Every little thing
gonna be all right.
— BOB MARLEY
APRIL 1, 2001
MORNING: Sun shines gold through floating kelp leaves and stirs them to leap from the water and remind me of swirling autumn leaves. Far out in the basin, the bodies of the grey back, creamy belly ducks blend with the sea, but their bright orange bills catch and throw sun rays in my direction. The mountains, half hidden in their misty negligee, fire my imagination.
A new month, time to send word that I’m ok. I tighten up when I must deal with the communication system. It takes my mind far away to other places and people, when I want to stay here with myself. And I’m still not certain the process will actually work. If the message doesn’t go through, the navy might come to rescue me. That would be a major drag.
Damn, it’s cold when the wind blows straight in like this! The sea’s not really rough and I’d like to look for fish, but it would be a hassle to launch the boat against the wind. Maybe I’ll wash clothes instead. I’ve been working and sleeping in the same two sets of thermal underwear, three shirts, two pairs of pants, sweater, sweatshirt, and vest for almost two months.
AFTERNOON: The emails went out and replies are back. Patti sent medical advice for my shoulder. Nothing I didn’t already know, but it’s comforting to hear it from a trained nurse. I cleared a space for an outhouse and dug a hole that immediately filled with water. When it really rains, my turds might still escape to the sea. Instead of chopping down bushes and disrupting the soil, it might have been more ecologically friendly — but not nearly as comfy — to keep squatting in the rain on the low-tide beach.
Physical activity does dissolve (or cover up) anxiety, but one of the things I’ve come here to learn, or remember, is how to feel comfortable without losing myself in constant doing. Actually, I believe our whole culture needs to consider this if we want to survive and enjoy living. It isn’t actually non-doing that generates anxiety, but rather fretting about doing or not doing. When I’m simply in the moment, without worrying about what I ought to be doing, my mind is at ease. It’s when I try to microplan everything that my imagination runs amok — because I can’t really know what will happen. Then after all the nutty speculation, things often fall into place naturally as the actual situation unfolds. But planning is useful, so the trick is to think about pending activity without becoming anxious.
EVENING:I’m on the windy point. The sun is dropping behind Staines Peninsula and the wind is from the west. Too bad so little direct sun falls on my cabin, but if it did, a lot more wind would strike it, too. I like it out here. It feels far from home.
I want to shift whom I’m writing to. For now, this journal is to someone else — Patti, perhaps. I need to write what I myself might like to read.
APRIL 2, 2001
EXQUISITE MORNING: 34°F. The blue sky is clouding over, and the sea lies flat with the tide on the make. Some black flies are already awake, but I hope the frost has thinned their ranks. I’m on the point for sunrise and coffee. I want to check the direction of the morning and afternoon light to determine how I’ll angle the solar panels. As I wait for the sun to reach me, I’m reading Annie Dillard’s Teaching a Stone to Talk. What a charming writer. Witty, sharp, and a very light touch. I like the hybrid combination of spirit and naturalist. She doesn’t say anything new but says many valuable things in a new way.
EVENING: The weather stayed calm and I worked all day. Using a small metal bit in the woodworking brace, I opened guy-wire holes in the twenty-foot pipe I’ll use as a wind-generator tower. Pipe steel is soft and the setup worked surprisingly well. Having to make do with the tools I have on hand is an interesting challenge. After pumping up the pontoon that’s leaking, I loaded the boat with solar panels, batteries, pipe, ladder, wire, wood and tools, and motored to the beach near the point. I carefully carried everything over the slippery rocks and fell only once. Not bad. Mounting the panels and hooking them to the batteries took much longer than expected, but I wanted everything to be super secure since the point is completely exposed to the wind. I finished before dusk and decided to go fishing.
When I stopped to drop off the tools, change into warmer clothes, and fetch the fishing gear, I thought I’d be here for only a few minutes. I just dragged the boat up a little and didn’t tie it to a rock. I’ve never done that before — and never will again. It took me longer to get ready than I’d expected, and when I happened to look out, I saw the boat drifting off on the rising tide. Shit! I raced down the beach, plunged into the sea, and just snagged the boat in waist-deep water. Another thirty seconds, I’d have had to swim for it, and the water is way too cold for swimming. Another two minutes, I’d have had to pump up the kayak and paddle after it. Lucky there was only a light breeze. I’m grateful and properly chastened.
By the time I put on dry clothes it was nearly dark, but I went fishing anyway. Stayed out for twenty minutes and caught eight that are so small I’m not sure how to prepare them. Cat, at least, will be happy.
I heard an airplane today beyond the hills to the east. Sounded like a big prop plane, maybe a military transport. Neither the noise nor the fact of a plane passing nearby bothered me at the time, but then I started thinking: What if they fly by every day? What if boats start to arrive? Ah yes, the world of what if. What if it doesn’t rain soon? Madness! The outhouse hole has filled with clear water, so I can simply dig a shallow well anywhere if I need to. Or I can just take water from the outhouse hole — at least until I use it as an outhouse. This would, I believe, be considered multiple use of a resource.
APRIL 3, 2001
Weird. Cat had some sort of seizure. I saw his box shaking and figured he was having a dream. But he crawled out, froze up, and then became totally frantic and started to yowl. I thought he might be dying — perhaps from finding and eating toxic mussels — but he finally came out of it. As an aftereffect, he’s started to wander into the cabin. I’ve taught him to stay on the porch even if the door is open, but just now he sauntered in like he has no idea he ’s not supposed to. Maybe some neural circuits got fried. Very odd. I wonder if cats suffer from epilepsy. Maybe I’ll hook up the stove today. I’m not sure why I haven’t yet, especially considering that I’ve been here for two months and how cold and achy I am. Could I sense that once it’s hooked up, I might want a fire all the time and need to collect firewood all the time, too? Better to not get in the habit. Or perhaps I realize that once the stove is working, I’ll really be settled in, and psychologically I’m not ready for that. Huh? How ready do I need to be? It makes no sense, but seems to be the way I feel.
APRIL 4, 2001
Behind the low clouds and morning rain the mountains have departed for an unknown destination, and even Staines Peninsula barely clings to corporeal existence. My what if worrying about the now-full water containers was a waste of time and energy.
My shoulder hurts, even though I’m doing the exercises I learned when I tore this same rotator cuff a few years ago. Amazing how quickly everything tightens up. I exercised for an hour before I went to sleep at 1 a.m., woke up stiff and sore at 3:30, got up and exercised, then went back to sleep. By 8 I was knotted up again. Ah, but this first cup of morning coffee.
