started to tie the other end of the string to the rock, and as I did, a startlingly real sequence of images flashed through my mind.
In that prophetic vision I braced myself, leaned forward, and opened my mouth as wide as I could. I held the rock with both hands out in front of me at chest height and told myself to drop it. But my hands didn’t open. I took a deep breath, adjusted my stance, and told myself again to drop the rock. And again nothing happened. “Drop the rock, Bob. Bob, drop the rock!” Simultaneously, another part of my mind was muttering, “I don’t think so....” Just the thought of the rock crashing down and hitting the end of the string caused my butt-hole to pucker up.
I reconsidered my options and decided it might be more sensible to work the tooth out slowly by tying it to a leg of the table, pulling up with my neck muscles, and at the same time wiggle the tooth with my fingers. If I couldn’t get it out that way, or couldn’t stand the pain, I’d have to tie the tooth to the rock, drop that sucker, and be done with it.
I told myself it was ok to feel afraid. I thought about all the women who go through childbirth and about the old prospector in Canada who was trapped up the Nahanni River by an early freeze, got scurvy, and had to pull all his teeth with pliers. I thought about having my foot ripped off in the motorcycle crash and about the seemingly endless pain in my torn rotator cuffs. Pulling a tooth is really minor in comparison.
It wasn’t just the pain I was nervous about, but doing it to myself. It reminded me of cutting a fishhook out of my thumb with a razor blade on a remote beach in the Dominican Republic. It wasn’t the pain that bothered me, since it doesn’t hurt that much to slice yourself with a razor blade, but the idea of intentionally cutting into myself. If I hadn’t done it, I’d have had to leave solitude and go to a doctor. Same situation here.
I meditated some more, asked for courage, and began. I’d accidentally tugged the string while tying it to the tooth and had felt a small wave of pain just from that, so I figured actually pulling it out was going to be really unpleasant. I test pulled and wiggled the tooth. It hurt, but there was no give at all. I set myself to sink into the pain and started to seriously pull up with my neck, while at the same time twisting the tooth with my fingers. Just as I thought, “Ok, here we go,” fwoop, the tooth popped out.
What a relief. The root was intact and my mouth hardly bled. As usual, what I imagined was much worse than what happened. I hung the tooth on my altar as a trophy, and to remind myself to not take my imagination’s dire speculations too seriously. It felt great to have that mess out of my mouth, but as the Tylenol wore off, I noticed pain in the other bad tooth on the rear lower left. If it abscesses, it will be much harder to deal with. Hopefully I can nurse it along with saltwater rinse and antibiotics.
AUGUST 8, 2001
LATE NIGHT: 37°F. Calm and clear. I went fishing to Staines and brought home a dozen. Two of the fish were still twitching as I filleted them, even though I’d stabbed them in the brain when I caught them and they’d been out of the water for hours. I’m starting to feel all this killing. I also made a cooler by stuffing sawdust around a pail filled with ice inside a woven sack, and then wrapped the whole thing with the life jacket I don’t use. Fish should last a week in there.
I emailed Alejandra to ask when German is coming (he’s theoretically supposed to come tomorrow) and if she would send forty ampicillin capsules. I doubt I’ll need them, but if I do, I’ll sure be glad to have them. I feel bad to keep asking her for more favors.
I came here in part to slip into wildness and explore beyond our socially constructed reality, but I’m seeing more clearly that that reality is inside me. Each of us creates one and they’re not identical, so we each live in a unique world. To some degree many of us share a common reality, but even so we supposedly can’t enter each other’s world. I wonder . . .
At times I sense I’m beyond my individually constructed reality and into a collective space we all share. If that’s so, I should be able to meet others there, but so far I haven’t. So perhaps that sense of common ground is only an experience I have in my personal world. We might each have the experience that there ’s a common space, but that doesn’t necessarily mean there really is. No way to prove it one way or the other. You either experience a common space or you don’t.
I’ve started to let Cat come right up and smell me, instead of keeping him away from my face because of allergies. He gets his nose just touching my lips, sniffs a while, and then settles into my lap. Today I sniffed him in return and it was captivating. A rich animal smell and strong sense of connection. No wonder animals smell each other like they do.
I suspect that Cat, like me, experiences a spectrum of emotional energy. Today, a glum rainy day, he sat at the door quietly moaning. That expressed just how I felt. On warm sunny days he’s definitely languorous. Of course it’s possible that he picks up my moods, but it makes cleaner sense to assume there ’s an “emotional aspect” to the world that animals as well as humans experience — each of us in our own way.
When the wind blows, I experience auditory, visual, olfactory, and tactile phenomena as physical manifestations of moving air. Perhaps there ’s also an emotional manifestation that can be experienced as excitement (when I’m confident in the situation) or anxiety (if I feel I might be overwhelmed). I have coevolved with the world and am woven into it, so why shouldn’t a physical event have an emotional — and probably spiritual — component too?
