Craving Boredom

I must be the only person on earth who craves boredom. By boredom I mean nothing going on, no where to go, nothing to do, no entertainment, no distractions. I mean Mayberry. I mean rural after supper checkers on the porch, if I can get up the necessary gumption to play checkers. If I can't get up the gumption, I mean sitting on the porch swing creating my own breeze by flexing and unflexing my ankle against the floorboards. Concentrating on that, and that alone.

I would like to get good and bored.

Maybe I need to check myself into a monastery somewhere and live like a monk.With the right haircut and cassock, no one would have to know my gender, which is irrelevant anyway for a monk, I would think. I could harvest honey from beehives in the morning then appear in the rectory midafternoon to sing Gregorian chants before retiring with the sun. A nun's life, by contrast, would probably be too exciting for what I am after. Monk or nun? A ridiculous question, since I am not Catholic.

But I want stillness, periods of solitude.

My fantasies about being a hermit go back to junior high, when I was sent to the school library while my class went over a test I had not taken. I pulled a book off the shelf written by a woman who had passed some time living alone in some northern place that was frozen a large part of the year. Her story was illustrated with photographs of wood piles, a rough-hewn lean to, and a small vegetable garden. Perhaps because of what I was going through at that time (the dissolution of my family), her lifestyle appealed to me. She faced danger, yes, but no conflict and no emotion outside of herself. I wish I could remember the name of the book or its author.

In high school, I romanticized Henry David Thoreau, whose life on Walden Pond sounded ideal to me. In an effort to get the attention of my father, I wrote to him that I was contemplating running away to Canada with my married high school English teacher to live "the Walden experience." No response from Dad, but it was a fun fantasy.

By the time I took American Literature in college, my thoughts on Thoreau had changed. After learning that he had only lived on Walden Pond for two years, and that he walked into Concord almost daily for social interaction, I opined aloud in a class discussion that Thoreau might be considered a charleton, a fraud. My professor quickly condemned that suggestion. I now understand that, like me, Thoreau enjoyed civilization and human interaction while carving out a life of natural simplicity as an individual. I guess that's what I am trying to do also, 150 years later, in suburban 2015 America.

Later as a mom, while visiting my convalescing father in Arizona, I bought a book called "Woodswoman" by Anne Labastille. It's her memoir about living in a cabin she built on a lake in the Adirondack wilderness. For me, it's fascinating reading. I can't explain why, since I have never seriously considered living a wilderness lifestyle myself and I'm not overjoyed about camping, preferring nice hotels. It isn't the reality of this hermit lifestyle I admire -- it's the idea of it -- the utter rejection of civilization, the utter strength and fearlesslness of the individual, the triumph of fitting back into nature and thriving there.

Just yesterday, prompted by a post on Facebook, I reread the story of the North Pond Hermit, a man who lived alone for 27 years in some Maine woods, venturing out on moonless nights to break into uninhabited cabins in search of food, clothes, propane, batteries and books -- the essentials of living. For almost three decades locals had swapped stories that most people did not quite believe. Many thought the thief was a figment of their collective imagination, like the Yetti or Sasquatch, but he was finally caught, and he was apologetic, saying that he had only taken what he needed, but that he knew it was wrong. In 27 years he had not spoken a word to anyone except to say "Hi" to a hiker he encountered once in the woods. When captured, he said he had almost forgotten his own name, because his name had been irrelevant in the woods. (Pictured: his camp)

That story linked to another story of an entire family of hermits in Siberia who were discovered by geologists four decades after fleeing religious persecution as an "Old Believer" Russian orthodox family.Two of the four children had never seen a human being outside of their immediate family; the older two did not remember seeing any other human beings. The clothes and provisions they had taken with them into the wilderness had long since given out. Starvation eventually claimed the mother, who had fed her children before herself. One year they were almost out of useful seeds to plant a garden, but they were able to get one rye seed to sprout, which they quickly fenced, checking on it many times per day until it grew, giving them 36 seeds for the next growing season. A boy in the family hunted barefoot in the winter chasing game until they were worn out, then carrying them home for supper.