Yesterday, I shielded the plastic walls and ceiling behind and above the propane lamp with tinfoil to protect them from the heat. A fire would be a serious problem. The lamp works so well I hardly need a stove. It puts out plenty of warm yellow light and raises the temperature in the upper middle of the cabin 10 degrees above outside. Last night it stormed again, but a feeling of snug comfort softened the anxiety. I’m beginning to trust the cabin.
I guess, at some deep level, I’m confident of my ability to cope with difficult situations, or I wouldn’t be here. And on the surface, I carry a patina of self-reliance, even arrogance. But just beneath the surface, anxiety and doubt roil. Perhaps the deep confidence is not in myself, but in something greater. It’s that Something I’ve come here to find, if I have the courage. Or perhaps that Something called me to communion and I responded.
For months I’ve busied myself with activity, and now it’s hard to slow down. At times during the day I pause to just be, and these breaks, rather than formal sitting meditation, may be my natural spiritual practice. I suspect the scattered moments will stretch and join into a more continuous attitude of listening, watching, and waiting for wilderness solitude to have its way with me.
DUSK: A while ago two nutrias appeared on a rock a hundred feet away. Powerful black paws, strong tail, small stubby ears. One tried, without much enthusiasm, to snatch something from the other, and then they returned to the water. They dove repeatedly, and finally one surfaced with a fish it had to bite and chew. My, what big teeth they have.
The orange bill ducks were up on the rocks looking concerned, as they do when the nutrias are nearby. Earlier, the ducks were feeding in water too shallow for diving, but deep enough that they had to stretch to reach the bottom. They were flipping themselves completely upside down — sort of like stinkbugs — and thrashing fiercely with their orange feet to hold themselves in place. Tail feathers pointing straight up, creamy yellow belly and butt bobbing high above the surface.
Still haven’t hooked up the stove. Been doing electricity/electronics all day. Charging the laptops presents a problem. Under load, only 11 volts reaches the cabin, and the inverter keeps kicking out. I think the voltage drop is caused by the long wire from the point. The batteries need to sit close to the wind generator to receive full charge, but be near the laptops to charge them. Grrrrr.
APRIL 5, 2001
51°F. Raining and fairly calm. Moon nearly full, and the tide way out. Soup’s on, and I’ve got to get unchilled. Still no stove installed. The ceiling is wet over the door. I’ll go up and patch the tarp on a nice day. I still have two rolls of duct tape, one tube of caulk, and two tubes of Shoe Goo. I’ve long recognized the profound virtues of baling wire and duct tape, but I’ve only recently added Shoe Goo to my list of vital wilderness survival materials.
I spent all day at the point. Cut down two dead trees that were casting shadow on the solar panels. I’ll use the wood to heat rocks for the sweat lodge I plan to build down there. I hooked the inverter right to the batteries so 110 volts rather than 12 volts was running through the wires to the cabin. Fewer amps, lower resistance, less drop in voltage, no problem charging laptops. But the only lights I have use 12 volts, so I can either use the laptop or have light. Dammit! It would have been so easy to bring a 110 volt to 12 volt converter. Just wasn’t thinking. I suppose I can walk back and forth to the point and switch between charging computers and having light, but that would be a major hassle on dark stormy high-tide nights. Feels like my whole life is hay wired.
APRIL 6, 2001
MORNING: A moment ago the eastern channel was flat grey-green and I was sitting brain-dead. I knew it must be rough out there since surf is crashing on the windward rocks and a swell runs in the basin. Then sun flashed through the clouds, and the channel sparked with golden light and shining flecks of white. Now the sun is gone again and the sea again flat grey.
Logic says the whitecaps are still out there and the golden vision still possible, in every moment. I sit — not even waiting — and watch the nearby grass tremble in the same wind that whips those far-off flecks to white. The distant light has gone, but so has the torpor from my eyes, and the grass comes shining through.
NOON: It’s raining now. Sheeting across the sea; splattering rock pools into rippled turmoil; drumming on my roof and rattling against my ears to anchor me where I sit.
Cobra-headed diving ducks (King Cormorant) drift in the basin. Intense black back, neck, and top of head; white throat, breast, and belly. The line between is razor sharp, which gives the bird its look. Like branches capped with snow, they somehow reassure and lend a sense of peace. In the dark, their hooting calls ease my fears and carry me to the coast of Mexico and the mountains of the Dominican Republic. One honks its hollow note, and nearby another answers. Then, if you tune your ear, from down the channel you can hear a faint reply. Like roosters in a thousand distant pockets of the rural night.
But the black/white line of neck and head also looms from the low-slung body like the hooded threat of a cobra. It has that same visual — and, to small fish, possibly visceral — feel about it. In the boat the other day, I came upon a rock inhabited, temporarily, by fifteen or twenty of them. They swiveled at my approach, and then lifted off until I passed. They shoot like arrows through the air, all arc forgotten. Lean and linear, wings beating hard, bodies steady as airborne rocks.
AFTERNOON: I recall, as from a place and time far away and half forgotten, my grandiose intention in coming here: to explore, through living, the physical, psychological, emotional, and spiritual effects of deep wilderness solitude. Now my world has shrunk to this small beach and stretch of water; to what I’ll eat for lunch; to hooking up the stove and rain barrel; to the pain in my shoulders, hands, and teeth. But still, my commitment to myself is to stay here for a year and experience whatever happens. If I have a stake — set expectations — I’m not truly open to discovery. I must trust not only the physical process, but the emotional and spiritual ones as well.
Still reading Annie Dillard. She is an inspiring wordsmith, seeking to see, then say, the world just as she wants it to sound; finding exactly the right one of a thousand words to do the job. Yet at times she irritates. A bit too consciously articulate. Too metaphoric and artistic. Too much made of each thing.
I, on the other hand, have no words for what I’m feeling. I could use a Buddhist term and call it emptiness, or emotional language and call it lonely longing sorrow. Perhaps it’s purely physical — only wind and rain. No, not only — in either sense — but rather Wind and Rain in their full catalytic power to evoke.
Cat is acting like an asshole today. Moaning for no apparent reason and trying to climb on me. He seems to be this way when I am filled with loneliness and longing. Does he pick it up from me, or does some external influence affect us both? Is there some other hidden cause, or no cause at all? Maybe he ’s always like this, but it grates more sharply when I am feeling glum.
I was thinking — as I munched lard-fried potatoes — about not having many taste treats until I leave here. About the goodies waiting for me in town. How different if I was going to stay forever; if this was all there would ever be. Years ago, I used to think about leaving where I lived in the rural mountains of the Dominican Republic. My shack was as poor as any: tin roof, dirt floor, and wood-slat windows. Yet I could return to Canada at any time. I was free to leave, my neighbors were not.