AUGUST 9, 2001
NIGHT: The east channel, the basin, and my cove were frozen this morning. By late afternoon the sun and high tide had melted or moved the ice. Some new seabirds have arrived: black head, back, and chest; white belly; long red bill; high-pitched peep, peep cry (Magellanic Oystercatcher). A hint that winter is passing and migrating birds are on the move.
I was looking closely at Cat today. What an elegant creature. His face is beautiful. The exquisitely delicate swirl patterns of tawny hair around his ears remind me of a moth. His bent ear just adds distinction. He may have had a seizure while I was rock-sitting last night. I heard thumping, and when I came back to the cabin he wandered in. That’s a pretty sure sign of disorientation. I picked him up, gave him some loving, and he went to sleep. Seems ok today.
Trying to characterize solitude is like trying to describe relationship. Impossible since there’s so much variance. In solitude you can focus on the external world, become entranced by trying to create conceptual order, immerse yourself in artistic work, study inner emotional experience, or explore spiritual dimensions of universal wholeness and love. Solitude is liberating because the only limiting factor is your own capacity, but difficult because there are no other people to help catalyze growth. In solitude you pretty much must do it on your own.
Twenty-five years ago, during my first long wilderness retreat, I decided that the only thing worth dying for is living fully. In a sense I’ve remained committed to that, even in the face of disapproval from others for being selfish and irresponsible. I need to remember that if I’m true to my own nature, I’ll be making the contribution I’m meant to make, even if everyone else disapproves. Over and over I see that my fundamental task here is to live this experience to the fullest.
I finished Storr’s Solitude, and it reminded me of Jung’s belief that all psychological growth is essentially religious. I must trust my own natural process of growth. It’s not particularly relevant which level of spiritual development I’m on. Orientation is much more pragmatically important. If I hold onto my self as the center, I stagnate and suffer. If I’m open to change and being part of something greater, I experience joy and peace.
AUGUST 10, 2001
LATE NIGHT: 36°F. I awoke today to a fogbound morning. The only sounds were the distant rumble of falls on Staines Peninsula and sea ice rustling against the beach: a momentous mystic moment that stretched into timelessness. The eastern mountains, vague and ephemeral in the melting mist, reflected from a sea as glassy as I’ve ever seen.
I took out the camera for a single shot, and used up half a roll of film instead. Where does the photographic urge come from? Is it the light or my soul calling? It was relaxing to focus on framing, images, and quality of feeling evoked. I’m still working with blacks, whites, and grays that are just faintly touched with color. My shots are becoming less studied and more simply what I see though the lens.
Curious language: catch fish, shoot photos. It doesn’t actually feel that way. I do catch fish, but when my heart is open it feels like the fish are given to me. I don’t take a photo, shoot a scene, or capture something on film. It’s more like my eye and heart are attracted to a moment of form and color, and I feel called to honor and frame it to share with others.
These past three weeks would have been good weather to go to the glacier — if the outboard was running properly. I spend hours thinking about going and about the risk and possible discomfort involved. If I don’t go, I believe I’ll feel deep sorrow for a long time, as though an important part of my task here was not completed.
And there ’s a twist to this. I’ve been thinking about perfectionism on a large abstract scale — e.g., this retreat won’t be perfect if I don’t go to the glacier — but today I realized that perfectionism affects me here and now, moment by moment. Well duh, when and where else could it affect me? My psychological explorations often start this way in the abstract, and then I slowly become aware of habits manifesting the actual present.
I also read books this way. At first I’m just distantly engaged with the ideas, then little by little I begin to consider how they relate to my own journey. Often, I imagine that books are supposed to be perfect. But they are written by people just trying to make sense of their lives.
AUGUST 11, 2001
NIGHT: 30°F. Calm, partly clear. Just another day. Back to the daily routine of meditation and exercise. Little by little I’m giving up the struggle to change myself as a no-win endeavor. I’m weary and want to let myself be who I already am.
I tinkered with the chain saw to see if I could figure out why it’s leaking gas from the muffler. Nope. Just as well, since I didn’t really want to shatter the evening quiet. One good thing about being alone is I don’t hear anyone else’s noise and don’t need to worry about anyone hearing mine. I wonder sometimes if the animals mind the racket.
AUGUST 12, 2001
LATE NIGHT: Another day, no más. Got up, meditated, exercised, and started building steps. I’ve been planning to do them for months, but hadn’t gotten around to it. Today, almost without thinking, I began to build. Letting things happen in their own time.
This evening I was sitting out on the rock and Cat was wandering around whining. I kept saying shhhh, shhhh, and finally screamed “SHUT UP!” That did it, but I had to smile. Peaceful evening, dark settling in, and then the bellowed “Shut up!” rolling across the channel and bouncing off the rock face of Staines Peninsula. One reason I get so upset when he whines is that he ’s interrupting me while I’m talking to myself (thinking). It might be good for me, though, since I could do with a lot less thinking.
