December Days

As I live in solitude, I gradually begin to realize that, although I have a great collection of experiences to show for my life, having lived in places as varied as Manhattan, Madrid, Bombay and Norwich, Vermont, my daily life has been continually dictated by an external reality. Though it's true, I have carefully avoided a job that usurped my life, the necessities of financial resources, the expectations of a family, the necessity of living and dealing with other people—to a great extent my experience has still been limited to the demands the external world has made on me.

Who would I be without those demands? What would I do if I lived from my internal reality? The longer I am away from any external expectations, the more I get a more expanded view of myself. As I observe the passing cycles of day and night, I begin to feel rhythms in my daily life. Day by day I take pleasure in the slow conscious welcoming of the day, the activity through the daylight hours, then the settling into myself at the quiet time of evening.

I am always aware of the beginning of the evening when the sun sinks behind the trees, sending long fingers of shadows across the meadow. There is always about thirty minutes between the time the sun sets and when the sky becomes dark. This time of day can be so quiet that the silence is startling. Only an occasional cheep-cheep of a bird as it settles on its roost accents the tranquil area.

When the last wisp of pink has disappeared from the sky, I go inside to perform my evening ritual by lighting a couple of candles and some fragrant incense. I leave all the lights off during this time, so I can be aware of the slow fading of light. Then I sit quietly for awhile in meditation, feeling gratitude for my world, for my day, and for myself. This action completes the rhythm of this day: a conscious acknowledgment of the passing of the light and a welcoming of the repose of the night.

For some unknown reason, this evening I just start meditating automatically. Maybe it's because I allowed myself to be free of "productive" activity the whole day, for I spent the day in the woods. I relax as the sweetness of an expanded consciousness encompasses me. Of course, my having time to be quiet makes these moments possible.

The following day, the air is thick with fog. I've learned that this means it's going to be another warm day. On these days, I can get some exercise by digging around the deck. First I pry out the specimens that I know are weeds. There are burrs, briars and that awful plant that has prickly leaves with a milky sap, plus lots of clumps of weedy grasses. Tucked among all these tough specimens is a carpet of little green plants that I imagine are going to be lovely wildflowers in the spring. I carefully preserve them, as I dig out the weedy stuff around them. To fill up the bare spots left by the weed excavation, I start transplanting the violets I found by the pond.

Gradually, I find numerous potential wildflowers and start moving them to a shady garden, so I can watch them grow and thereby identify each variety. I am transplanting on faith, for I don't know what anything is. The fragile plants have to be transplanted during their dormant season and during cool weather. Using this technique, I even had good luck with my native wildflower garden in hot dry Arizona.

The old barn at the back of the pond meadow is full of composted manure, so old that it has turned to dust. Every evening I walk down to scoop up a couple of buckets to spread on the wild flowers around the deck. Carrying two buckets, I make a slow trip over the long haul back across the meadow. Sometimes I pause when I see an interesting looking plant to dig and transplant—before the horse eats it.

As I trudge across the meadow with the loaded buckets just as darkness snuggles around the woods I experience a real sense of connection with humanity's past. I think of all the persons who have made their way home after a long day of working in the earth. What a satisfaction they must have felt to have touched the soil, planted their crops and cared for their animals. It gives me a air of contentment to have a connection with their reality. These feelings enhance the warmth in my heart, which seems to be waking up with the joy of being alive and vital.

Continually I am seeing myself in a wider perspective. I am beginning to feel a part of something very grand, very ancient and very wise. By the time I reach the house, the forest has become shrouded in a thick fog. I'll see no stars again tonight.

Completing my evening ritual of lighting candles and incense, I acknowledge the end of another day. Afterwards, in spite of the cold air, I decide to take a revitalizing shower to clear myself of any farm debris. Since the old-fashioned bathroom only has a bathtub, a shower has been built on the deck. By the time I've grabbed a towel and hit the deck, the mist has crept right up to the deck's edge, enveloping my little world with a mystical atmosphere. The walls of the open-air stall are only five feet high, so I can enjoy viewing the surrounding sky while refreshing myself. Before I am able to turn the water on, a cold chill shimmies up my back. However, as soon as I'm immersed in the hot steaming spray, the cold air becomes tolerable.

The well water here has a distinct sulfur odor, or stated simply, a rotten egg smell. If I were not such an aficionado of natural hot springs, the odor would have been offensive. Tonight I find it brings back pleasant memories of former starlit soakings. The surrounding moist mist continues to settle until I can see only a few feet around me. Yet, a soft glow scintillates through the dark space—making it seem vibrant and inviting. A smile spreads across my face as I feel myself enshrouded in this warm luminous cocoon in the cold dark void of night. My head feels light as I soak up this fascinating new world. I think we humans like different realities.