But I’m learning the illusion of that belief. There is no way out. Ever. In each right now, I’m always right here. Sure, I can return to the land of ice cream and hot showers, but while eating my double scoop, I’ll be right there. The only escape is unconsciousness, which seems too high a price to pay.
EVENING: The stove is in and looks good sitting there. I built a frame beneath to hold two inches of gravel for fire protection. Bits of kelp came mixed with the gravel, bringing in the smells of the sea. The outhouse base is also built. Next I need a seat and roof. The surrounding trees will protect me from the wind and rain, so it won’t need walls. I’m glad. Shitting in a small stinky enclosure is an uncivilized thing to do. Full moon tomorrow and I could have a fire to celebrate. That’s my carrot to finish the outhouse. Finally a fire. Will that change my world? Will I become a new man?
One of my teeth is bothering me and I’m rinsing it with warm saltwater. I considered having it pulled before coming here, but I wasn’t ready to live with a big gap in front or go through the hassle of getting a bridge. I thought the tooth would be ok, but infection seems to be setting in. Hope it doesn’t go really off; I’ve had enough pain for a while.
MIDNIGHT: Time for dinner. A while ago, an almost full moon shining through the trees caught my eye. I took the binoculars and walked to the point for a clearer view. The mountains and craters are visually interesting, but most wonderful are the small scattered bright spots connected by curved shining lines to a larger bright spot on the upper right. It’s like a gob of brilliance smacked the moon and splattered, leaving streamers of light behind.
APRIL 7, 2001
46°F. Calm and clear with clouds. Sunrise over the mountains was orange gold and glorious. The tide was so low I could have walked across the mussel beds to the small island beyond, and kelp lay strewn across the mud flats like orange fright wigs the morning after a juicy debauch. A silhouetted bird with long curved beak stood lean and upright on nonwebbed feet. Everything seems to be resting, but I’m going to work on the wind generator.
EVENING: A perfect day for the job: flat calm and no rain. The wind generator is up and looks good. The aluminum casing was poorly cast, and I had to file it down in spots before the rotor would spin freely without rubbing.
This morning a hummingbird flew into the cabin and got stuck trying to leave through the Plexiglas window. I tried to herd him toward the door but, like a bee or a fly, he kept banging frantically against the pane. I finally cupped him in my hands and released him outside. What a tiny gem. I would have liked to hold him longer, but thought he might have a stroke.
Tooth hurts and is worrisome.
APRIL 8, 2001
Windy and wild, bright with moonlight and clouds, high tide, ocean up and snorting. Tooth feels better this evening. Saltwater rinse is magic. But other than that, I feel like I’ve been hit with a board. Shoulders, back, arms, and hands all ache. Seems like I’ve been working for days straight again in spite of my shoulder. I think I miss hot showers more than anything else. They always help to ease sore muscles.
I have zero personal experience with wind generators, and from what people told me, I’d been expecting a sort of mellow whump, whump, whump as the rotor turns. But holy mother, what a racket! The wind is blowing about 35 mph on the point and gusting to maybe 50, not unusual for here, and the generator is out there howling like a banshee. The sound starts as a low moan, changes to a rough growl, and then, when a gust blasts through, winds up and shrieks like it’s left the Earth and joined the hounds of hell. Reminds me of an airplane climbing steeper and steeper until it stalls — which is exactly what the generator blades are designed to do when they twist in high wind to dump air and protect the rotor from overrevving. Ironic since this is the kind of noise I wanted to get away from. I finally couldn’t stand it anymore and, as per the instruction manual, shorted the wires to slow the rotor. Of course now it’s not charging the batteries. Maybe I’ll email the guy I bought it from and ask for advice.
Crap. I just threw out more onions than I’ve eaten, and others are going moldy, too. Not removing them from the plastic bags sooner was a mistake. Oh well, I’ll eat lots for the next few weeks and hope enough sound ones remain to flavor the beans for a while.
The outhouse seat is built and I’ve hung a woven nylon sack on the front side to prevent me from peeing in my boots when sitting there. Although I don’t know what its original contents were, the sack is labeled “Product of Canada.” Bathroom humor is alive, if not particularly well, even here. I still need to cut a hole in the seat. How big should it be? A truly metaphysical question that will require deep consideration.
I notice that I seldom pause to be fully conscious of living completely alone in the middle of nowhere. But when I do, I also sometimes think of the other people living in solitude around the world. I sense them to be my tribe even though we will never meet — unless we leave the circumstance that binds us. It feels good to know they are there, somewhere, as I am here, somewhere.
APRIL 9, 2001
The wind has been stomping and snorting on and off all day, cabin vibrating like it’s sitting on Jell-O. I had my first genteel defecatory episode today, sitting comfortably out of the rain. Quite pleasant. I also hooked up the forty-gallon plastic rain barrel. Cut a hole in its side three inches from the top and cemented in a plastic pipe with just enough slope so water will run in. The pipe reaches out through the back porch wall and catches rainwater falling from the roof gutter. The far end of the pipe is open, and when the water level in the barrel comes up enough, rain will stop flowing in and run out onto the ground instead. An automatic shutoff valve with no moving parts will prevent the barrel from overflowing and flooding the porch. Cool.
I split a round of firewood to see how my shoulder would do. Three weeks ago, when I tried to use the ax, the shoulder was very weak and painful. Today was better, but I wouldn’t want to split too many quite yet. Have I been here only two months? Seems like forever. Maybe I’ll take tomorrow off if I can stand it. I suspect I’m keeping some strong feelings at bay by staying busy.
APRIL 10, 2001
Didn’t make it to bed as early as intended last night. Sitting comfortably in the outhouse, I looked up through the trees and was bushwhacked by the moon. What an enchanting time this full moon has been. I remember thinking, a few weeks ago, that I might never see the moon here. The weather has been great for the last while, but I bet serious rains are on the way.
I’m slowly feeling more relaxed, like pressure is lifting. I can at least look down the hours of the day without feeling I’ve got to get busy. Still plenty of small tasks to do, but the big jobs are done. I took it easy this morning. Sent emails asking for technical support with wind generator — which is, I suppose, breaking solitude, but it feels ok. This afternoon I organized the cabin and put stuff away. I finally feel moved in and settled. The rain catchment system works perfectly. The barrel fills to within three inches of top and then stops automatically. I’m good at solving these kinds of simple mechanical problems and might have been happier if I’d lived a hundred years ago.
How civilized. A fire in the stove, a small slice of cheese, two dried figs, and a drink of single malt Scotch in hand. The stove is working well, even though the wood is semiwet and needs coaxing to stay alight. It’s evening and 40°F outside, but a toasty 65 in here. I’ve stripped down to thermal underwear, T-shirt, flannel shirt, wool vest, and Holofil vest and pants. I feel almost naked.
