My own Walden

Dear blog,

   There have been very many hot days inbetween my last posts. So hot in fact that I have been peering to unusual places, wondering. Hmm… could I turn this space into my writing space.

An old outbuilding. Could I make it comfy here?

I’ll give it a bit of cleaning, and then go somewhere else, and do the same thing, feeling the almost right, but not quite right.

            I’ve been rummaging.

            Looking at old items, and things that I’ve put in boxes, and unearthing them, and getting out some of my favorite childhood treasures, and placing them where I can enjoy them, and see them.

            Why have I kept this in a box?

            Why haven’t I enjoyed it more. Looked at it, loved it?

            Stones, and rocks, and feathers, and old coins, and gems, and shells, and things that are beautiful.

I feel like I’m looking for something.

I even went into my closet, and emptied it out, and thought it would be a great place to stick my writing desk. It really felt like an okay idea.

I found some lost items.

And consolidated my clothing.

Then as I got my upstairs computer disassembled to move it downstairs. I decided my closet felt too closed in. I missed the window, and the vibe.

So I kept looking.

I found an old air conditioner, and hooked that up.

It worked great.

            Yet, for all it’s goodness, my computer was so overheated today, I thought it would take a long time for my room to cool down.

            So I got in my bathing suit, got wet, and grabbed my keyboard, and my mouse, and my laptop, and went into my tent.

            But the tent was too hot.

            So I went into my downstairs room.

            And it feels pretty okay.

            I feel pretty clever, realizing how much a good keyboard and a mouse make it feel like I’m writing upstairs, when I’m downstairs.

Though, I’ll have to get wet again soon, because it’s so hot. It’s hot enough to melt words….

And my hair is getting dry, again, for the millionth time.

         
   I had an obsidian necklace my sister made for me with hemp cord, and it melted to the rock this morning on my chest, as I was out in the sun, playing my singing bowls. The morning sunrise was beautiful. The cats were waiting outside my tent. 

Here’s a video of part of my morning outside my little pop tent, with the birds singing, and the alfalfa. And my two new singing bowls.  

            Hmmm. Now the wind is really a blowing, and dust is flying, and clouds are building. I’m wondering what kind of conditions it will be outside tonight, because if you sleep outside as I have been doing, nearly every day, as much as possible, since my last post, you wonder about these things.

            I feel like I have been going on my own David Thoreau journey.

            My own Walden.

            My pond, the ditch.

            Being with my own bit of earth.

             Swimming nearly every day. 

            Seeing the land in ways that I've not quite seen it.

            Learning the wisdom of the ground, and the sky at the same time.

          Feeling that somehow we are gifting something to each other, something that can't be seen, or touched, or explained. 

            In rain.

            And thunder.

            In heat.

            With trains honking.

            And Goats goating.

            And roosters roostering.

            The stars, staring.

            The sky skying.

            Ground wisdom.

           Star wisdom.

          It’s so alive, it makes you feel more awake, and alive too.

          It imparts some of its energy to you.

          When I first started this experiment, it was nice until the ground eventually got hard.

And the cats, were pesty.

            And the bugs started bugging.

            And the mosquitoes told their friends.

            I decided that if I was going to try this experiment longer than a week, I'd have to make myself a bit more comfy.

            I also wanted to find a place that I could camp, without smashing the grass.

            Somewhere private.

        

    Somewhere with shade, and also a view of the night's sky.

            I set out like an Indian looking for a place to pitch my tepee.

            My sister had found a spot on the other side of the yard, and quite liked it. She was sleeping on a cushion, with no tent, without minding the cats, and dog, and bugs, and sleeping pretty soundly. She’s so down to earth, and easy going about such things, she’s not like anyone you’ve ever met. 

             I moved to my old garden, where the trees had grown up too much to make it much of a garden.

            I cleared out the old weeds, and dead branches, and smoothed the ground, and cleared away old junk.

            I decided that while I was cleaning out old stuff, there was an old backpack with emergency items in that I had tossed out of one of our emergency shelters, when it got flooded the spring before.  I had taken it out of the shelter, but I didn't have the courage to clean out its contents.

            This time, I thought I should, as I wanted my space to be tidy. 

            So I did.

    
    I opened it up, and braved the mold, and old MRE packs, and old food items. There was a mini New testament, and several other food items.  I found several little candles, and right next to them, were three silver coins, one of them was platinum 100 dollar coin. 

      

      Worth much more now than when my mom had placed inside the backpack.

            I thought it was a good sign, so I kept on making camp.

            I got out my pop tent, that I bought last year, and never used.

     It was so satisfying to open it up, and poof!

            Magic tent.

            My own house. 

            It was perfect. 

            I brought my cushions, and blankets, and my solar lights, and felt quite satisfied with my camp.

            At night, the stars were oh so beautiful, a much better view than so close to the house. And it kept the bugs out!

          I felt like I was camping in some magic land. This was my yard?

          How rich I am.

          How perfect this was.

          Though, I didn’t realize that I had pitched my tent so close to the barn. 