Russian television made three documentaries about this family, and by the time they were done, all of them were dead except one daughter, who chose to remain in their cabin in Siberia and live out the rest of her life.

Years ago I realized that I love wild animals -- I am absolutely fascinated by them. I guess I am fascinated by wild people, too, and maybe the part of my spirit that may be wild, too, in the purest, truest sense of the word.



Story about the North Pond Hermit:
http://www.gq.com/story/the-last-true-hermit

Story about the Russian Orthodox family:
http://www.smithsonianmag.com/ist/?next=/history/for-40-years-this-russian-family-was-cut-off-from-all-human-contact-unaware-of-world-war-ii-7354256/

I'm Baaaaaaaack! and It's SpRiNg!

I disappeared again because I couldn't access my blog. I can't tell you how frustrating it's been trying to find a way to get back on! Especially since Blogger does not post any contact information.

Anyway, ahhhhhhh. It's nice to be home again at Writerathome.blogspot.com

We are in the midst of my favorite Utah season, SPRING. (Elsewhere and generally speaking, autumn is my favorite, but in Utah spring is best.) It's been unusually rainy this spring after an exceptionally dry and almost snowless winter. Resevoirs are full for now, though draught will likely be a problem this summer without much snowpack. But this isn't a weather report and I'm not a meteorologist. Like everyone else in my family, I love inclement weather. In my book, there's nothing more dull than a hot and sunny day without a cloud in the sky. Give me rain, sleet, hail, snow, thunder, lightning -- anything but hot and sunny weather!

I've noticed how much easier it is this year for the robins in our back yard to pull worms from the soft ground. Everything outdoors is cool and fresh and clean. The only drawback to having so much rain is finding a time when it isn't raining or sopping wet to mow the lawn. Small saplings of quaking aspens have sprung up all over the place, too.

Lush wayside weeds in Heber Valley, Utah:

I love COWS, especially with Mount Timpanogos as a backdrop:

Fear and Dread

Sorry for the dramatic titles of the last two blog posts, but I thought this would be the perfect sequel to "Indecision and Inertia," in which I likened myself to an anvil.

After writing that last piece while my family was out of town, tooling around San Francisco and having a wonderful time on Google bikes, etc., I decided to dedicate a few hours to understanding inertia better. I collected six pages of notes on the subject. My favorite: someone asked an expert,"How do you overcome inertia?" His two word answer was very scientific: "By force."

Armed with a new understanding, I forced myself into motion in my bedroom, which has long been a difficult space for me to organize. I have a lot of heavy pieces of wood furniture there: a corner desk unit (3 parts), a rather tall dresser, two bedside tables, a very large headboard and footboard framing a king size bed, a bookcase, a treadmill, a filing cabinet with a roll top structure above it, and, last but not least, an armoir.

I know what you're thinking: a bedroom should only be for sleeping and associated acitivities. Get rid of all of that stuff! But it isn't the furniture stuff that was bothering me -- it was the stuff within the stuff, like clothes I never wear, other family members' clothes that need mending or hemming, etc. etc.

I've cleaned and organized this space many, many times over the years, only to watch it deteriorate into chaos again. But I am apparently a master at repacking. I take everything out and put everything back in...instead of tossing everything that should be tossed. Oh, I'm not a hoarder! (Doth I protest too much?) Really, I am not, but I must be really good at sorting and putting away, so that it looks neat and tidy, for a while at least. I amaze myself sometimes with how much content I can condense into a small space.


So this time, recognizing that my room in general and my closet in particular were areas that awakened within me fear and dread, I took courage and plunged in. It took me a couple of hours to convince myself to do this, picturing in my mind the image of a giant train rusted to an unused stretch of track.It took a tremendous amount of force to turn the wheels an inch, four inches, one complete rotation, the track groaning, the train grinding and heaving. After I had been going a while, and could see the carpeted floor of the closet, I actually used a garden rake (the kind with flexible steel tines) to gather bits and pieces from the closet floor. (A certain daughter has been using this cloistered space for some time as a sleeping/reading/snacking place.) I employ unorthodox methods sometimes when cleaning house.

