Read Online Twelve by Twelve by Micahel Powers - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Micahel Powers
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strong in solitude — then on one level our relationships can be tinged with insecurity.
It occurred to me, beside No Name Creek, that by living 12 × 12 Jackie has been cultivating an interest in the well; leaning over, peering in. She has the genuine confidence and lightness of spirit of those who have taken the interior journey. She whispers into solitude’s well without fear of the voice that might come back. Ducklings, like the ones the Thompsons raised, develop alone in their shells and — though they rub feathers with others during their brief lives — they essentially live alone and die alone. We are like those ducklings. If welose ourselves in material things, anxiety, work, and personal dramas of various sorts — and thereby miss our beautiful interiority — then perhaps we miss ourselves.
A doctor friend in New York City once told me that when she looks through an ordinary ophthalmoscope, she can see through the retinal wall clear to the edge of the brain. It’s that close. And the brain, seen like that through the eye, looks like what it is: a gray glob. When we look out at the world through our eyes, who or what is doing the looking? Am “I” that gray glob? It’s so mysterious. I stood there in the forest, feeling my heartbeat, aware of the creaking in the trees above, shivering slightly, beginning to sense that we humans are nature become conscious of itself.
See, be, do. Yes, I thought, being was indeed the most difficult part in an era where clutter — in both stuff and activity — eclipses the sweetness of solitude, the aliveness of the present moment.
I got up and walked away from the creek, the sun now hanging low to the west. I looked at the 12 × 12, a muted orange light reflecting off its windows. It’s one thing to ponder warrior presence in the peace of the woods. But I knew it would be difficult to live it. At some point, my 12 × 12 retreat would end, and I wondered if I’d be as strong as Jackie when the inevitable challenges came. Would I be capable of drawing from deep wells of optimism, compassion, and pragmatic action, regardless of the shape of the external world?
6. LIVING WELL
THOREAU WRITES IN WALDEN that he had more visitors during those two years in the woods than at any other period of his life. Just as my curiosity led me to visit Jackie in the woods, so too did my curious family and friends begin visiting me.
I’d chosen not to bring a mobile phone to the 12 × 12, and so I was anxious the night my friends Dan and Gwen, cell talkers both, were coming to dinner. I cringed at the thought of metallic ring tones and jargon-laden work talk echoing through the 12 × 12, an annoying reminder of the technological bulldozer currently flattening the world.
They arrived abuzz with energy in a station wagon (its sole bumper sticker: “I’d rather be smashing imperialism”) with their two-year-old son, Pete. Longtime urbanites, the late thirty-something couple had moved to Chapel Hill six months earlier because of a job offer. Dan disappeared with little Pete as I cooked pesto pasta on the propane-powered, four-burner stovetop while chatting with Gwen.
When dinner was ready, we called for Dan and Pete. No response, so we wandered along the dirt road and finally found themover at the Thompsons’ farm. Dan was pulling his giggling two-year-old son out of the deep mud — and thereby getting covered in mud himself.
Noticing Dan’s woeful expression over the mess, Michele Thompson tried to comfort him, saying, “Oh, my kids do that all the time.” But the urban Dan and Gwen became increasingly anxious over their single child. I wondered how it was that Michele, with six kids, always managed to maintain a state of apparent harmony.
Dan passed the muddy Pete to Gwen, trying — failing — to brush the mud off his white shirt. Meanwhile, Mike Thompson heaped feed among the goats, chickens, and ducks, driving them into a Pavlovian frenzy. Kyle came running down in his Boy
It occurred to me, beside No Name Creek, that by living 12 × 12 Jackie has been cultivating an interest in the well; leaning over, peering in. She has the genuine confidence and lightness of spirit of those who have taken the interior journey. She whispers into solitude’s well without fear of the voice that might come back. Ducklings, like the ones the Thompsons raised, develop alone in their shells and — though they rub feathers with others during their brief lives — they essentially live alone and die alone. We are like those ducklings. If welose ourselves in material things, anxiety, work, and personal dramas of various sorts — and thereby miss our beautiful interiority — then perhaps we miss ourselves.
A doctor friend in New York City once told me that when she looks through an ordinary ophthalmoscope, she can see through the retinal wall clear to the edge of the brain. It’s that close. And the brain, seen like that through the eye, looks like what it is: a gray glob. When we look out at the world through our eyes, who or what is doing the looking? Am “I” that gray glob? It’s so mysterious. I stood there in the forest, feeling my heartbeat, aware of the creaking in the trees above, shivering slightly, beginning to sense that we humans are nature become conscious of itself.
See, be, do. Yes, I thought, being was indeed the most difficult part in an era where clutter — in both stuff and activity — eclipses the sweetness of solitude, the aliveness of the present moment.
I got up and walked away from the creek, the sun now hanging low to the west. I looked at the 12 × 12, a muted orange light reflecting off its windows. It’s one thing to ponder warrior presence in the peace of the woods. But I knew it would be difficult to live it. At some point, my 12 × 12 retreat would end, and I wondered if I’d be as strong as Jackie when the inevitable challenges came. Would I be capable of drawing from deep wells of optimism, compassion, and pragmatic action, regardless of the shape of the external world?
6. LIVING WELL
THOREAU WRITES IN WALDEN that he had more visitors during those two years in the woods than at any other period of his life. Just as my curiosity led me to visit Jackie in the woods, so too did my curious family and friends begin visiting me.
I’d chosen not to bring a mobile phone to the 12 × 12, and so I was anxious the night my friends Dan and Gwen, cell talkers both, were coming to dinner. I cringed at the thought of metallic ring tones and jargon-laden work talk echoing through the 12 × 12, an annoying reminder of the technological bulldozer currently flattening the world.
They arrived abuzz with energy in a station wagon (its sole bumper sticker: “I’d rather be smashing imperialism”) with their two-year-old son, Pete. Longtime urbanites, the late thirty-something couple had moved to Chapel Hill six months earlier because of a job offer. Dan disappeared with little Pete as I cooked pesto pasta on the propane-powered, four-burner stovetop while chatting with Gwen.
When dinner was ready, we called for Dan and Pete. No response, so we wandered along the dirt road and finally found themover at the Thompsons’ farm. Dan was pulling his giggling two-year-old son out of the deep mud — and thereby getting covered in mud himself.
Noticing Dan’s woeful expression over the mess, Michele Thompson tried to comfort him, saying, “Oh, my kids do that all the time.” But the urban Dan and Gwen became increasingly anxious over their single child. I wondered how it was that Michele, with six kids, always managed to maintain a state of apparent harmony.
Dan passed the muddy Pete to Gwen, trying — failing — to brush the mud off his white shirt. Meanwhile, Mike Thompson heaped feed among the goats, chickens, and ducks, driving them into a Pavlovian frenzy. Kyle came running down in his Boy
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