It was a non-decision. I didn’t intentionally stop blogging. I just stopped blogging. I didn’t plan or expect to be gone for months. I just inadvertently wandered away and didn’t wander back. It was not a formal end to my blogging experiment; it was just a comfortable drop into timeless obscurity – no need to report, respond, meet a deadline (real or fabricated), no opinions, no judgments. Just easy being.
Other lovers of solitude might understand this. I’m quite certain there’s many a hermit out there who did not make a conscious decision to stop or limit contact with the world, but who just wandered off and didn’t wander back.
But, I admit, it really was fairly rude on my part to just drop off the end of the bloggosphere without explanation, and I do apologize to subscribers or other frequent visitors who wondered what happened.
Nothing happened. I was not eaten by a bear. I just went about my hermit business and stopped communicating.
I think it started with the acquisition of a new computer. The transition from Windows XP to Windows 7 required a lot more time-consuming administrative manipulation than I was happy about. Until that purchase, I was actually almost ready to bite-the-bullet and get myself a smart phone. But the Windows 7 debacle turned me off. I started staying away from my computer (other than for essential business). I started questioning why on earth would I want a smart phone so I could communicate everywhere and all the time.
As I said, I didn’t make a conscious decision to stop surfing & blogging & tweeting, I just let my body make the decision for me. And my body decided to prioritize silence, serenity, peace, reading books, contemplation, meditation in nature, watching fall fall and winter close in - all with a spacious enough routine to easily adjust to nature’s rhythms – every day finding the time to partake of that other grand connectedness that has nothing to do with words and others and the internet.
I’d forgotten how much I love that disconnected connection. It’s so damned peaceful.
Griz and I are fine. We’ve learned a few new tricks – most associated with the truism that the key to healthy aging is good energy management – inward and outward. Our middle-aged cats have perfected this lesson. They spend more time napping and less time outdoors, especially in cold weather. But the length of their naps in no way diminishes the intensity of their playful moments, the lustre of their coats, or the profound depth of their melodious, loving purrs.
Tools-n-Gizmos is perking right along. It might be perking along almost too well for a two-person operation in which both persons would like to define themselves as “semi-retired.” But if Tools-n-Gizmos is any indication, our economy must be improving. People are buying the tooling with which to build things. And Griz and I are still having fun with it; and when you can combine income-generation with laughter, it doesn’t feel that much like work.
But the nicest thing about just being in timeless obscurity is this: it is remarkably angst-free. There’s a spaciousness in this quiet observation point that allows me to watch world events and reflect on them without the need to judge, take sides or necessarily even react. Even though I voted, I was able to watch all that vituperative mid-term election noise without letting it bother me (much). Even the paradigm-shifting Wikileaks-square-off between secrecy and transparency seems more like a profound natural evolution than the frightening Armageddon many try to make it. Without such dualities, how would we recognize non-duality, let alone aspire to it?
Perhaps I’ve become more mystical in my retreat into silence – or not. I still read just as much fun fiction as philosophical prose. Most recently I entertained myself with Michael Crichton’s bawdy, swashbuckler Pirate Latitudes, then switched just as happily to Alan Watts’ profoundly beautiful (and surprisingly, often comically entertaining) The Book: On the Taboo Against Knowing Who you Truly Are.
It’s that balance thing, you know. Philosophy should really only evolve from a life of living, not just theorizing. We learn about life by living it, enjoying it, making mistakes, and surviving the ups and down. We learn to transcend the drudgery of life by redefining drudgery as something else. Realization may be nothing more than the the simple acknowledgement that the definitions are all up to each of us.
And then there’s mortality – which steps in and slaps you in the face no matter in what happy place you think you’ve landed. We just learned today that my sister’s husband died last evening – suddenly, without warning, with no serious pre-existing condition. After a wonderful, laughter-filled day with his wife of 38 years, a good dinner, and a start of the evening’s home movie, John just quietly slumped into his recliner and slipped away. The EMT’s tried hard, but John left. The gentleness of his departure in no way diminishes the trauma.
I know my sister is a strong, competent woman and she will be fine – eventually. But throughout this no-mascara day of doing what must be done, saying what must be said; the sharp grief of first notices with periodic, spontaneous eyeball leakage; and, because of our loss, absorption in a deep empathy for everyone else’s losses everywhere; I must never forget that some things don’t reside in my treasured haven of timelessness.
Total retreat from the truly human connections is rarely an option. The human connections include time, touch, communication, reporting, and responding. Time is the journey through which we travel together. The concept of timelessness is a real stretch when the stomach feels hollowed out by the pain of a wounded heart.
Some things, like profound loss, can only be conquered through the passage of time. For those of us who loved John, this will be Day 1 of that particular passage.
Always strive to treat your loved ones as though it is their last day on earth – or your last day on earth.
