The wordiness of life has been bugging me more than usual lately.

It’s been almost six weeks since I’ve written anything for this blog and I have to confess there were moments when I seriously considered abandoning the endeavor.  I’ve talked about these phases before. The unusual element this time is I abandoned other writing as well.

Initially I thought it was just my standard hermit reaction to a recent surge of activity with Tools-n-Gizmos.com, our online business. I’ve always been someone who seeks quiet in response to the noise of making-a-living – I suspect it’s a recuperative balancing act necessary for many introverts.

But business has leveled off (for some reason it always does as summer approaches), and my psyche is still predominated by a very specific contemplative thread on the value-of-quiet vs. the silliness-of-CHATTER. Even when out “conducting business” my people-watching is repeatedly drawn to others’ noisy exchanges of (to me) useless irrelevancies – a large part of many conversations it seems. Then I reflect on the potential irrelevancy (to others) of my own chatter. I apologize if this post is rapidly becoming a self-fulfilling demonstration.

Maybe it’s a life phase thing based on the over accumulation of redundant verbal experiences.  Buddy Kathy and I did one of our periodic art studio tours a couple of weeks ago. Since then, I’ve felt restlessly drawn to re-prioritize painting over writing. I am only a recreational painter and my attraction to painting has less to do with artistic inspiration and more to do with exploring  the wordless – fresh reflective ground. Quiet reflective ground.

Or perhaps it’s just that when us quiet types quiet down, we ultimately seek absolute zero. The call to and need for silence may be the basic hermit motivation. The lucky among us have arranged our lives to accommodate that need, at least periodically.  I keep coming back to Thomas Merton’s words at the end of the short video I posted about him:

“This solitude confirms my call to solitude. The more I’m in it, the more I love it. One day it will possess me entirely and no man will ever see me again.”

I’ve already discovered something by writing this much:  just as talking-about-love is not the same as love, talking-about-quiet is not the same as quiet.

I’ll keep you posted – I think.

Although, I hadn’t read all of Parker’s books, once I discovered Parker through his more recent works, I started picking up his earlier books when I saw them at used bookstores or garage sales, or to round out an Amazon order. Since I had most of them on hand already, news of Parker’s death prompted me to go back and start at the beginning of the Spenser series – The Godwulf Manuscript, (c) 1973. So for the past couple of months, I’ve just kept on through the entire Spenser series, in chronological order. It’s been extremely enjoyable – even rereading those I’d read quite recently.

Though each novel is written to stand alone as a crime novel, like most series in the mystery genre, a repertory of prime characters continues throughout. Apparently, the Spenser series is the most autobiographical of Parker’s works, and there’s an intimacy and authenticity in the evolution of these particular characters which shines through.

The main character, Spenser, is an intelligent, literate, ex-prizefighter, ex-cop turned private investigator – a tough, good-guy, wise-cracking thug with a big heart and who loves to cook. His long-time girlfriend, Susan Silverman, is a psychologist. The other most-constant character is Spenser’s best friend, Hawk – another ex-fighter toughie with noble intent – though Hawk’s activities and motivations often wander deeper into the realm of  illegal than his buddy Spenser’s.

As a psychology buff, I am naturally fond of Parker’s use of the dialog between Spenser and his psychologist- true-love, Susan, to effectively interject psychological elements into the resolution of each mystery. Parker often uses the same vehicle to comment on timely or newsworthy issues.

Within the gestalt of reading all of these books in rapid succession, I particularly enjoyed the dialog and evolution of the relationship between Spenser and Silverman as a reflective chronicle of the evolution of masculine and feminine stereotypes through some of the the most turbulent times of the feminist movement. As in life, there are no permanent or pat resolutions to the difficulties that surface, but, in my opinion, Parker did an excellent job showing us that the differences between men and women are as vital and important as our equalities. The Spenser-Silverman relationship flourishes because each honors the other’s individuality with compassion and a willingness to listen (plus a healthy thread of sexual intimacy).

It may have been coincidence, but repeatedly when purchasing Parker’s books, or reading them in public, I had women comment to me at how much their husbands or boyfriends liked Parker’s books. I hope this is not an accurate indicator of the ratio of Parker’s female fans. If so, it’s a shame, really. Though Robert B. Parker’s male protagonists are often violent and always extremely masculine, I perceive Parker’s message as, in many ways, strongly feminist.