When I daydream about talking with other people, I’m talking to myself in every sense. Not just because I’m talking internally, but also because all the thoughts are different points of view that I, myself, hold. In one daydream I ask an imagined critic, “Who gives you the right to decide what a human being is or should be?” An interesting question. I spend an enormous amount of time and energy trying to fix myself, but who am I to know how I should be? All this self-improvement work is just a way of trying to escape from my life as it is.
Care of the Soul talks about the need to marry soul with spirit. I don’t usually think in terms of soul, but once I adjust to his language, I find that Moore is saying things that describe my experience more closely than anything else I’ve read. He points out that one aspect of the puer personality is sadism/cruelty. It’s hard to admit, but I recognize myself there. I do have a mean streak that I cover up with charm and supposed spiritual awareness. Moore describes puer aeternus as the aspect of the soul that’s eternally youthful. Because the puer attitude is so unattached to worldly things, it’s often prevalent in religious movements. Feeling the confinement and humdrum of everyday life, we try to transcend it through spiritual practice. Hmm, yes, that sounds vaguely familiar.
It’s been blowing all day from the northwest and feels like the summer winds may have started again. Down at the point, I felt sudden gratitude toward brother wind for helping me explore my soul. It felt good to give thanks for a change instead of screaming, “Fuck off!”
NO ENTRY FOR AUGUST 13, 2001
AUGUST 14, 2001
NIGHT: Care of the Soul argues that soul work is right where things are hardest and where we don’t want to be. That’s where the ego wall is weakest and where we can most easily open up and let something from beyond come in. Does this mean I should celebrate my flaws? That’s certainly where I’m apt to be more humble about my life. The trick is not to try to fix the weak spots, but to acknowledge them and be with myself as I am.
In the last section of the book, Moore talks about reanimating the world. There is a collective world soul that every being and object is part of. It’s rare to read about this feeling of existing in a living world. I paused and it washed softly over me. The cabin and everything else came alive. Such tenderness and love. Tears blurred my eyes. This is what I’ve been seeking for so long, and as usual I’ve had it backward. I’ve been focused on my experience of sensing the world as alive rather than focusing on the world itself. Now, my attention naturally and softly touched the world around me — including myself as part of that world. It felt cozy and comfortable, like I was cradled and held. At the same time, I was aware of the fierce aspects of existence: fear, pain, death.
In some sense this is what I’ve been looking for since I left home at eighteen to chase phantom feelings and grasp for experiences. Without this sense of being alive in a living world, no place, job, or relationship feels right. But Life can’t be grasped. I can only open myself and allow it to wash in. With this sense of aliveness, it doesn’t matter where I go. Anywhere is fine since no place is more alive than any other place. It’s like being in love, but in a soft quiet way rather than a passionate love affair. I was surprised by the unexpected shift today. It just happened and brought a sense of deep relaxation, like I can rest now. I’ve been searching for so long and have finally come home. But restless mind is an unruly beast and habits take time to change.
During the past twenty-five years I’ve had the sense that I’ve wandered down many dead ends and detours along the spiritual path. Care of the Soul says that in seeking Spirit there may be a direct path, but in cultivating the soul it’s a labyrinth of wandering and wondering. Somehow in following my heart these past years I have been caring for my soul. I’m grateful for Care of the Soul and hope I might touch someone else this way through writing or storytelling.
AUGUST 15, 2001
LATE NIGHT: 39°F. Started to rain at dark and has been coming down ever since. It’s also been blowing hard all day. I’m glad I’m not out on the sea somewhere, but I sure would like to go to the glacier.
I’ve felt for a while that my altar is incomplete. There are rocks, feathers, a piece of firewood, sage and sweetgrass, a bird’s breast bone, a few things from Patti, some photos, a bit of Mom’s ashes, Dad’s ring, my tooth, and my amulet. Today I added a small dead windswept branch to remind me I’m not in charge and in gratitude to the wind for helping me learn/remember that. It’s also an offering to propitiate the wind in the hope I’ll not be caught on the water in a storm.
Good news. I was wrong again. I didn’t think the fluorescent bulbs were causing the electric light to dim, but I tried the spare bulbs, and bright light again! I’d forgotten how much nicer it is not to have the noise of the propane lamp. And I’ve been thinking again (always a dangerous thing to do). In the future, I need to remember that I can never take enough plastic twine when I go camping. It’s so useful. I just happened to grab a roll to bring with me at the last minute and I’m glad I did. I’m using and reusing it over and over.
I finished the steps and I’m glad to have them done. Only took six months. All my outdoor projects are complete except to spread gravel in the mud holes. Of course the boat, outboard, and chain saw continue to need attention, and I want to move the solar panels back to the more protected location now that the sun is returning. I hope the cabin doesn’t start to have problems.