I’m writing by the light of a candle I just found in the package Patti gave me to celebrate last Christmas. At the time, I was leaving Santiago for Punta Arenas and forgot to open it. This seems like a fine occasion. Patti is smart to understand how much treats like this can mean when you’re alone, and she has a huge heart to prepare them. She sent gifts for last and next Christmas, one for my birthday in July, and a party package for next New Year’s.
A while ago I smudged the cabin and myself with the sage I brought and with some needles from the small cypress tree growing out front. As I was smudging, I gave thanks for what I’ve been given and for all the people who helped make this journey possible. I gave thanks for my skills, too. Amazing to be here after so long. It’s been twenty-five years since I first thought I’d like to spend a year in solitude. So far, my connection with nature has not deepened as it has in the past, but it will happen as it happens. I can only ask for the courage and patience to open myself and wait.
APRIL 11, 2001
Yum. First cup of real coffee since last December, and I can already feel the buzz. A fine morning it is for it, too. 41°F. Rainy, windy, and cold. I’m on the porch and not sure when I’ll build a fire. I still think firewood — like food, booze, and painkillers — needs to be rationed. There ’s plenty out there, but gathering it is hard work. Then, too, when I light a fire, I go inside, close the door, and shut out the world — which is just what I want to stop doing. Maybe I’ll save fires for when it’s dark.
I want to take the boat and go exploring, especially to visit a glacier that comes right down to the sea. But a long trip seems unappealing at the moment. I can’t count on the ocean to remain calm, and if I have to wait for storms to pass it will be difficult to find protected places to camp or to tie up and sleep in the boat.
My favorite little bird with the spiky topknot just came by. Dark brown back and a light grey breast that drifts to golden rusty brown on the sides of the belly. There are two bands of the same color over the head and spots of it along the back and wings. The tail looks like it has thorns sticking out from the sides of it. Maybe three inches tall and very quick. Insect feeder, I think. It roots around on the ground some, but often forages along the bark of trees. A new diving duck (White-tufted Grebe) is working the water edge of my front yard. Much smaller than the other divers I’ve seen; only seven or so inches tall. Grey-brown back darkens to charcoal on the top of the head. Small topknot. Cheeks are very distinctive: dirty white with a tracery of darker lines that look almost like tree branches.
I stepped on Cat a while ago, the third time in as many days. When he yowled, I didn’t feel compassion for his pain or upset with myself for causing it, but rather annoyance with him for getting underfoot. He used to walk in front of me when I peed off the porch, and if I didn’t notice and picked him up for some loving afterward, I got to pet a pissed-on cat. Most unpleasant. He’s learned to not do that, and I imagine he’ll also figure out to not get underfoot.
Now that I’m settled into the cabin, I wonder what will happen during these long stretches of dark grey time with no work to fill the hours. This is what I came for. All the preparation has been, in one sense, just that. Of course, from another point of view, it has not been preparation for anything at all, but just part of the total process of this retreat and of my life.
NOON: I got tired of being cold and lit a fire. So much for rationing firewood. Truly, this is sensual pleasure. I’m warm and drinking my second cup of real coffee, which tastes even better than the first. I’m also eating my first piece of fry bread with the last of the butter I brought. I’ve noticed before that after some time in the wilderness what I crave most is bread and butter.
Speaking of sensual pleasure. During my first long wilderness retreat twenty-five years ago, sexual desire, and even thoughts of sex, vanished so completely I didn’t realize they had gone until I emerged, saw a woman, and was hit again by wanting. The absence of desire is not so absolute this time, but close. I’ve thought about masturbating a few times in the past two months, but decided to not go there, and the desire quickly passed. Maybe now, in a warm cabin, wearing fewer layers of clothing, more aware of my skin, and less tired from work, desire will arise.
4 PM: Another storm is raging, and the waterfalls on the Staines cliffs rush down in full flood. Wind-driven sea from the northeast swirls across the basin. I’m feeling fearful and lonely. What if the cabin starts to leak? What if I run out of firewood and can’t find more? What if I feel like this forever? I wish Patti or Susan was here.
5:15 PM: Has it been only an hour? High tide surges up toward the boat, the woodpile, and me. Wind and rain batter my shelter. It seems like it has stormed and will storm forever. No matter what I tell myself about projection, anxiety and loneliness are viscerally linked to the weather. I know I will find the peace I long for only through surrender to death and to the immediate present. Easier said than done. Ah, for some companionship now.
5:50 PM: This anxiety is insidious. Since Vancouver, I’ve been worrying about one thing after another: my visa wouldn’t arrive on time; the crates of gear I shipped from Canada to Chile would be lost or stolen; I wouldn’t find transportation into the wilderness. The first night here I worried I would be washed away, then after I built a temporary shelter above high tide, that I would be blown away. I worried that the food we left a mile away would be soaked and ruined; after the boat flipped, that the motors wouldn’t work; once I hurt my shoulder, that I wouldn’t be able to finish the cabin; when it didn’t rain for five days, that I would run out of water. All through those times, I held onto the expectation that once I had all my gear here, firewood in, water tank hooked up, stove working, then I would feel safe and secure. But here I am, warm, dry, and well-fed, still feeling anxiety and dread.
This is nuts! I’m creating needless suffering for myself and destroying my joy in living. But even though I can see it intellectually and have been through this before, the fear persists: tightly clenched shoulders and nausea; squinted eyes; a vague electric current pulsing through my body. There are only three things to do: I can take medication (which I have if I need it); run from or fight the feelings; learn to treat the anxiety as an old friend or at least a familiar acquaintance. I’m going out into the storm to give my imagination a rest.
7 PM: The tide peaked and is receding. The wind, at least for now, has dropped and is out of the northwest. Rain is still pouring down. Across the slate green western channel, the massive rock of Staines Peninsula is a paradox. It undulates north to south in alternating domes and hollows, from which waterfalls crash to the sea. More immediately solid than the much larger Andes farther away to the east, Staines is massive, concrete, and unambiguous. Yet — half hidden in the raining mists that fill the hollows and drift across the cliffs — mysterious and phantasmal, too; only partially real.
Beyond, through, or within its physical presence, the rock evokes in me a world of experience that cannot be grasped, defined, or named. Swirling mists of feeling also veil half-hidden physiological states.
Medical science is comforting: certain of the world, much as orthodox religion is certain. To see the source of these dark feelings as chemical imbalance is less nebulous than to attribute them to unconscious personal neuroses or mysterious collective archetypes. Medicine has a point. The chemicals in my body are as real as the rock of Staines Peninsula. But there is more: ambiguous, paradoxical, lived experience. If I lose this, my life becomes flat and lifeless. Yet if I reject the solid foundation of the physical world, I wander rudderless and lost in solipsistic maunderings.
