Late April

My suitcase is still sitting on the floor, unpacked from a trip to San Antonio to celebrate my birthday, when I went into Houston to stay with Justin for the weekend while my brother and his wife were out of town. Two days after my return, the suitcase is again sitting on the floor unpacked. When I arrived home, I immediately throw myself into gardening and personal projects that have stacked up.

Particularly when I return from the city, I am overwhelmed with an endless list of things to do in home and garden, including getting my head back into a writing mode. I finally come up with a system to help me plow through them. I allow myself thirty minutes on each task—and I stick to it. I set the timer: thirty minutes to read mail, pay bills, unload the car, unpack my bag, water herb garden and peach trees, read a chapter in my new Miracle Brain book. The method enables me to focus consciously on each task without worrying whether I am going to get it done or not. Even tasks that seemed awesome easily get completed in a few days. Then I have all afternoon to read through the latest chapter of my manuscript.

As I settle back into my routine, I realize how much my state of being is affected by my environ-ment. When I am in someone else’s home, I totally lose all sense of my self and my projects. Even if I have such a simple task as proofreading one chapter, I never manage to get it done. Yet the longer I am in the country, the more I feel detached from the goings on in the city. When in the city, I hear no word that contains any substance, any wisdom, any caring. It reminds me of what I say about my adolescence: No one ever uttered a single word of wisdom to me. Was it their fault they had none?

I finally have to face how important environment is for me to be creative. My brother’s house is so full of the activities of their life, there is no space for me. I feel as if I am in a foreign country where I don’t speak the language. I can get a few minutes conversation out of my brother when I’m talking about nature at the farm, particularly the butterflies. Of course, he’s most interested in the ranch projects. I often leave town with a list of tasks for Billy and me to tackle. My brother’s welcome to me is always consistent, “Did you feed the horse?” and his parting words are always the same, “Don't forget to feed the horse.” Although the words are rather patriarchal, I have been just accepting them. I am beginning to wonder if there is some message that I am missing.

It’s interesting because, if I were to be in a more congenial environment, I would not be made aware of my limitations to express and be my authentic self when I am with others. Am I becoming too attached to my solitude—my private world of thoughts ideas imaginations? Certainly, I would like to be able to take my woods’ consciousness to the city. Suddenly, it dawns on me: I have never once thought that I would like to take my city mind to the country!

I have no intention of rejecting the material world. If I wanted to do that I could have easily lived in India. I chose to accept the challenge of balancing all parts of me. I want to align with the whole Me that accepts and dances with both my peaceful inner self and active outer self.

Writing about my life and interests seems to be the place where the two parts of me seep into each other. Isn’t my writing for an external audience an act of the worldly me? Although sometimes I’m not aware I am writing for others, I feel the need to express my thoughts just for the sake of expression. I feel I am attempting to communicate what I am thinking and experiencing for my own under-standing in my unending quest for Life.

I tend to classify myself between the city me and the country me, but the truth is even here at the farm, I am always working to balance my activities. I do experience a conflict when I spend too much time in the garden, so obviously I value the writing I am doing. I wonder which activity is truer to the real me. I began to suspect that the answer is neither. While I definitely feel connected and expanded when I am in the garden, I also write from that same state of consciousness. That’s why I can’t write if I wear myself out in the garden.

To unravel from my preoccupation with all the gardening tasks that have sprung up in my absence, I decide to go down to the pond. I’m never at the pond at midday. I certainly find it quieter than usual; the frogs and crickets are silent. Sitting on the shady sandy bank, I put my feet in the water while sipping the hot tea that I brought along in a thermos. The occasional call of one bird, queeouh, queeouh, queeouh, is the only sound I can hear. From the other side of the pond, another bird answers with the same plain notes. Then I spot the redheaded woodpeckers flitting around looking for bugs in the bark of the pine trees.

Although it’s a warm day, I shiver as I gradually slip into the cool water until I am submerged waist deep. Although I really wish it were a bit warmer, my body soon adjusts and accepts the cool liquid. My mind wanders for a while, taking in the scenery. Then I begin to think of Thoreau.

In my spare time, I have continued reading his Walden, a work I can never measure up to. I have become so fascinated with him that I checked out a book with biographical sketches of all the major Transcendentalists from Concord. I was intrigued to find out that Thoreau was having lots of epiphanies while he was hanging out in the woods. He was more descriptive about that part of his life in his journal than in Walden. Get this one:

The strains of the aeolian harp and of the wood thrush... lifts us up in spite of ourselves... It, as it were, takes me out of my body and gives me the freedom of all bodies and all nature. I leave my body in a trance and accompany the zephyr and the fragrance.

Wow, so that’s why he went to the woods! As I think of Thoreau, I lie back and behold the wide blue sky. As I think of those of us who would attempt to follow in his footsteps, tears blot out the blueness. It’s not that he neglected the world, he regularly wrote and lectured. Although it turned out to be an unsuccessful venture, he started a school. He also kept a botanical journal of all the plants in all the regions he visited. It was an awesome task. The world has so much potential for so many wonderful activities.