AUGUST 16, 2001
NIGHT: 44°F. Windy and overcast, sea on the move. Things are falling apart. Just yesterday I wrote that I’ve finally gotten almost everything done — unless something falls apart. This morning I discovered the stovepipe has rotted through in spots. Unbelievable. I had the pipe made in Punta Arenas, and even their best-quality metal was not very good. I’ve rotated the pipe, patched the holes, and emailed Alejandra to ask German to bring new pipe when he comes. Ironic if I can’t use all the firewood I’ve brought in. So much for dreams of life being trouble-free until I leave. I suppose equipment problems on this kind of adventure are to be expected. I just hope the satphone and laptop continue to work because I haven’t a clue how to fix them.
I’ve been pissed off all day about having to fuck with the stovepipe. It felt like the world was actively thwarting my efforts. I’m often angry when I work with the physical world. Rather than engage my materials in dialogue, I want them to obey my will without resistance. I seem ok with routine tasks like splitting wood, cooking, or fishing, but as soon as repairing something mechanical is involved, I become too tightly focused, start to rush, and get impatient. When I relax my grip on my goals and plans, the process again becomes an engagement instead of the world confronting and limiting me. Ah God, I should have learned this is stuff when I was a kid.
I was watching the butter-belly ducks today and admiring how self-contained they are. No matter what the weather, they seem comfortable in it. No equipment to worry about. All they need do is preen. But they patrol and defend their territory many times each day. Cat also seems to constantly test boundaries (or perhaps he ’s playing and teasing me). Maybe that’s just how the biological world works. Each organism expands until stopped by others around it. Yet I’m trying to solve my problems once and for all so I can live from now on without any challenges. But in that case, I wouldn’t really be alive.
AUGUST 17, 2001
NIGHT: I dragged the boat up further and moved some of the firewood, too. This was as high as I’ve seen the tide, and tomorrow will be higher yet. The water swirled around the chopping blocks and into the sweat lodge. No damage as far as I can tell.
Another mishap with Cat. When I go to the outhouse, he follows me and cuddles right up. He ’d climb onto my lap if I’d let him. As I stood to pull up pants and rain gear, he — still on the seat — stood on his hind paws with his front paws on my lower back. I reached back to brush him off, and whoops, down the hole he went. It’s only eighteen inches deep and full of water, so he climbed out in a hurry, but he didn’t come out smelling like a rose. No, in fact he smelled like shit and looked like a sewer rat. I had to laugh. What a creature. Figured I better dry him or he might get seriously chilled, but the only thing I have to dry him with is my towel. So then my towel was full of shit and I had to wash it. Ah lord, the tribulations of an impatient man.
I’ve started to read The Eye of Spirit by Ken Wilber. It’s very different in tone from Care of the Soul. I’m reading it to reorient myself before I dive into Wilber’s major work, Sex, Ecology, Spirituality, again, which is much more difficult. I appreciate Wilber’s intellectual depth and scope, but he often seems to take his model of the Kosmos literally. I get hung up on his apparent certainty and heavy focus on structure. It speaks to my mind but not to my heart. It’s good to be reminded that in contrast to modernity’s scientific materialism, variations of the so-called Perennial Philosophy (physical matter, animal nature, rational mind, soul, Spirit) have formed the basis for many cultures’ worldview.
The dual aspects of Spirit as transcendent and immanent are useful in conceptualizing my experience: transcendence is the peace, clarity, and inner light I often call Big Mind; immanence is what I call aliveness. I’ve been trying to sense the physical world around me as alive, but it still often seems mechanistic. Actually, that makes sense. If I focus only on sense perception of the material outer surface, the world will appear dead and mechanical. Aliveness is inward — the awareness that arises in a still mind.
AUGUST 18, 2001
EARLY NIGHT: While fishing today, I was more mindful to pause and give thanks for the fish as I caught them, and to be sure I stabbed the knifepoint into their brain so they wouldn’t suffer. Even so, several were still twitching as I filleted them later, and it again brought home that I’m taking lives. If I didn’t like to fish and to eat fish so much, I might stop killing them.
At the very low tide tonight, I walked down from the cabin to see more of the sky over the trees. Cat’s eyes glowed wild and eerie in the flashlight. I felt chills run up my spine and feel them again now as I write these words. I trembled as though some repressed energy was struggling to break free. I’ve felt this before and it’s led to release and opening, so I stood in the dark and stayed with it. My rational mind was frightened of the unknown, but I reassured myself that it was ok.
Then something dark and savage surged up. I felt my face twist into a snarl, and a dark presence growled, “You are mine!” I hung on and worked with it as best I could — asking the inner light for help and the ominous presence what it wanted. It said that if I allowed it to come in, it would give me power. No, thank you. Courage and strength, yes, but power, no. I stayed steady and allowed it to be, but didn’t let it control me. I gave myself love.