Looking for Rachel Wallace, written in 1980, was a particularly pleasant surprise. I’m sure it was considered quite provocative when originally published.  The book juxtaposes Spenser’s competent, extreme masculinity against the radical feminist rhetoric of open lesbian, Rachel Wallace, who Spenser is tasked with protecting, and ultimately rescuing (using lethal violence) when she is kidnapped after firing Spenser. When thanking Spenser for the rescue, Wallace states: “You still embody much that I must continue to disparage. I still disapprove of you.”

Spenser’s reply: “Rachel, how could I respect anyone who didn’t disapprove of me?”  Rachel Wallace shows up briefly in later books as an valuable ally and friend to Spenser.

The character, Spenser, though masculine to the max, is likable, lovable and heroic – a life well-written.

Robert B. Parker’s other mysteries include the Jesse Stone series and the Sunny Randall series. I now plan to go back and read both of those series in chronological order as well. Character evolution through the progression of these series is part of the pleasure.

Robert B. Parker died of a heart-attack at the age 77, while writing at his desk – surely the most heroic kind of exit any writer would hope for.

If you are a Robert B. Parker fan (or even if you’re not), I highly recommend reading the touching, eloquent eulogy by his son, David, which was reprinted in its entirety in The Washington Post.

“Loneliness is like sitting in an empty room and being aware of the space around you. It is a condition of separateness. Solitude is becoming one with the space around you. It is a condition of union. Loneliness is small, solitude is large. Loneliness closes in around you; solitude expands toward the infinite. Loneliness has its roots in words, in an internal conversation that nobody answers; solitude has its roots in the great silence of eternity.”

- Kent Nerburn

via whiskey river

I realize it’s been almost three weeks since I posted.  That probably shouldn’t  bother me or anyone else at this point; though I do wish I hadn’t read all those best-blogging-practices articles before I started this blog. “Three posts per week plus three comments per week on other blogs” always sticks in my mind as the best goal.

Guess we know that’s not gonna happen.

The only difference between this break and others is: I didn’t preplan it – I just let it happen – or not happen.

What can I say:

Spring arrived unexpectedly in January this year so I’ve been outside more – landscape tending and just enjoying.

Been mulling a new book project.

Been indulging in a little traditional January evaluation of my life’s principal elements.

Deep? Nah – more  like deep’s opposite this time:  just being without discussion.

I’ve continued along on Twitter. Follow me there if you’re prone to dire imaginings when I don’t check in.  But other than Griz and the cats, I think I’ve gotten most friends and family trained to tolerate my periodic vanishings.  Haven’t I?

Even Griz and I have mutual consent for periodic unavailability.  And the cats – well, cats are innately autonomous.* I sometimes think their dependency is primarily my perception.

Interestingly, I do value connection and I have learned the blogosphere is about as comfy a connection as you’ll find for us hermits.  On the other hand, I tend to resist obligation (fabricated or otherwise); hence my discomfort with regular posting.

I know resistance to obligation is considered a form of pathology by some.  But these days most nonconformities are considered pathological by someone; and I think acknowledging, accepting and balancing one’s insanities is the key to good mental health for most of us.  So wacko or not, my little problem with obligation is not one of my life’s principal elements I plan to change anytime soon. It’s a part of why I value solitude – I can indulge it without bothering others most of the time.

After all, this is a blog from a hermit.

According to Lao Tzu: “A good traveller has no fixed plan & is not intent on arriving.”

I’ll be back soon.

*ASIDE FOR CAT LOVERS: I was always a dog person in the past. Our two semi-feral cats, Dodge (mother) and Dart (son) are the first cats with whom I’ve cohabited since my childhood.  Now that I’ve become enamored of cats and started to pay attention, I realize defining cats as aloof and autonomous is a generalization.  Cat personalities are as individualistic as human.

When I leave home for 24 hours or more, Dart, our wilder and more routinely-autonomous cat, celebrates my return with unabashed enthusiasm (very similar to the way dogs typically react).  Dodge, the more “civilized” and astutely manipulative cat (some socialization as a kitten), greets my return with initial disdain. She then combines deep purring with intermittent growls and feigned nipping – clearly expressing her pleasure over my return, but simultaneously demonstrating her disapproval of my recent, offensive desertion.

