That sympathetic criticism of “The Solitary” turned upon me almost immediately after I had finished writing it:
“So … you supposedly want ‘healing.’ You supposedly want to be united to these ‘grounded folk’ in some moment of final dissolution-consummation. Really? Then what the hell are you doing out here? What is ‘all this’ other than a flight from reality? This is not a longing for healing, this is a deliberate wound!”
“Well, it’s not quite like that, you see…”
“No. Wait a minute. No. I don’t see. I don’t. And neither do you, really. This is cowardice, plain and simple. There. I said it. You’re a coward. That’s it.”
“Now, hey, you wait a minute ..”
“Me? wait a minute? Wait for what? Your evasion? Your clever escape? Your spin? Your dodge?”
“Ok, you’ve got a point, but …”
“But what? But what? Come on. You rattle off this paean to healing and universal brotherhood. You want to see the unity of the Seekers and the Grounded Folk, the healer and the patient, etc. etc. etc. … yada, yada, yada. But what are you doing about it? What are really doing? You seem to believe that you might have something that will ‘awaken’ them or that they might be able to ‘heal’ you or that maybe both could come true in some way. So what do you actually do? You come out here and you live in a shack. And what for? ‘To escape deliberation … to live as it comes … to watch and to record.’ You came to smoke your pipe, brew ale, and forget what you’ve learned. How in the world is that going to help? Huh? How is that helping real people in the real world?”
“Ok. Stop. Enough. I put my hand over my mouth. You're right. I don’t have the answers. I probably don’t even have the questions. But here I am, and here I am staying. I want to be here. For now that's enough. And I will hope for healing in spite of what you’ve just said. Somehow. Perhaps in a mystery.”
“And you. If you’re going to stay here, you better get used to it. It doesn’t necessarily have to make sense to you. And Rilke? Rilke’s going away. Here. Look at Rilke. Rilke is going on the shelf. Rilke is shelved - deep. There. No more Rilke. Not now. I’m going fishing. Goodbye.”
And I did.
And I enjoyed it.
I even caught a 14 inch rainbow.
__________
Those questions are important. They are extremely important. And someday, no doubt, I will have to face them - perhaps even return. But not know. Because, if I can’t fish through the ultimate questions, here and now, then … what good are they doing me?
When I got back I looked long and hard at my stalled root cellar project. Of course I would love to express the self-reliance and ingenuity that would be necessary to derive a natural resin. I would love to spend all week (all month?) boiling pine roots until I get something worth painting the split logs with. But I need a root cellar.
So I’m going to use black plastic.
The monks have plenty in their toolshed. They cover their tomato mounds with it.
I’ll ask next time I see one of them.
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