I’m frightened of this darkness. It seems to come from outside me, but that’s the nature of the shadow. It told me that it is who I am, whether or not I want to recognize it: the rage that roars when my will is thwarted; the brutality that smacks Cat for doing something I don’t like; the subtle cruelty to women. My anxiety and anger toward the wind are somehow linked with this darkness, too. I sense that in denying and projecting this shadow aspect of myself, I’m left with fear. The rage may come from denying my manhood in fundamental ways. I hope I have the courage to face and acknowledge this darkness as part of who I am.
I finally came inside to light a fire and warm up. Later, when I went out to pee, the presence hissed from the dark, “I’m waiting.” While slicing bacon for dinner, I almost cut my finger and the voice mocked, “I’m gonna get you.”
I usually believe that I do acknowledge my shadow, but in truth I seldom viscerally own this side of myself. Tonight I had to admit in my gut the darkness of some of my behavior. What’s truly frightening is to be unaware of my own dark side, because then it emerges covertly in my actions.
Meditation teachers say that terror and other dark energy will likely surface from time to time. As always, the skillful response is to observe without judging: neither reject nor get sucked in. And there’s Patti’s courage and support. If I really need to, I can email or even call her. I know I can’t face this on my own, and ask the inner light for courage, strength, patience, and humility. Five more months alone might be pretty tough. Well, I expected there would be difficult issues to face out here. It will be interesting to see what happens in the coming days and weeks.
How to explain the existence of evil in the world? Mystics claim that Spirit, the ultimate ground of existence, is Love. If so, and if the entire manifest world is Spirit Incarnate, how can there be evil? It seems to me that without resorting to dualism, there are only three basic options: 1. There is no God. The cosmos is blind chance at worst and impersonal process at best. In that case there ’s no reason why there shouldn’t be evil in the world. 2. God, like everything else, has a shadow side. Pain, disease, and death — as well as human cruelty — are inherent to Life. If God is Love, then Love cannot be what we normally think it is. 3. There is no actual evil in the world. It’s created through perspective and attribution. In this case, evil is defined in relation to ego. I label as evil anything that seriously threatens me, my people, my way of life, or my ideals. But if I’m able to see the world without my extended self as its center, then yes, there is suffering, but not evil as such.
If I truly give myself to the swirl of life and death, then I cannot judge the acts of another as evil — even though that person may be doing wrong from his or her subjective perspective. However, their self-judgment would be based on the notion of free will. I wonder . . . do we actually have free will, or is it an illusion that allows us the comfort of supposed control in the face of our mysterious existence?
AUGUST 19, 2001
LATE NIGHT: Empty Sunday. All day I’ve felt like a stone rattling down an empty well. Over and over I’ve decided to stay with the feeling, and over and over have eaten something instead. Tomorrow I intend to fast and drink only tea. Perhaps I’ll fast on each new moon from now on.
This morning the wind was blowing and the sea on the move, so I prepared for a super high tide. I tied the boat more securely, moved the chopping blocks, and lashed rope around the woodpile. I’ve been expecting this high tide for months. The water didn’t come very high at all. Heigh-ho.
I wonder if I need psychotherapy. Little question but that I have some serious neuroses going on. No surprise, since most of us do. But I wonder if the personal work I’ve been doing over the years — alone and with friends — is accomplishing what therapy would accomplish, or am I going in circles? A futile question for now, but I’ll consider it when back among people.
What am I learning here that’s worth sharing? Anything I say will be meaningful only if, in my own life, I walk the walk I talk about. New-age gurus often flash a big smile to show that they have found the Answer/ System and it WORKS. I find this style distasteful and don’t trust it. We need to come clean with each other about our doubts and flaws. I’ve always liked Insight Meditation teachers who don’t claim to be gurus but see themselves as simply fellow travelers who can guide those who have not walked as far along the path. This, of course, assumes there is a path to follow and that we aren’t simply wandering a pathless land.
One thing does seem clear, though. Joy comes from living fully in the here and now, no matter what the circumstance. To live like that I must give up wanting things to be different. The hardest is to give up wanting to give up wanting things to be different.
AUGUST 20, 2001
NIGHT: Last night, after writing in the journal, I went out to the rock, and sensed the world as Holy. I tried to see what usually keeps me from that vision. It seems like desire prevents me from experiencing all of Life — the good, the bad, the painful — as Holy. Peeling away layers of desire allows the sense of sacredness to flow in. Desire often includes the rejection of what is and the wish to have something different.
The high tide I expected yesterday came today. Whew. The water surged eighteen inches higher than I’ve seen before: to the foundation posts of the cabin and halfway up the woodpiles, onto the rock where often I sit, and into the trees where I was pretty sure it never goes. The boat, pulled as far as possible into the bushes, was still floating. The lowest porch step washed away. Good thing I lashed the woodpile in place. Even where I lived in the tent when I first arrived was under water.
Watching the waves wash into the trees, I remembered that the intertidal zone was one of the first places I realized that beauty and harmony can arise from the conflict of opposing forces. But today I found myself identifying with the plants being attacked by the sea, and didn’t feel the peace and equanimity that arise when I stand back to let the process go its way.