]]> http://blogfromahermit.com/2010/01/19/blogopause-with-aside-of-cat-blogging/feed/ 2 http://blogfromahermit.com/2009/12/06/true-lover-of-solitude/ http://blogfromahermit.com/2009/12/06/true-lover-of-solitude/#comments Mon, 07 Dec 2009 02:20:04 +0000 Trish http://blogfromahermit.com/?p=2882 A poem – one of solitude’s trinkets. Or why I don’t write sometimes -

I often yearn for
The wordless place
Of quiet brushstrokes
And gently rustling nature,
Where falling backward
In total trust
Without direction
Feels as perfect
As its common opposite.
Where the restful process
Of simply being
Is creativity enough.

And this place,
By its simple perfection,
Without judgment, labels,
Goals or true effort
Can transform a nothingness
Into a somethingness
An objet d’art from and for
My unlonely spirit,
At the very least.

Though sometimes it rends
Manifest trinkets
Worth barter or trade
Readmission to the throng,
Symbolizing thereto
A “successful” and reasoned passage
Into and back out
Of Treasured Solitude.

But trinketless passages
To and from
And about the altered state
Between the two
Hold no less
Intrinsic value
For the True Lover
Of Solitude.

- Trish Wareing (c) 2009

Who’d have thought the No. 1 definition of geek at Merriam-Webster Online would be:

1. a carnival performer often billed as a wild man whose act usually includes biting the head off a live chicken or snake

You have to get all the way down to definition No. 3 for:

3. an enthusiast or expert especially in a technological field or activity <computer geek>

Ponder the irony.  How’d the No. 3 definition ever evolve from that No. 1 definition? Just curious.

And, silly me. The reason I  looked it up was I thought maybe the EE in geek had something to do with electrical engineering. (Don’t take offense, Griz, the “technical geek”  is much less derogatory than it used to be – more like a badge of excellence, now.)

There’s lots more on the word “geek” at Wikipedia.

]]> http://blogfromahermit.com/2009/08/31/the-eek-in-geek-biting-heads-off-live-chickens/feed/ 0 http://blogfromahermit.com/2009/06/30/death-is-so-cruel-in-its-ordinariness/ http://blogfromahermit.com/2009/06/30/death-is-so-cruel-in-its-ordinariness/#comments Wed, 01 Jul 2009 03:25:26 +0000 Trish http://blogfromahermit.com/?p=1889 In this week of cascading celebrity mortalities, and the resultant gnashing and wailing by media and fans, I was initially embarrassed that I live in a culture of such profound celebrity worship. But then empathy kicked in.

After all, the families and friends of the celebrities suffer no more or less than the countless other ordinary families who this week must face the loss of a loved one. Premature and unexpected, or the anticipated death of an elder – loss is loss.

Perhaps when we mourn deeply for a celebrity, someone we don’t really know, we’re facing down our terror – practicing for the inevitable death of someone truly close; or perhaps we’re further resolving a grief we already carry. Grief is a necessary and unavoidable part of the human experience, no less real whether we grieve for a close loved one, a beloved pet or a cherished celebrity. We should not judge the validity or import of another person’s grief, but rather remind ourselves of the common path we travel.

This beautiful poem was written by my cousin, Janelle Olney. Janelle was an oncology nurse for many years – not just serving cancer patients, but also counseling their families:

The Letting Go by Janelle Marie Olney

Here you wait, in this room of hissing machines, and whispering loved ones.

Touched by latex covered hands, you open your eyes long enough to say “I’m still here.”

I know you’ll be leaving soon.

On the street below people go about their day, unaware of this unfolding drama that dwarfs their mundane concerns.

Something this momentous should trigger lightning strikes, or cause the very stars to darken in the sky.

But it’s only death come calling.  Stealing in on quiet feet and taking you away.

An empty chair at the table.

An empty pillow on the bed.

An awful empty hole in the hearts of your wife, your children, and those who will always remember you were here.

Death is so cruel in its ordinariness.

People die every day, and two are born to take their place.

But ordinary is not a word that will occur to those whose lives will soon be torn apart by the letting go of you.

Janelle’s loving son, sisters and parents were kind enough to share this poem with us at Janelle’s funeral, three years ago. Janelle’s death was accidental – she was 48 years old.