I had to reach a stopping point that night -- it was not to be a one day project. I have returned to it twice since. But the train is in motion. I have broken through the inertia, at least in that one area. And I am giving things I never use the heave-ho this time. Why store it in the unlikely event I will ever need it again? Part of having faith in the future is letting go of the artifacts of the past.

Everything in life analogous to something else. Lessons everywhere!

Indecision and Inertia

January...a month 'pregnant' with possibilities, an  'expectant' new year...Where best to spend my time?

Indecision has been the boon of my existence in recent weeks, months...years? Since turning 50, I have been frantically warming up for something, but I am not at all sure what it is. I puzzle over this every day, occasionally working myself up to a mild level of enthusiasm for this plan or that.

It feels like I am waiting by myself at the starting line of a one-woman marathon. The gun signaling the beginning of the race sounded hours ago in the distance, almost beyond my consciousness. I was not aware of it until moments later, when I recognized its meaning. I am having a delayed reaction, but I am still running in place for all of the reasons a runner might run in place: to keep my muscles warm and supple, to psyche myself up, to visualize a course of action leading to victory. This constant state of agitation and anticipation has resulted, inevitably, in  frustration, because I am inert. I am not a marathon runner. I more closely resemble a giant anvil on a pier that is used to hoist ships from water. There is really nothing more inert than that.

Maybe I am in the doldrums of life, adrift at sea without power and without wind. Unwilling to propel myself toward a hospitable port somewhere by paddling, I float along, hoping not to be overtaken by pirates or have my vessel toppled in a storm. The current, though slow, will carry me somewhere, and I will be on a new adventure.

First Take on Friday, January 9th

After not writing anything on this blog for almost a year, I truly hope to write every day going forward as a daily stretching exercise for my writing. Subject matter will be the issue -- what will I find to write about every day? Well, there's always something.

I just watched U.S. Senator Barbara Boxer's "interview" conducted by her grandson announcing her retirement and I was struck by one quote: "I have a thousand accomplishments." What must that feel like?

We are still in the single digits for January and Christmas has been put away. The tree and all its trimmings, our burgeoning collection of nutcrackers, our village, our santa shelf, the wreaths and garlands...all safely stowed in the basement ready for, well, later this year. It's nice to have my house back. It always feels much larger when Christmas is gone.

Today I am excited about (of all things!) polishing our piano. It's a 118-year-old concert grand, 7 and a half feet long, made of rosewood with elaborately carved legs -- absolutely beautiful, but severely neglected. It is played on a daily basis, but it is so large and so old it really needs its own maintenance schedule. I wonder if Barbara Boxer would consider polishing the piano an accomplishment? Probably not.

Mrs. Sanders Has Been Found!

I have not looked at my blog (this blog) for several months, but when I went to look at it tonight, I saw that a comment had been received and was awaiting my approval to post. Frequently, such comments are from non-English speaking cons in other parts of the world who want me to invest or think we may be related, etc. so I am used to reporting them as spam and moving on, but tonight...and every night since Nov. 27th, apparently...there was a comment by (or at least about) my all-time favorite teacher, Mrs. Ann Sanders. I've been searching for her for decades now to thank her for being such a HUGE part of my life.

The comment said that my "beloved" Mrs. Sanders is now Dr. Sanders, and she is the assistant superintendent of the Kansas City, Missouri School District. With that information, I soon found an article praising her many accomplishments before, during, and after my eighth grade year, when she taught Social Studies at Broadmoor Jr. High in Overland Park, Kansas. She was fantastic! (I encourage you to read my earlier post in this blog about my quest to find her. Another of her former students found my post and joined my quest.)

So, for the moment at least, all is right with the world. Just knowing that Mrs. Sanders is out there and that she is still involved in education makes me happy. If all teachers could be as informed, as enthusiastic, as respectable, as professional, and as demanding as Mrs. Sanders, we would have the best education system in the world, bar none.