I wondered how I could stop feeling attacked by the elements, and then remembered that I came here to be shaped by the experience of solitude in nature. In that moment, I relaxed my grip on who I think I should be and how the world should treat me, and opened myself to the process of change and growth.
This hasn’t been the easiest day for a fast perhaps, but symbolic. Physical, emotional, intellectual, and spiritual fat is being trimmed off.
AUGUST 21, 2001
NIGHT: Another stormy day, but not as intense as yesterday. I walked to the point this morning, and along the way picked up some plastic washed in from who knows where. Mounds of uprooted sea grass and kelp lie high in the bushes. The beach has a new face. No major structural changes, but it looks scraped and polished, like it’s been born again or gone through a major spring cleaning.
Cat continues to intrigue me. I’ve been looking deep into his eyes lately. I’ve also been sleeping with the door unlatched; in part I was latching it against him. Yesterday was roaring with wind and rain when I went to check the solar panels, so I told Cat to stay at the cabin. Instead he came with me. By the time we got back he was soaked, and even though it was a warm day, I dried him off. I’m not sure if he’s neurotic to be so attached or just a loving friend.
AUGUST 22, 2001
NIGHT: Last night the wind generator started to howl so I went down to short the wires. The wind at the point was savage. Cat, as usual, came with me. This morning I moved the solar panels back to the more protected spot where they were before they lost the sun in early winter. Again Cat came along. I couldn’t believe it. Pissing down rain, but he stayed with me and got drenched.
Last night in the outhouse Cat, as usual, got in the way. I’ve scootched him over a bunch of times, but he keeps getting right where I need to sit. I lost my temper, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, and tossed him away. Instead of coming right back when I called, he just looked at me. He finally came back and I gave him some loving. Even though I hate to admit it, I actually enjoyed blowing up at him. It gave me pleasure to dominate and maybe even hurt him a bit. This feels really shitty.
I noticed that afterward I felt affectionate, even though previously I’d been distant and cold toward him. I project my internal distress onto him, and once I dump it, I feel softer — and remorseful. I do the same thing with women, though nonphysically, which is classically abusive.
Cat often seems to demand that I attend to him, and I feel guilty when I don’t. The guilt triggers anger. Or maybe I didn’t get my needs met when I was a boy, and Cat’s demands touch off my own rage. I often feel that women I’m in relationship with want something I either can’t or don’t want to give, and then I feel guilty and become angry and mean or withdraw emotionally or physically. Patti is aware of this, and over and over tells me I don’t owe her anything.
Wilber points out that narcissistic rage is a characteristic of early development. If so, I’m not unique but just haven’t outgrown it yet. In any case, I need to remain open to the feelings that come up so I can let them go and stop taking them out on Cat. I also need to remember that Cat is a separate being with his own life and distresses.
I sat out in the pouring rain for a long time today and slowly realized that I only sense the world in front of me rather than on all sides. I’m outside looking in, not inside looking around. This is the basic phenomenological experience of dualism, and I think it’s linked to fear of death. If I remove myself from the sweep of life, nothing can sneak up on me from behind!
In doing this, I’m no longer truly part of life. Life is always out there somewhere else and I’m always trying to get to where it is. But this, too, is a subtle kind of dualism. Even feeling lifeless at times is part of being an actual animate person. Why is this so hard to get?
NO ENTRY FOR AUGUST 23, 2001
AUGUST 24, 2001
NIGHT: Cloudy this morning, but clear in the afternoon. First time I’ve seen the sun in almost two weeks. I hope it freezes tonight so I can collect ice for the cooler. A plane flew by out of sight on the other side of Staines Peninsula. I’d forgotten how peaceful it is here. I spent most of the day in the kayak and stopped here and there to pick up plastic the storm tide washed in. Apparently, one of my jobs in life is to be God’s garbage collector.
Still no word about when German is coming. Except for the outboard parts, I could almost say don’t bother. If the motor was working well, this might be a good time to go to the glacier. But to create a special challenge like going to the glacier won’t lead to a balanced way of being, day to day.
Sitting on the porch, watching the day darkening to night, I looked out to see the orange-bill butter-belly ducks swim into the basin. Silhouetted in the steely grey light, they looked like gunboats or battleships cruising in to patrol their territory. I suddenly sensed myself to be one among many — just part of existence. Lovely to feel profoundly part of the world....
AUGUST 25, 2001
NIGHT: After being here for seven months, I finally left the beach and went into the middle of the island. I decided to not wear rain pants — eek, my security blanket! I rarely go anywhere without my rain pants. I knew I’d get wet, but it would be much easier to climb through the trees and brush without them. I managed to sneak away without Cat. He probably wouldn’t have liked the trip, and I certainly wouldn’t have liked him crying the whole way.