11:15 PM: But when the wind drops, the rain stops, and the tide ebbs away, then, with no effort at all, my belly loosens, my heart eases, and my spirit soars with love into the quiet night.
APRIL 12, 2001
Yesterday was the first day without painkillers since I’ve been here. I guess the warmth, lighter workload, and frequent stretching exercises are helping. Today I hung cheese and bacon on the porch out of Cat’s reach. Each month I’ll rewipe the cheese with vinegar. I’m amazed at how much I don’t know. I’ve just read in a book that vinegar prevents mold. I had tried oil, thinking to cut off air, but that was the wrong direction. The requirement is acid, not base. I should have figured it out sooner because when I taught scuba diving in the Caribbean, I put vinegar in my ears to control the fungus. All things tie together if you let your mind range widely enough.
In Desert Solitaire, Edward Abbey claims that joy has evolutionary value. “Where there is no joy there can be no courage; and without courage all the other virtues are useless.” Where is my joy? I’m exactly where I’ve chosen to be. I have enough food and supplies to last the year. I’m cold by choice and can light a fire anytime. I’m free to call and leave here when I choose. I’m loved, supported, and respected. Where is my joy, and where my “felt” courage? In the past I’ve thought that courage comes as a result of facing fear. But perhaps courage is somehow hidden beneath or within the fear itself and found by staying with it.
I can feel winter coming. Of course, I could feel it two and a half months ago in midsummer, too. Both my long wilderness retreats in Canada ended when winter closed in. But this time, if my courage and health hold, I’ll be staying.
APRIL 13, 2001
Son of a bitch! I am so goddamned tired of falling down. Give me a break, world! I just slipped and fell again and I hurt everywhere. I think I’ve torn the rotator cuff in my left shoulder, too. I’m trying to be very careful, but one slightly off-balance step and down I go. The moss, mud, rock, and grass are all incredibly slippery under my prosthetic leg and rubber-soled boots.
I can’t remember a time in my life without pain, but now it’s getting worse and is more constant. In pain management they teach you to relax into the pain, visualize a place of peace and beauty, and go there in your mind. But here in this place of peace and beauty, where do I go now that I am filled with pain?
I think I’m starting to lose it. It doesn’t feel safe to take a step or even stand anywhere, and I’m beginning to see the rock out front as actively malevolent — watching and waiting for the chance to harm me. So far I haven’t cracked my head, but everything else just fucking aches and aches. I’m so tired of pain.
APRIL 14, 2001
Abbey’s desert world is vast, his vision and explorations painted large and in detail. My world feels constricted and shallow: cabin, tiny beach, wind, rain, moods, pain. I’m too concerned with self, comfort, and survival, and sense I’m closing myself off from the world. This has happened before. On the other side — if I make it — there is joy and wonder. But why, over and over, must the passage be so hard and painful? Will the drama end once I’m truly tired of it and let it go?
AFTER NOON: The day is still overcast and not quite 50°F. The sea still grey-green and restless. A light wind rustles the trees. Nothing has changed; all is still in endless motion. Yet, I’m feeling peaceful. I will never be free of pain. It’s part of the experience of living. What I can do, though, is loosen the grip of the self-pitying complaint “Why me?” and accept pain as part of the world — like the sun, rain, and endless movement of the sea.
NIGHT: The anxiety came back. Why? How? From where? I was building a ventilation hole in the cabin and noticed that the tranquil sound of the sea had become vaguely threatening. At random, I opened the book of Rumi poems that Susan gave me and read:
This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.1
Easy to agree with, hard to live by. But just what I needed to hear. I miss Susan badly now. I don’t miss Patti in the same way; perhaps because she is so much with me here, or maybe this particular ache is yearning for sexual intimacy.
APRIL 15, 2001
52°F. Some wind, sea restless, high overcast, mountains shining sharp and clear all the way to the peaks. A while ago some animals swam by moving fast. Might have been nutrias, but they looked bigger.
I prepared for this retreat for so long; looking forward to immersion in the timeless wonder of Nature. And now I feel cut off, lonely, and frightened. Edging through the days and wondering if I’ll make it. I need to commit myself to stop being unhappy and to stop sounding like a broken record. Life will be what it is.
APRIL 16, 2001
Wind and sea are moving, but not ferociously. Through broken clouds, sunshine touches the face of Staines. It was a tough night. I was up until 2 AM exercising my shoulders. My homemade chili pepper oil didn’t work, and I had to use some of the commercial arthritis cream. What will I do when it’s gone? Something else to worry about. I finally fell asleep but woke stiff and sore at 4. Up to exercise and apply the cold water bottle. Back to sleep until 7. Up to exercise, back to sleep till 9. This seems to be a pattern: exercise, sleep for a couple of hours, wake up cramped and sore, exercise again, sleep for two more hours. I dream of sleeping through a whole night. I think I’ve had only one such night in the past two and a half months. Maybe these aches and injuries are my body’s reaction to finally coming out of high-stress mode. I often catch a cold or the flu as a comedown reaction, but out here there ’s no one to infect me.
A load of laundry is hanging on the line, a second load soaking, and water for a bath heating. First time I’ve washed clothes, and everything was filthy. It took all morning to do just a few light things. Now comes the heavy stuff: pants, shirts, vests, sweatshirt, and blankets. I remember the women in the Dominican Republic washing clothes together in the river. Doing it in community seemed to make their task lighter.
I cut my hair today, which, due to the weak power supply, was a slow and nasty process. It felt like the electric clippers cut halfway through each hair and then yanked on it until it broke off. Most unpleasant. I also shaved for the first time. I’m glad to be trimmed, although it was also ok before. I’m skinny and the skin under my chin and on my upper arms is loose. I’m no longer a boy. When did this happen? I’ve stopped wearing my watch, the ring that was Dad’s, and the amulet I’ve worn for five years. Don’t like the stuff on me.
It’s time to let go of the macho “I can tough it out” attitude and start taking care of my body, emotions, mind, and spirit. In a sense I have been taking care of myself — but because I must to survive, not because I deserve the attention and care. I wonder — in the context of spiritual quest — why living has to be so hard. I wonder if everyone experiences life as hard.
Yesterday was Easter Sunday. Christ has risen. Spirit lives! The day passed unnoticed, and I feel sorry not to have celebrated. For me, the promise of the resurrection is that spirit can transform physical suffering. It’s not about actual death, but that the physical body need not dominate consciousness.
