December 18, 2023
Greetings from the whirl,
None of us are one thing, we are almost always a mix of things, sometimes extremes. But they get whisked together, and sometimes we only sense the largest ingredients of the recipe. These are pancakes, right? We taste the maple, but is there just a little cinnamon aftertaste? And is that cardamon?
When I meet someone, or when I am getting to know them, I try to remember that neither of us are knowing the fullness of the other. In truth, we are not even aware of ourselves in every way.
Some weeks ago, I set out on a little adventure, hiking out into the woods, practicing getting lost. I passed many people on the trail but I was alone most of the time. Both appealed to me. My natural inclination is to seek out people. When I am alone, even while I enjoy it, I notice the absence of others. Both/And.
I tramped along, keeping my own company, at times a little anxious to hear another voice so I talked out loud to myself. Then, finally, I let the silence settle on me and it was easier to be in the woods, sense what else was there. I allowed myself to be alone.
I learned about being alone many years ago, before I had the words to describe what it meant to me. Now, whenever I revisit that space, it’s like putting on a favorite old coat.
After a full day of tramping, I followed a trail into a campground that was closed for the season. All around me were these reminders of those people who were absent. Scraps of firewood. Empty picnic tables. Notes from the ranger on how to behave, which seemed silly if they’d only been written for me.
I had the tent set up just as it was getting dark, built a small fire, and then made my dinner. I sampled a little bourbon, a small comfort against the near-freezing temperatures. I crouched by the fire, glad for its company.
A few hundred miles away was my own hearth, holding court to an empty sofa and chair. I had left the comfort and convenience of that fireplace to go out into the woods, at some considerable effort, to sit by another fire of somewhat more irascible temperament.
I like leaving and I like coming back. I love exploring, being surprised, challenged, and I love having hours to read and to be still and to feel my body resting. I love being at home and not at home. I love to be with and without. I am both those people. Both/And.
During the night I was cold, not dangerously cold, but enough to make me wonder, to keep me awake, aware of the cold. And even in that, it felt like what I was made for, meant for, too long away from. I also knew that sometime in my future I would be in a luxurious bed with enough blankets to keep away the smallest inconvenient chill.
I listened to the coyotes serenade one another, a lonesome song amidst a choir. I tried to imagine telling a friend what this was like, saw the conversation in some well-lit, well-heated coffee shop, and realized I didn’t have the words. I lie in my cocoon and let the night pass at its own pace. I soothed myself with the image of making coffee in the morning.
Like you, probably, I look for ways to make my life simple and easy, convenient. I could make coffee in my kitchen with my eyes closed, and in fact probably have. I like having that. And yet this other tiny experience, so similar and completely different, means everything.
I stood in the dark, hours before dawn, and lit my tiny stove and set the grounds over the cup, and then felt the satisfying sigh of the water heating and poured it over the grounds. The aroma was rich in the chilled air, came to me as if there were no other smells in the world to own. I waited in the light of my headlamp as the last drops filled the cup.
I love good coffee anywhere, but this first cup set a new standard by which all others will compete. I stood in the dark and felt the warmth, the body of the bean, the sun that grew it, the vine that held it just long enough. This same man who drums his fingers on the counter when the barista is too slow to take his order.
I found a large piece of wet bark and put it on the picnic table, and then gathered a few firestarter sticks I’d brought. I lit them in a small pyre, pleased at their willingness. I made a second cup and sat at the table, felt the companionship of the light and warmth.
In my den, where I drink a lot of coffee, do a lot of thinking, there is this desk, a table given to me by someone I love, and on it are a few things I treasure. This morning the lamp is on, making a small oval of golden white on the rich grain of the table top. It is a place that holds a lot of memories, it is a place of creating and of memories and of possible.
The little fire on the picnic table was an echo of this place. Somehow I was meant to be in that place as much as I am meant to be in this. Both/And.
I am shy to include this, because I don’t want to lean on her genius, but this thought came to me from the poet Mary Oliver, who lately has shown up in the right moments.
I have decided to find myself a home in the mountains, somewhere high up where one learns to live peacefully in the cold and the silence. It’s said that in such a place certain revelations may be discovered. That what the spirit reaches for may be eventually felt, if not exactly understood. Slowly, no doubt. I’m not talking about a vacation.
Of course, at the same time I mean to stay exactly where I am.
Are you following me?
All of this is not to explain things about me, although if we are friends it may matter. It is to build a threshold for all of us to understand. Everyone we encounter, friends and strangers, are made up of these disparate parts, this mélange of history and wants and dislikes and sometime contradictory seasonings. All them are whirled into the person in front of you, revealed only with patience and willingness and curiosity.
Hope this finds you Both/And,
David
Copyright © 2023 David Smith
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