I’ve never been in anything so tough. Dense vegetation and very rough ground. A tangle of fallen trees and steep jumbled rock formations. Several times I barely saved myself from a bad fall when, thinking I was on solid ground, I started to take a step and found nothing but air under my foot. When I peered through the underbrush, I saw I was standing on a fallen log seven or eight feet in the air!
Once I lost sight and sound of the sea, I’d absolutely have lost my way without sun and compass. I might have wandered in circles for a long time among the ridges, gullies, and fallen trees. It took over an hour to cross the island and it’s not more than 150 yards. On the far shore I somehow felt like an explorer to a new land, even though I’ve been there before by water.
I found a cypress log that must have washed in on the storm tide. Someone somewhere sometime chopped some notches in it. I wonder who and where and when. I also picked up some plastic. It hurts to think of the mindlessness of people who toss such stuff overboard.
On the trip back I stopped to rest on the highest point of the island, where it was semi-open and I could see the water and mountains in several directions. The dark presence came again, and again I felt I was being attacked from outside. I must appear demonic to Cat when I rage at him for crying. More projection.
Wilber describes the defense mechanisms that operate on different levels of psychological development: neurotic and immature people use repression and projection; healthy mature people, suppression and sublimation. When I read that, it didn’t make sense, but on the hilltop I got it. A lot of dark stuff that is usually buried and unconsciously held in check by cultural mores is free to emerge here. If I want to experience these aspects of myself, I need to assume personal responsibility to not become swamped by them. This seems like the move from repression and projection to suppression and sublimation. Repression is an unconscious process; suppression is consciously acknowledging the shadow material and choosing not to act it out. There are many ways to sublimate the shadow’s energy, but I think the most direct is to channel it into being aware of the energy itself.
NO ENTRY FOR AUGUST 26, 2001
AUGUST 27, 2001
36°F. Tender night, calm and quiet. A half-moon showing through broken cloud. Strange how much easier it is to write about daily doings than inner experiences. Yesterday, Sunday, was, as usual, a melancholy day. Feeling empty like I’ve failed in my life. I’ve been working on inner stuff for so long and have made so little progress. Sometimes I feel that all I really want is a job I can enjoy and a relationship that’s joyful.
This morning I woke at first light to the sound of wavelets crumpling on the beach. As day came on I could see the small cypress through the window shivering in the breeze. Not a day to be out in the boat, so I went back to sleep. Later I meditated, exercised, and got busy with domestic tasks: washed windows, buried garbage, reorganized the food on the porch, stacked wood, and cleaned up the debris the storm tide left near the cabin. Small jobs, but it feels good to have them done.
I’ve been reading Gaia: A Way of Knowing, a collection of work by various thinkers. The introduction by William Irwin Thompson expresses clear thoughts with lovely words. On the other hand, biologist philosopher Humberto Maturana (whose work I’ve studied before) has got to be one of the worst writers I’ve ever read. I think what he says is probably interesting and valuable, but I’m never sure, since the way he says it is barely comprehensible to me at the best of times.
He claims that as humans “we live in language,” but I don’t think he could make that statement if he was fully embedded in language. He can perceive our relationship to language only because he has a perspective from beyond language. A fish cannot say, “We live in water.” If water is all you know, then it’s the context of experience, not content.
Wilber points out that the process of psychospiritual growth is disidentifying with one level of consciousness and transcending it to the next, more inclusive, level; context at one level becomes content at the next. He also claims that Spirit is the same as awareness, and defines enlightenment as waking up to notice that we are always already aware and so always already enlightened. The task is not to become aware, but to notice that we already are.
One good thing about reading Wilber is that I’m finally coming to accept the importance of daily meditation. Anyone working to become more aware has to go through the same process one way or another.
NO ENTRY FOR AUGUST 28, 2001
AUGUST 29, 2001
38°F. Clear night with light clouds. A medium breeze and the sea on the move. I’m regularly staying up almost all night. Without so many daily tasks, I’ve just sort of drifted into this schedule. Yesterday was calm and clear. I went fishing and exploring. I wanted to see if Cat would go with me, and put him in the boat; he jumped out. I put him back in and held on, but when I thought I’d pushed far enough away from the beach and let him go to start the motor, he made a mighty leap back to land. Since it was a test to see whether I’ll take him with me if I go away for more than a day, I decided to try one last time. I rowed back to shore, called him, and, lo, he jumped into the boat.
He was sooo good all day. I had to tell him to get down off the pontoon only once. I liked having him along, and he was completely calm and seemed to enjoy the trip. I caught a dozen snapper, then continued northwest to investigate a deep inlet on Isla Owen, about six miles from here. Delightful in there. As usual, I was nervous about the outboard, but it worked fine. According to the GPS, I covered 20 miles. If I go to the glacier, it will be four times as far just to get there.