Cat sits by the door quietly muttering and moaning. My first reaction is to tell him to shut up! But I do my complaining in these pages, and he has only his voice. So I bite my tongue, scratch his neck, and let him mumble.
APRIL 17, 2001
MORNING: 41°F. No wind. The sea shines silver-white to the east and dark green-brown where it reflects the southern island. Pale yellow clouds, with patches and bands of blue and grey, float high over the mountains; further south the wind has streaked them into curves. The sounds are soothing. An occasional goose’s honk, and ripples from surfacing dolphins expanding out to caress the shore. I haven’t missed reading the news these past two months. It’s a relief to know nothing about the outside world. If I were up to it, this would be a perfect morning to collect firewood or go wandering, but it also feels good to stay quietly here.
There needs to be relationship. Without that, life is dead. My commitment here is to relationship with self, nature, and spirit. If I spend my time longing for relationship with Susan and fantasizing how it will be after this year, I’m wasting this precious opportunity. Then when I come out, I won’t have done the necessary work that will allow me to be in real relationship with her. I don’t feel this concern with Patti. Our lives are so deeply linked.
EVENING: This has been a gift of a day. (As I write these lines, I realize that for the past week I’ve been sunk in doubt and anxiety. How easily and unconsciously I lose faith.) For the first time, I took the kayak for a paddle. I discovered a small beach on the west side of the small island out front, took photos, drifted in the sun, collected some limpets for Cat, and did some fishing. Caught only four tiny ones. There must be bigger fish here since dolphins and nutrias spend time in the basin, but I don’t know where they are or how to catch them.
This is what I envisioned: inflatable boat for longer trips, kayak for nearby. Probably won’t paddle far since the wind comes up so unexpectedly and I can make no headway against it. From now on when I use the boat I’ll take the kayak, too. With the 4 hp outboard not working, the kayak is my only backup in case the 15 hp dies. Come winter, I’ll also be glad to paddle out to the sun. Now that it’s moving into the northern sky behind the trees, my cabin is already mostly in shadow.
I’d hoped the dolphins would join me to get acquainted and play, but they came over, scoped out the kayak, and were gone. At one point I heard a sort of coughing scream from the east channel and saw a nutria (I think) leaping out in the deep water. I bet it was either in heat or rut or had just gotten laid.
APRIL 18, 2001
35°F. This could be lake country, far from the sea. A low mist covers the channel to the south, and the blue sky above is veiled and accentuated here and there with puffs and streaks of light, the sunrise clouds changing from rose to pale yellow. The sea is a mosaic of silver glass, clearly reflecting the mountains, and opaque velvet, made so by a delicate wind riffle. The stillness eases my heart. What would my experience be if I was spending this year in a warmer, drier place? The weather also brings restlessness. It’s a day to be with a lover or on the move. Maybe I’ll drag the boat to the water and go fishing to Staines.
Last night, a strange and ominous sound came from over there. A loud, almost motorlike vibration. It sent chills up my back, and I brought the chain saw and ax onto the porch. A nutria just came by, fishing. Hard to believe this is the same species as the creature I saw leaping out in the channel yesterday. That beast seemed at least three times as large as this one. Perhaps this is a youngster and that an old granddad.
APRIL 19, 2001
From what I’ve seen, this has been a sort of typical decent day. 51°F. Medium-high cloud layer, mountains semi visible except for the peaks, moderate wind, sea moving with whitecaps. I’m just back from fishing the basin in the cold dark rain. When I came in, Cat was on the porch, warm, dry, and eating fish. I’m thinking, “What’s wrong with this picture?” I caught a dozen barely big enough to eat. Getting a system worked out: I stayed dry, took headlamp for when I need to see to tie on a hook, used pieces of fish from yesterday for bait, and prepared kindling before I went so the fire started easily. But I didn’t take time to kill each fish as I caught it, and so they died slowly. I don’t like doing that and will pause to kill them from now on.
Strange how my schedule has shifted to staying up so late. I often don’t go to sleep until 2 or 3 AM. I’m also spending three to four hours a day just working on my body. Happily, I’m not so susceptible to the cold anymore, either because I’m warm for five or six hours in the evening or because I’m slowly adapting. Getting used to water and cat noises, too. Cat was sitting in the open doorway a while ago, sniveling quietly as usual, and I said, “Ssshhh.” He looked up quite startled, eyes opened wide as if to say, “Oh, was I moaning again? I hadn’t realized.”
APRIL 20, 2001
And this would be a sort of typical bad day. 42°F. Not raging, but nasty; sky closed down in a low blanket of cloud, mountains and hills somewhere gone. The surface of the sea is streaked with wind-froth skirling away to the southeast, and sheets of rain drive horizontally across the water. Without sunlight to lift it up to dance and shine, the kelp floats sullen and soggy. A break in the cloud layer drifts over and faint blue glows, but soon it, too, follows a path to the southeast; grey slams shut again and blue is just a fading memory.
My world grows small: porch, Cat in his box, stack of firewood, thoughts of warmth. I can see only the mid tide beach of rock and sea grass, moss climbing the stunted trees on the bluff to my left, and, in the far distance, the island lying heavy in its sodden bed two hundred yards away. I search the west and finally make out the faint silhouette of Staines Peninsula looming through the wet. Wind starts to move through the trees behind me, not roaring yet, and far from the demented howl of a full storm, but waking up again.
The lid begins to lift and light filters down less murkily. Southeast, the hills — as if by magic — slide back into being. Another patch of blue floats by. A ray of sun shines into a translucent silver drop that hangs from a twig in front of the cabin. A separate beam reveals the whitecaps previously hidden in the channel.
Three large boulders on the island across the basin leap up and shout, “We are here!” I’ve looked that way a thousand times while they have lain dormant and almost invisible, but now the slanting sun has stroked them into full tumescent existence. All around is opaque grey, but the three boulders, suddenly shaped and filled with color, bellow, “We are here!”
Southeast, the receding lines of hills are gone again. Just as well since I have no words for what I see when the mist thins. What are these lacks of color? Grey, black, and silver are not enough. A rich monochrome spectrum reaches out from that deep distance: close hills are dark and solid, and each line behind lighter in mass and tone.
Scratching through the mud and grass, a resident bird (Dark-bellied Cinclodes) hunts — apparently untroubled by the wind and rain. Wait. She has paused to plunge into a hollow in the rock and flutters there having a bath!
Now the storm moves in again with a crash, and wind slams my cabin walls. Even here in the lee of hill and forest, trees lean and sway in the gusts. Even here the sea churns through the narrow gap into the protected basin. Hooyah! Yet this is still mild compared to the February storms. As suddenly as the front rolled in, it’s gone. Breaks in the cloud show blue. One leg of a rainbow arcs over the Staines rock and the sea laps softly on my tiny beach. Until the cycle repeats again.
