hermit's thatch

A professor I knew conceived of a little experiment for understanding what affects us and what affects the world, though he put it in more modest terms. He proposed that for thirty days one avoid all sources of “news.” No newspapers, television, radio, magazines (there was no Internet then). At the end of thirty days, return to the “news” and decide. What had fundamentally changed in the world, not as a sequence of events but had really changed, intrinsically changed? And, more importantly, what could we have done in thirty days to change ourselves, intrinsically?

The most common objection to the solitary life is that it is selfish. But everyone in society participating in the popular culture around them is “selfish” in the sense of serving themselves or using the objects around them — material or human, near or far — to gratify themselves, usually gratifying luxuries and whims, not needs. Solitude as separation from society and culture has the best chance for letting a person break away and into a better state of mind, body, and soul. Assuming, of course, that the solitary is not simply reproducing society and culture anyway, but in a private little world, still eager to consume society’s products, fads, and extravagances.

Birds are flying southward. At twilight their magnificent companies appear suddenly in the sky, flying in the typical “V” shape, some precise, some a little scraggly. And some, in imitation of typography, change the font by adding a little serif on the ends of the “V.”

In his Parabola interview, Fr. Dunstan Morrissey says that “one has to be naturally extroverted” to cope with solitude, because solitude is embraced on behalf of everyone. Other professed or religious solitaries, East and West, have said the equivalent. Given the classic definition of extroversion as self-identity by external objects, this statement would confirm these solitaries’ need to reconcile themselves to external realities — in this case, not abandoning the world and “everyone” — before embarking or succeeding in solitude. But the classic introvert, who defines self-identity by internal objects, would point to life circumstances as sufficient reason for pursuing solitude, and perhaps not even notice “everyone.”

The mother black bear and three cubs (described in May entries) returned. The mother was at first not recognizable, having lost a good fifty pounds. The cubs, on the other hand, have doubled their weight and size, and are eating, not nursing. They found full bird feeders, of course, and ate heartily, though it hardly seems much fare for such a large quartet.

(It is incredible to think that some states of the US permit these creatures to be hunted down and killed. One is pressed to distinguish between one mammal and another. …

The heavy rains have created a couple of small waterfalls down the road, spontaneous and delicate, to last only as long as the land drains the abundant waters. In many households, this sound –artificially generated by a little electric pump — masks obnoxious noises as “white noise.” But here, at twilight, there are no human sounds, and nature offers a gift. To paraphrase the old question: If water falls in the woods and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? Oh, yes. The whole universe is making this beautiful sound — but we must be “here” in order to hear it.

Mencius identifies three types of people: 1) those who seek out the unusual and live for fame and posterity, 2) those who want to live with integrity but who give up when things are difficult, and 3) those who consciously live in harmony with the universal order, whose lives remain unknown to the world and unnoticed by society. Of the three types, says Mencius, only the wise can pursue the third.

Two anecdotes from the historian Szma Ch’ien about Confucius:

1. A father and son were ploughing a field when Confucius passed by with his disciples. A disciple went to ask for directions, introducing himself as a follower of Confucius. They said to him, “Rather than follow one who avoids certain people, why not follow someone who avoids society altogether.”
2. Separated from Confucius one day, a disciple stopped an old man and asked him if he had seen the Master. The old man replied, “Master? You mean someone who does not work with his arms and legs and cannot tell one grain from another?” The disciple later related this exchange to Confucius, who said, “That man must have been a retired philosopher.”

Posture, the angle of light, intermittent shadows from a block of wall or a window, a redolent scent, an abrupt sound, a profound relaxation and lack of anticipation — all these things may plunge consciousness into a reverie that is so irresistibly familiar that one does not know where one is, for that moment, anyway. However familiar the moment, achingly so, we grasp at the evanescence of time and memory. The moment, like all moments, is fast gone, but leaves a lingering sense of mystery. The mind contrives the continuity of time and space that we take for granted. This moment, this space. Next moment, this space. And so forth. But once in a while, that continuity breaks down, like a veil, though it is too unexpected for us to appreciate. In that moment, the solitude that dogs us dissolves, and the connection of moment to moment — time — reaches beyond this space and that space. For a moment, we sense that everything is one.

A weed is a plant that is not wanted, as gardeners say. But weeds tell gardeners a great deal about the condition of the soil, and a bed of “weeds” often deflects insects otherwise eager for the garden proper. Weeds are not wanted but they beg to serve. In our locale, the inauspiciously-named beggar tick is a common weed, a scrawny plant with small white-petaled flowers and a yellow center. And the beggar tick is beloved by butterflies of all sorts. The field guide says beggar tick habitat includes “disturbed” ground, so we humans invite them as weeds after all. May the beggar ticks stay, hailed as companion flowers and bringers of butterflies.