Six Years Ago: A Memory

It is so quiet today that I can hear a leaf falling and settling on the ground. Here, in my bare bones cabin, there is no internet, TV or even a radio, nor any near neighbor that might want to catch me up on the latest news. My first morning on this Maine woods retreat was spent trying to get a finicky wood stove going, then tending the fire, making soup and reading under several layers of blankets. After that it seemed like a good time for a nap. Later, I took a walk as the afternoon sunlight softened to an amber glow.  The following five days went pretty much the same way, including a lot of time quietly meditating and staring into the mesmerizing flames.

My cabin has minimal heat in addition to the wood stove, the bed is comfortable with a big down quilt and there is a scanty but adequate kitchen. And so, although I didn’t build my shelter nor am I cooking over an open fire and hauling my water up from the pond, to a certain extent, I came to the woods for reasons similar to the Concord philosopher who spent two years at Walden Pond… “ because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach…” (Henry David Thoreau)

So then, what did I learn from my sojourn in the Maine woods?

I learned that, if I walk mindfully and attentively, I might see a rabbit’s head in a rock;

or, in a splintered stump, a wolf’s ears, a dark eye looking and a snout sniffing for the scent of prey (maybe the rock rabbit!);

and even a fat snake wrapped around a fallen tree .

I learned that, when I was quiet, I could hear a leaf flutter and fall to the ground.

I learned that if I just sat and gazed into the fire, my mind would travel on its own journey.

I learned that even a still pond seems to move as the sunlight casts light and shadow on the water.

I learned that the end of the day is a lovely moment, as the sun sinks slowly behind the hills then blooms into a pink and orange sky.

Simple, daily, ordinary things. It was enough.