hermit's thatch

About two weeks ago, a family of black bears appeared, perhaps winter residents of the woodland behind us. Mother and three cubs. I wrote something about them on May 11. They would come daily for food, water, and frolic, even at midday on the day of the fire. So you can imagine our distress when the fire broke out very near their presumed den, and spread quickly in that back woodlot. Knowing that cubs climb trees in danger, and that between fire and firefighters the bears would be in a panic, and perhaps trapped there … A firefighter claimed to have seen the bears up a tree. We didn’t know what to think. After a few hours, the fire was out but the blackened 30 acres were rather grim, as were our hopes that the bears had survived. We steeled ourselves for the sad loss, frustrated further by our being unable to verify what we didn’t want to learn. A day, then another, passed. No bears.

Then they were back! The mother and three cubs! They spent the afternoon in the front yard, all captured in photos. It was as if to confirm to us: “We’re alright!” When they left, it was to head not south, where their old habitat had been, but north. Perhaps we will not see them again. Their range is enormous, scores of miles. But we were gifted with their presence and are forever grateful!

It has been a week now since a harrowing fire on and around the property devastated 30 acres of woodland. A lightning strike at about 4 in the afternoon was the cause. The house and most immediate environs was spared (we are on about 3 acres) but about half of the property, all woodland of pine and native trees, a beautiful slough, and thick wilderness habitat, were consumed. To make matters worse, firefighters these days assume that houses are the only property to save, ignoring the fact that beautiful woodland is not only owned by somebody and therefore also property, but it is not just so much expendable thatch. Instead it was allowed to burn. At least there is a 30 foot buffer to the back of the property and the other two sides were spared, but the horizon of blackened pine and red-brown needles (as if a grotesque autumnal scene) remains.

I hope to post pictures, when I have a chance. The next entry up is about the bears …

Not yet a full moon but the brightness of night is wonderfully evocative. At midnight, the dark house glows in the moon’s silver light, and outside the shadows dim and the outlines of trees and shrubs sharpen a little. Pointing to the moon we see the source of light and no longer need the finger, goes the proverb. And seeing with the moon we no longer need the flashlight to take out the dog at 1 a.m.

Over several days now, both parent black bears (mother and father) and their three cubs are visiting repeatedly — just when the bird feeders and sources of water are quite full (and, er, maintained). The cubs fit the stereotypes: one frisky, one imitative, one (the thinnest) clinging timorously to its parent. When the parent is busy eating, all the cubs roam (they are clearly nursing yet). Several times they have scrambled up pine trees to amazing heights, until the parent turned for a safety check and ordered them to descend. In another instance, the frisky cub managed to wedge himself into a bucket of water, looking photogenic. We have lots of pictures, and I hope to post them soon.

Such sights are rare today as habitat encroachment and plain chance diminish our expectation of seeing nature as it is or was. It is a gift, as much as any birdsong or sunrise.

One of the starker decrees of culture is expressed in the biblical Leviticus 13: 46, concerning anyone with leprosy: “He shall live alone; his dwelling shall be outside the camp.” Whether this was literal concerning sufferers of Hanson’s Disease, or is taken metaphorically to represent sin, cultures have always seen “living alone, outside the camp” to be the worse fate anyone can suffer. Enforced solitude is society’s tool for dealing with a criminal, dissenter, the diseased, or those it simply treats as different. Hence the potential solitary — who is already a solitary in his heart — must realize that, from society’s point of view, he/she is entering the company of outcasts.

While pursuing the mundane task of weeding the garden and grounds the other day, I recalled a comment (somewhere) that the abbot of a Zen monastery would reserve the most tedious tasks to himself, specifically weeding the garden, which has to be performed rather meticulously in order to be performed perfectly and could not be left to novices. Of course, the urge to yank weeds (leaving roots for another round) or to just get the easy or obvious ones is tempting. The point of the story is to apply mindfulness to one’s life. If we go for easy faults or yank some faults while leaving the roots, we have not worked mindfully. We have accomplished nothing. But we will always have another chance.

No sooner did I put a bamboo pole in the flowerbed to prop up a very large sunflower than a cardinal alit on the pole. A flash of brilliant red, and then it was gone. The contrast of colors was striking. What a beautiful moment!

Thomas Merton is much beloved by many, reflecting the evolution of his thought, precocious for American readers, to be sure. What is unique about his writings is the combination of a contemporary and informed critique of society combined with an undisguised defense of not only monasticism but also solitude and eremitism. This is one part of the “contradictory” nature of Merton — the more benign part. The other part is the extrovert thriving on writing, talking, planning, “engaging,” and yet the solitary, a contradiction observed by his own fellow monks as well as outside observers. (Entry revised May 12).

Reading Kenneth Rexroth’s complete poetry book. I am interested in style and technique, the expression of sentiment, not so much content. I first encountered Rexroth in his Classics Revisited and More Classics Revisited. Then it was the Chinese and Japanese translations, which critics say is more faithful to his feelings than to the originals. But that element of personal sentiment is important and makes his translations very good poetry. Rexroth is a neo-classicist, not a modernist, meaning that he runs everything through the classics (Greek/Latin, French/English, Chinese/Japanese). This despite his radicalism in other areas of thought. On top of that he probably does capture Tu Fu better than a transliteration.

The front of the hut is covered with sunflowers … well, not covered, perhaps, but enough of them, with enough space to allow them to grow large. I take no credit: the seeds fell from feeders, scattered by birds — and squirrels and raccoons. I am sure that if I had tried to plant and grow them myself, I would have failed. A perfect example of wu-wei.