Today I went to the other side of the island to pick up the cypress log I found the other day. I took Cat with me and he seemed to like the ride, even though it was choppy. He stood with his front paws up on the pontoon so he could see out, and looked like a dog in the back of a pickup truck. I cut and loaded the cypress, and when it was time to go, called Cat and put him in the boat. He immediately jumped back out. Grrr. By this time the wind was up and pushing the boat onto the sharp rocks. It took quite a while to coax him back to where I could reach him and lift him into the boat. I gripped him tightly until I’d pushed the boat out, but when I let go to start the motor, he leapt to shore again. Fuck it! If he made it home the other day, he could today, too.
My behavior continues to trouble me. I get so angry at the little guy and then act violently. He ’s starting to shy away from me at times. He still comes when I call, jumps onto my lap, and likes to play, but the harsh treatment — even though rare compared with the gentle strokes I give him — is having an effect. I must try harder to be aware of this stuff and not act it out.
I picked up two loads of gravel from the island north of here and spread it in the mud holes around the cabin. Then I split the cypress into slabs. What great kindling: well seasoned and hardly any knots. When I’d finished I paused for a look around.
The peeping cries of the newly arrived red-billed seabirds call to me from where they share the musseled rock with the pair of white-and-black geese. The Orange Bill Butter-Belly Diving Ducks work the kelp beds in the falling tide. Across the channel to the west, the rock walls of Staines Peninsula drift into and out of sight behind swirls of mist and slanting streaks of rain. But here, just here on this rock and the small island beyond, sun pours down and the trees shed their drab shadowed green and shimmer, almost iridescent. Rapt in wonder, I watch a rainbow magically appear and then fade again to wherever it came from.
Into this mystic stillness an eagle flies; majestic or ponderous, depending on your eye. The male goose honks a warning but doesn’t move. Tending to its own affairs, the eagle flaps steadily past. But what’s this? One of the red-billed peepers lifts off, climbs in a steep curve, and attacks from behind. And now, as the light fades to grey again, the ducks join the others on the rock. Community.
I drop the notebook and feel myself sink more deeply into the world. All desire to write disappears. What has happened to my flow of language? I fall mute before such wonder and beauty. I try to describe the delicate shades and patterns of shifting color as wind swirls water around immovable rock, but my images feel dull and trite. There is no dance between word and world. What I see and feel begs a sensuous tango, but my words march static and stiff in lines across the page.
AUGUST 30, 2001
NIGHT: 36°F. The weather continues to mystify me. Today the barometric pressure went up, the temperature dropped, and it started to rain. I’d begun to believe that rain comes with falling pressure and the temperature hovering around 41°F. Oh well, another theory shot to hell.
I read for most of today and also filled the five 5-gallon gas containers from the 55-gallon drum. I usually hate to siphon gas because I always get some in my mouth and it tastes nasty, but I think I’ve finally found the trick. I used to use a short opaque hose and couldn’t see where the gas was, but I brought a ten-foot piece of clear hose with me here, so I can see when I’ve sucked the gas out of the drum and it’s running downhill toward me.
And I got my first good laugh in months today — from a thought. I was reading Maturana and struggling to understand an impossibly convoluted sentence when I felt my mind tighten down. I looked up from the book to the sea and sky, took some deep breaths to relax, and tried the sentence again. And again felt my mind cramp up. Back to simply breathing in the beauty around me until I felt my mind soften, and back to the torturous sentence. Then a supremely sensible thought drifted into my mind, “I’d rather suck gas through a hose than read any more of this crap.” Cracked me up and I closed the book.
For the past few days I’ve been leaning toward making an overnight trip to an inlet twenty-five miles north of here. The days are getting longer and the temperature warmer. I’m tired of waiting for German to bring outboard parts, and the motor does work pretty well as long as I don’t rev it up too high. Tonight I was looking for the description of the inlet a naval officer gave me, and found a note saying the best months to explore are April to August; the winds start to blow hard again in September. Ah hell. I easily could have made the trip to the glacier during the past two months. Of course I didn’t know that in advance, and the temperature was cold and the days short.
This feels like a rationalization for not facing my fear. If I was going with another person, I’d have gone long ago. My imagination has held me back. I think the actual danger is slight. I could run into serious problems, but the worst that’s likely to happen is to get stuck for days on some exposed rock waiting for a storm to pass, or if the motor quits, I might need to call for help. If I don’t at least try to make it to the glacier, I suspect I’ll carry the failure for a long time.
AUGUST 31, 2001
NIGHT: 38°F. The second half of August has been generally foul. Today it blew, rained, hailed, and snowed. I’m feeling restless and discontent. So is Cat. He ’s been whining and whining.
I often project my fear onto the world so I can avoid the external situation I imagine to be the source of the fear. Today I noticed that this same dynamic operates in facing fear. I project fear out so I can confront the situation I’ve convinced myself is the source. Once I confront the fear, I’ve dominated it and don’t need to experience it any longer. Projecting fear into an imagined future, instead of actually experiencing it in the present moment, is another kind of cognitive dislocation. To truly face fear I must simply be with the experience and do nothing to avoid or attack it.