EVENING: This would have been a good day to build a fire and hunker down inside. Instead I stayed out, opened my senses as wide as I could, and watched the weather moving through. I often had to choose between describing in words what I was seeing or photographing it. The changes came so fast it was impossible to do both.
APRIL 21, 2001
At Buddhist meditation retreats students are urged to sleep as little as possible to develop more continuous awareness. We often tend to escape from consciousness into sleep or into activity and substances. Here, I’m becoming clearer that there is no “away” where I can go. I would like to escape, but sleep isn’t working and I don’t have enough painkillers or booze to go that route. I begin to see more clearly the squirrel-race circles of my thoughts and to feel the results of that endless empty chatter. It’s not that thinking is bad, but it becomes addictive and will not end my suffering as I expect it to.
I feel grief for Mom. Not because she’s gone and I can no longer be with her, but for our time together when she was alive. Grief for all we couldn’t share because so much stood in between. I guess we did the best we could, and maybe the union I longed for is always frustrated between mother and son. But there ’s a deep hurt in me that I was and am a loner — cut off from sharing love with anyone.
Two hummingbirds just flew into the cabin. One made it back out through the open door, but the other tried the Plexiglas shortcut. I rescued and held him for a while to caress his shimmering gold, rusty green, and iridescent magenta head, before I let him go.
APRIL 22, 2001
Physical weather is coming from the west-southwest; emotional weather from the north. Is what I feel loneliness for body warmth and smiling eyes, or longing for God, Spirit, my soul? I don’t even know what these are. For the past few days I’ve cut back to two painkillers a day. I want to feel what there is to feel; to not hide from the pain, but find other ways to ease it. A while ago I went to the point to sense the wind, water, sun, and clouds with eyes, ears, skin and bones. Back here I was greeted by the rich smell of split firewood. Some smells vaguely like cat piss, but other pieces are as fragrant as a sun-drenched orchard in spring.
Today is Sunday, a day of rest. I may build a fire early and have a bath. I want to figure out how to keep the fire small to minimize wood consumption and keep the cabin warm, but not hot. I’ve already brought in the closest driftwood logs, and four or five months from now I’ll have to scavenge further away for poorer quality wood. I prefer to be frugal now.
This daily writing feels like breaking solitude, as though I’m in conversation with someone and keeping myself tied to the verbal level of experience. Journaling might diffuse the intensity of immediate experience, but when I think of not writing, I’m hit with a wave of isolation, and loneliness. I may go there eventually, but it’s not time yet.
APRIL 23, 2001
TWILIGHT: 46°F. When I woke this morning, I saw the same sights I’m seeing now: mottled clouds and scattered rain, low tide, calm but moving sea. When the sky is overcast, it’s hard to notice change in the direction of the light; this could be dawn.
It’s been a fix-it day: I mended the long underwear and snowsuit, releveled the table, and drove nails into the floor where it was warping. I also emptied the rain barrel. The water had started to taste of creosote — not a pleasant flavor. Surprising that rain, merely falling through the drift of chimney smoke, picked up such a strong taste. This means I can’t catch rain while the stove is lit. It’s such a pleasure to have good water and fresh air. I sometimes long to be with people, but know that back in Puerto Natales there ’s cigarette smoke everywhere people gather.
I’ve begun to reread Nature, Man and Woman by Alan Watts. The book had a powerful impact on me when I first read it at nineteen, and I’m amazed at how much of what I now think I find in his writing. I don’t know if I internalized his thoughts, or if I’ve discovered and continue to discover the same insights through my own inner explorations.
APRIL 24, 2001
I’ve started sprouting lentils for greens to eat, and I’ve tasted and spit out some limpet a couple of times. Tomorrow, I’ll swallow a bit. I assume they’re nontoxic since they don’t filter-feed and Cat is eating them without apparent problem.
At the moment he doesn’t know where to turn. He’s glutted with fish — belly tight as a drum — and he still has a mess of heads waiting to be eaten. He also has rice and beans in his dish, since I wouldn’t want him to have an unbalanced diet. Hard to believe he was a wee kitten two and a half months ago. Happily, he’s been crying less the past few days. He seems ok sleeping on the porch for now, especially since I spend a lot of time out here, too. In winter, I may change the arrangement.
Checked email again today. The wind generator help line answered my request for information by saying that not enough voltage will reach the batteries from one hundred yards away. I need to either move the generator and cabin closer together or learn to live in the dark. Some help. Guess I’ll try bringing batteries back to the cabin. I also sent a message to the satphone company asking how to link with a satellite more efficiently.
APRIL 25, 2001
Another fierce storm is shaking the cabin. I feel the tension of tightly clenched muscle in the deep layers of my body, emotions, and soul, and fear I will always be clenched into knots like this — cut off from love, peace, and participation with the world. I hear Cat playing on the porch, and every thump feels like a hammer stroke.
What is this core I’m knotted around? What painful wound am I protecting? I want nothing to touch me there — but rain, wind, cold, and Cat keep battering the walls I build. It may be shame that I’m weak or cowardly and not up to this experience. I feel I’m still in spiritual hiding, crouching out of the infinite eternal flow of existence; afraid to surrender to my fear and suffering, to vulnerability and death. And I’m also tight with fear not to. This long retreat into solitude could be my last opportunity: how far away can death be?
I sense I’ve seen all I’ll see here — except perhaps for snow. No new animals or birds will appear, no different weather. What has been is what will be. The only surprises, likely unpleasant: people appearing, motor failing, getting caught on the sea in a storm, cabin falling apart, teeth giving out.
A while ago, I suited up and went into the pouring rain. I felt a sense of loss that Mom is no longer in this world. I can’t visit her and know that no matter what, she loves me deeply and forever. Now there is no one to share the things I shared with only her. In the rain, I felt heartache and longing, and then tenderness and care for the animals and plants who live here. Often, I just hack them out of my way, but when I remember that this is their home and I am a guest, I’m happier and more peaceful.
APRIL 26, 2001
FIRST SNOW: wet flakes mixed with rain. This feels like the beginning of winter, and I want a bigger supply of firewood. Buddhism teaches that craving pleasure creates suffering. Something in me cries that life without pleasure would not be worth living. The pleasures I crave are so innocent and sensible: a morning cup of coffee; a cabin snug and sturdy in the storms; the warmth of a fire; seeing a friend or hearing the clear words of a teacher; the absence of pain; peace and freedom from craving.
