Un-Boredom

Last night the vibrant-souled Brother Damien stopped by my cottage to talk about poetry. He didn't find me in and left a note on the doorpost. Fortunately, I had only been sitting downstream a little, thinking, and he caught me on his way back to the monastery. He sat down on the other end of the log I had been occupying and we had a brief but interesting conversation about poetry and writing and self-disclosure.

Unfortunately, I had to tell Brother Damien that I simply could not proceed with the poetry workshop in the state I was in. So I asked him to carry my regrets back to St. Godric's and tell them I would see them next week - though I was far from sure of that at the time.

This morning I woke up at 5:30, packed myself a lunch, shoved several nostalgic items into my pocket, picked a radish out of the garden, ate it, said goodbye to the cottage - just in case I didn't come back, and started walking.

When I set out, I really didn't know if I intended to return. I thought maybe my ennui had inspired a new period of Wanderings. Or, rather, I feared that I had only been fooling myself about the Time of Quiet Solitude. I headed up the foothill trail, but turned off the path and took a steeper ascent into the higher hills.

By mid-morning I had gained a vista overlooking the entire valley. Another hour or so and I would be over the crest of this little range of hills, descending into some other valley, some other place.

I sat down, thinking perhaps this would be my final farewell. I couldn't see my cottage or the monastery, but I could see the stream in several familiar places and parts of Lake Finchale, on which St. Godric's is located. I saw several isolated trees that I was particularly fond of.

Then, inexplicably, I fell in love all over again.

How could I leave this place? How could I pick up and start hiking because I had been bored? What in the world had I been thinking? Worse yet, what had been feeling? Bored? Bored of this? Bored after less than three months?

I started crying for what had nearly happened to me.

Leaning back against a tree, I just sat there watching the valley for hours - watching it breathe and sigh and sing. A fat grey squirrel came quite near and I fed her half of my sandwich. A cardinal and a jay got in a tussle over a piece the squirrel dropped. A butterfly landed on my backpack.

I had brought the Grotten Brown with me and I took it out with my half sandwich for lunch. I looked at the Grotten Brown. I looked at my half sandwich. I looked at the Grotten Brown.

This was the moment of decision.

I put the brown back in the bag.

I would stay.

I cut my initials into the bark of an old birch and named the lookout 'Point Decidere'. I was going to have to leave soon if I was to make it back to the cottage by dark.

After a quick lunch I wandered back down, stopping frequently to pick up and examine interesting rocks and bugs and mushrooms and leaves.

I arrived completely cured of the Boredom.

Interestingly enough, I found this quote from Spencer:

"The cure for boredom is curiosity. There is no cure for curiosity."
-Ellen Parr

I don't know who Ellen Parr is, but I think she's right. Curiosity.

Curiosity and Love.