In the morning the sun hit my tent and warmed it up so quickly, I decided I better move it somewhere else.

             I asked my sister if I could make my tent near where she was at. As it was shaded, and further away from the barn.

          I found a spot where I could still see the stars, and also have some shade.

            I had a little empty chicken coup where I wanted to pitch my tent.

            After moving that, the ground was very uneven.

            So I dug.

            And dug. and in my cleaning dirt and junk. I found three differing wings. So I also thought that was a good sign. 

            I felt very primal, and wanted the ground to be soft, so I watered the ground.

            Then I sprinkled sea salt over the dirt, and old ashes from our fireplace, and then some fine silica sand, that sparkled in the sunlight, and some peppermint leaves.

            I felt very primal, and earthy. I Like I was making myself a little circle of protection.

After the ground dried out, I placed my tent in my little spot.

     

      It felt very satisfying.

Some part of me felt like it was a rite of passage. My own vision quest.

            Finally.

          My tent was perfect. It has a place at the top for me to see the stars.

          I feel like I’ve finally have the space I was seeking. And it’s perfect.

          So perfect that I’m amazed that it took me this long to find it.

Morning sky

           It's been nearly a month now.

            And I feel like I’ve finally, finally starting to really appreciate my bit of earth in such a way that feels like I’m home.

I have a view of the trees, the stars, and also the benefit of being on the ground.

Also I have a knowing in the back of my mind, that if the weather gets too bad, and the bugs, get to biting, and the goats get too noisy, I can go back inside, and try again another day.

          The weirdest part is, after sleeping outside, no mater how comfy your inside mattress feels, there’s something you feel is missing.

The house feels a little juiceless.  Missing some invisible factor that only one who knows what I’m speaking of could understand.

            It's a little weird, because my sister and I are enjoying it so much, that we are worried when winter comes.

            The other night it was storming, rain was a drizzling, lighting was flashing.

            My sister, has this fold out cushion, and she sleeps on top of that, with a pile blankets, then we found this tenty thing to put over her, so the bugs don't eat her.

          But it was really a raining.

          A lot.

                     I came inside to get a few items to protect my sister from the rain, and to close my window in my room, to protect my koto, and realized, that you wouldn't have even known there was a storm going on, from the way it felt on the inside.

            It felt stale, and old, and tired, and not alive.

            I'd just been with the storm, felt the rain on my skin, felt the mud and brought it into my tent with me.

            The cool breeze was there, to tell me about life.

            Rain a drizzling.

            Lighting flashes.

            A star burns a road through the sky.

            But inside the house, protected from all the elements, you wouldn't know that there was a storm at all.

          Inside, when you sleep, more often than not, it’s a numbing sleep, not a recharging.

          Outside is a sleep that feels unique, sometimes so wakeful it feels as if the ground itself is telling you when to sleep, and when to close your eyes, and the sky tells you when to wake up. They both whisper stories, and bedtime rhymes, and wisdom that feels as earthy as it is.

           Not hardly a whiff of a breeze passes through this crypts we call our houses.

            Where are the great big windows to let in light?

          Roofs that open, decks, and halls with places for plants to grow?

            Where are the places where sun can get in?

            Where is the opening where the moon can peer and see itself reflected in your eyes?

            The contrast, of inside, and outside, once you've really get with it, feels huge.

            And something from the outside starts seeping inside you, a raw, real, earthy knowing, how much we've all missed, from being so far away from the ground.

          So far from the trees.

          So far from the sky.

          Hardly looking at the stars in our sleepless nights, only turning to screens to numb pain that needs to be looked at and felt.

 I once visited Walden's pond, I rowed it, with my two sister's, in a cano,  it was beautiful. This was before I was acquainted nature. Before I had even known about the  of the book, Walden, or really felt my own Walden in myself.

But this July I have felt a small fraction of what it feels like to go into my own woods.

Seeking the simplicity of nature.

Feeling my soul unfold.

In my own backyard. Without having to go on a journey outside of myself.

I think God saw a hidden Walden somewhere inside of me, because, little, by little, moment by moment, God has been uncovering my own hidden paradise, where I could actually appreciate the spaces I've had around me my entire life.

My own nooks, and corners, and my own ground houses, and tepees, and tents, and canals, and rivers. My own goats, and cats, and birds, and dogs, and alfalfa, and roofs, and old buildings that need a bit of love.

Mostly the things we want are just our own presence in them.

Our own undivided looking, and being.

A wholeness of our own isness.

A knowing of what is real, and good, and a raw appreciation of it, because we can see it as ourselves.

These lands have been there this whole time, the treasures inherited by those who find them inside themselves.

My own little patches of shade, and sunlight.

My own platinum and silver mine.

Finding my own wings right on the ground.

My own collection of stars at my fingertips.

My own space.

Something real.

And when its claimed, you sprinkle salt, and ashes, and silica to mark it, and say, this is a sacred space.

My tent is here.

I am here.

On the ground.

I’m looking up, watching the stars until they start to watch me.