little rituals

February 17, 2020

Winter keeps me indoors, dreaming of pond swims or trips to the beach. Except for a predictable work schedule I’m never busy, which means I’m alone most of the time. I’m not much for large group activities, and it’s hard for me to manufacture enthusiasm for things I don’t like. I don’t think this is snobbery; it’s just who I am at 52 years old. The Greeks advocated knowing thyself, and at a half-century on this rainy, stony earth, I’m approaching satori. The plain, the dull, the common. The things most people don’t notice or find boring. The most exciting thing I do most days is make coffee.

And yet, despite my introversion and tendency to sulk indoors, I do dream of community. I dream of taking care of people, of being generous with my time and labor. I dream of buying a small piece of land in the forest and building a wood-fired sauna. I would become a caretaker of sorts. I would chop and stack the wood for the stove. On cold nights, I would arrive a few hours early to build up the fire. I would sit with my thermos and wait for the sauna to reach the perfect temperature. I would fill a small wooden bucket with water and hang the ladle on the hook on the wall, for those who wanted a little steam. I would light tea candles and invite my friends. You can see the path through the trees from here.

It would be a dark, cold night and all the stars would be out. We would sit in the wood-scented warmth and laugh and tell stories. We would let down our guard, becoming open and vulnerable to each other and so become even closer in our friendships. If we got overheated, we could always jump in a snow bank or take a plunge in a nearby stream. After, we would bundle into our clothes and enjoy a simple meal or a walk in the woods under a full moon, silent in our wonder at the fact that we were alive and together at this precise moment in time. The simple elements. Water, fire, and these fragile human lives.

When I was younger I used to float in the pool or in the ocean for hours, skin wrinkling and shivering. I never wanted to leave the beach. I wanted the day to stretch forever, because no matter how long it lasted, it was never enough time. I was trying to get close to something that always put up barriers. Trying to cross that divide between my tiny individual self and body and the body of the universe. I’m still trying to cross barriers and stretch time. I swim in the pond well past the time most people go in, or in conditions that are far from perfect. I swim on hot days, cold days, rainy days. Rainy days are actually the best time to swim because the rain keeps the beer drinkers and the teenagers at home. Only the mad ones swim in the rain.

I suppose these two things I’m talking about, water and fire, are to me what the bog was to Thoreau. It’s as close to nature as I can get without becoming a tree or a rain cloud.

I imagine that someday I actually will become a tree or a rain cloud, although I might not be aware of it. Right now I’m trying to cross barriers without relying on technology or data or algorithms. I’m dreaming of creating the kind of community that existed before bowling alleys and shopping malls. When we slept in caves and all we had to worry about was the next meal. Where the dogs we kept weren’t for pampering but for keeping us alive by warning us of approaching predators. When all we possessed were a stone knife, some cooking utensils and our own bodies.

In the meantime, I’ll still keep practicing my little rituals. Since I can’t live everywhere at once, I’ll make do with where I am right now. I’ll get up every morning and make the coffee. I’ll spend time with family and friends. I’ll read my books and draw my little pictures. I’ll go to the sauna at the Y when the real sauna isn’t available. And I’ll dream of becoming the caretaker to a small tribe of wild, kindred souls.

So if you see a warm glow through the trees at night, smell the woodsmoke, and hear the laughter, you’ve arrived. And you’re very welcome to join us.

Written by henry Posted in body, nature, spirit