Rhododendron blooms
Swift, vibrant splendor – then GONE!
This year’s reminder.

Most of our rhododendrons are pretty shabby this year as a result of our unusually tough winter. They’ll all need a careful pruning after bloom.

Blossoms on the reds seem particularly short-lived. One rainfall and they’re past prime – and this is Western Washington, after all, so you know what that means. I bemoan their fleeting glory every year – hence, this morning’s haiku. I think the bees prefer the reds, too. They work feverishly – knowing only NOW!

I am continually impressed with the profound beauty and depth of his posts (and pages). I highly recommend his blog to anyone with a contemplative streak, with or without religious affiliation.

Whether you are true eremite (like Mike), or more of a half-time hermit (like me), I think Mike’s reflections on the value of solitude and integral practice will resonate with spiritual truth.

“Considerable evidence indicates that climate in the Puget Sound region is cyclical, with maxima (warm, dry periods) and minima (cold, wet periods) occurring at decadal intervals[....] Mantua et al. (1997) and Hare and Mantua (2000) evaluated relationships between interdecadal climate variability and fluctuations in the abundance and distribution of marine biota.”

Maxima?… Minima?…Biota? Can’t decide if these sound more like feminine hygiene products or dance moves. I’ll forgive the author if he speaks English as a second or third language. Just so much easier to say:

Puget Sound climate alternates between warm, dry periods and cold wet periods at about 10-year cycles. The cycles impact the abundance and distribution of marine life.

(Footnotes are always great for crediting the researchers.)

In the mid-1980′s, I worked briefly for a firm which held a large editorial contract for NOAA. The task was to clean-up and translate the written work of a number of federally-funded “principal investigators” who were out roaming the Arctic, assessing the environmental impact of developing natural resources (OIL) on Alaska’s outer continental shelf. The original intention of the editorial project was good – compile the research for public consumption and produce a readable book.

I suppose the sub-text was to demonstrate “whatever we do up there, we looked into it carefully.”

The “Reports from Principal Investigators” arrived in boxes of loose pages, some typed, some handwritten, with labeled photographs and charts and sounding a lot like the first climate paragraph I quoted above.  The  editorial task was daunting.

I actually have a lot of admiration for those scientists (principal investigators) who were out braving the elements to watch polar bears and other Arctic mammals and birds. I have even more admiration for the ones that braved the same elements to watch algae grow. However, I sincerely hope we are now producing generations of better communicators in the scientific community – presuming, of course, generations X and Y can break their acronym/abbreviation addictions.

I’ve been out of academic, environmental and editorial loops for awhile. Please – someone tell me the writing has improved! In the mid-1980′s personal computers weren’t very portable or fast, so back then; we were probably lucky to get what we got. Even now,  I suppose there’s only so much you can do electronically in sub-zero temperatures. But in our culture of rapid written communication – e-mails, text messaging, social networking – surely our connected, young scientists are getting better at using written words effectively. And if not, why not?

I departed the NOAA editorial job before the project was finished. My reasons were more idealistic than practical - based on my insider knowledge that the contracting  firm’s president quadrupled the contract costs because he was going through a divorce and needed the bucks, rather than because it was actually costing more to produce the book. (I admit my idealism was bolstered by the knowledge that Griz had a good job at the time.) But some of my colleagues who hung-in informed me later the ultimate sale-price of the book would have to be $350 per copy to cover the editorial work. (Are taken-for-granted cost overruns still written into Federal contracts? I hope not.) Don’t know if anyone ever read that book. It’s probably in a library somewhere.

I have a best buddy who’s a professor at a large university. She periodically contemplates retiring (until this year). She loves to teach, but her recurring complaint always comes down to “Sometimes I just don’t know if I can read another dissertation.” So maybe it’s too early for the better communicators to have hit grad school. Of course, the eternal trail of pedantic academic-speak may be perpetuated by older academicians. Kind of like the 72-hour hospital shifts medical students endure even though it’s been proven hazardous to students and patients. Another one of those  ”We had to do it, so they have to do it” rites of passage.

But there’s still some good news. With electronic publishing, all that bad writing can be made available to the hard-core researchers without ever producing more than one paper copy. And maybe now,  with all the government cut-backs, we just won’t have dollars available for all those unnecessary words.