Each moment is a matrix of strong or faint cravings for or against something. How radical to think of being free from these. I doubt I know anyone who is seriously working to be free from all desire. Free from craving gross pleasures — lust, gluttony, hate — yes, but beauty? clarity? love? peace?
The low-slung snow on Staines Peninsula gives the cliffs a different shape and feel. From the point I see a face there for the first time. Stern and staring (but not malevolent) — one eye twisted — straight back at me. A mirror. I stand up straight and think, “Yes, I’m trying, but I’m the youngest child and only son, and that conditioning runs deep.” Then, through a break in the clouds, blue sky and warm sun with no wind. How lovely and rare. Thank you.
Years ago, in wilderness solitude, a mystic light shone into my soul, and I believed I’d have a clear relationship with that light forever; I would follow wherever it led. Returning to the world of people, I lost sight of the light, and lost my way. That experience was, perhaps, the most painful of my life. It was like falling deeply in love and then, for some unknown reason, losing my lover. But worse. Now I think I’m terrified, not only of my need to surrender to love, but of the pain I’ll feel when I leave here and am not strong enough to be true to that love and inner light. I ask for the courage to allow my heart to be broken open. What else can I do? I fear the unknown and my own vulnerability, but if I continue to guard myself, I’ll die inside in any case. I’ve been through this before, and know that once I face my fear and surrender, I’ll find joy and gratitude — and will wonder, yet again, why I resisted so strongly.
APRIL 27, 2001
The day stretches before me and I question how I’ll fill my time and pass the hours. Will I be as fully present as I can be, or lazily wait for time to fly? How astonishing the mystery of existence. What are we doing here? Why something instead of nothing . . . or not even nothing? How strange to avoid living each moment fully.
APRIL 28, 2001
Yesterday I asked myself how I would fill my time — believing there was nothing new here for me anymore. After three months I’d seen all I would see until I leave. Today I went fishing. There were plenty of nibbles in the shallow kelp along the west side of my island, but no fish, so I paddled out to deeper water. The sea floor fell then leveled off at about 150 feet. I dropped my bait and soon my light trout rod bent double. I thought I’d snagged the bottom, until I felt the jerking. Using both hands, I slowly pumped the line in, all the while wondering what I could possibly have caught. Red snapper! What a treat after being here so long. Finally, real fish for dinner. I came back to fetch the ocean rod with stronger line, bigger hooks, and a heavier weight.
Back in deep water, I used a rock to anchor where I’d caught the first snapper, and caught nine more that each weighed about a pound. In this cool weather they should keep for several days, and who knows when the wind will let me fish again?
Floating silently in the kayak, I could have been living a thousand years ago. The gear would have been different, but that’s peripheral to the process of asking for food with hook, line, and patience. Fishing links me deeply with land and sea; embeds me in the flow of the world. In receiving the gift of food, I feel profound gratitude for the Earth’s generosity.
In some sense, purist catch-and-release fishermen don’t get it. Fishing is not a sport; it’s communion with the nonhuman world. To call fishing a sport is like calling gardening a pastime or church a social activity. On one level all three labels are accurate, but if it’s nothing more to you, you’ve missed the heart of the matter — the place where you are no longer only you but part of something greater. Communion: take this bread and eat of My body, take this wine and drink of My blood; join in one body and one blood. Plant these seeds, eat of the fruit, and become one with the Earth. To catch and release fish is like planting a garden, tending the plants, and then turning the harvest under without eating it.
APRIL 29, 2001
Cat puked last night, and I worried that the heavy snapper bones had damaged his stomach. By now I would really miss him were he to die, but there was nothing I could do. This morning he has dragged another carcass from the bucket. I’m trying to teach him to gorge on his grisly load in one corner of the porch, rather than dragging it everywhere.
It occurs to me to wonder how it smells in here. I’m inured, but to someone else’s nose it might seem pretty ripe and stink of wood smoke, firewood, glue, waterproof spray, bacon, creosote, me, and especially fish. If there were bears, I’d be in mortal terror — and with good reason.
No matter how I slice it, whether I consider God or an impersonal universe, terror is part of the equation. Many Christians, wishing to believe all is sweetness and light, have forgotten the God of the Old Testament who inspired Awe and Terror. And Christ on the Cross is the essence of pain. I, too, prefer the soft side of God — days like today that are calm, sunny, and safe. But in the night, when wind roars across the channel, that’s God (or Nature), too.
While fishing yesterday, I wondered, yet again, how to leave fear behind and find peace in belonging to the universe. And then, again, I saw it. As long as I’m an individual human being, fear will be with me. I cannot find peace by getting rid of fear, but by making peace with it. I don’t need to do anything special to be part of the universe, I cannot be otherwise. I simply need to be who I am, accept my place, and the depths will open.
APRIL 30, 2001
Somewhere, I have a quote about love blossoming from a thousand times broken heart and about waiting without hope or expectation. I wanted to tape it to my door. While searching for it, I decided to take my passport, money, and ID cards from my knapsack and put them with the other important papers. Then I remembered that since leaping into the water nearly a month ago to catch the escaping boat, I haven’t checked the goodies hidden in the hollow of my prosthetic leg. Everything was soggy, so now I have traveler’s-check receipts, a photocopy of my passport, and a bunch of $20 and $50 bills clothes-pinned to the line behind the stove. I look like a miser admiring my hoard, and I must admit that when I counted the money and recorded the amount on the list with the food and other supplies, it gave me a sense of pleasure and security. Never did find the quote.
My emotions seem to cycle with the weather, as though there ’s no buffer between the world and me. When it’s sunny, I feel happy and joyful. The wind comes up, I feel anxious. Grey and rainy, I’m glum. Even after years of meditation, I don’t seem to have a stable place inside. And when I try to block out unwanted stimuli, it creates even more tension. I feel rebellious, but there’s no one and nothing to rebel against, except the weather and my own pain. When I stop fighting and ease into the pain, it softens and sometimes disappears, so apparently I’m creating much of it by my own resistance.
Often, I project my pain and fear out onto the world so I can have the comforting illusion of possible escape. “If I go to a warm dry climate, the pain will stop. If the wind dies, so will my fear.” But there will be other pain and other fear, and the need to escape will never end. My task here is to make peace with pain and fear and to realize that, finally, there is no possibility of escape because there is no real separation between the world and me.
Sometimes, I actually experience that there is no outside or inside, that the weather and my feelings are a continuum, that the world is not, cannot be, against me since there is no separation between us. I am the wind and rain. In those moments I feel peace and joy.
Tomorrow is May 1 and time to email that I’m ok. And in spite of the pain and uncertainty, I do think I’m ok. Cognitive, emotional, and spiritual ups and downs are all part of the journey. I wonder what else is still in store.