“The turn back to cold, which I did not appreciate, none-the-less firmed up the dirt road, and allowed the sled to be pulled overland to the yurt, chock full of stove wood. That slog is temperamental, depending on conditions. I was way more than willing to barter off this chore, to a younger person, looking for shelter. Most of us have experienced limited funding, & bargained for deals, because we had to. In the spirit of good will, in the spirit of helping each other, there’s no shame. My new friend was car camping in winter. I think it was time for him to not be doing that. Brokering my space, the promise of a warm fire, a pump with water, I knew to say: “come”. I’m no hero for doing this, I just realize that I manage a resource. And feel tasked to respond with humanity. How hard is that? So, people are hidden, until you open your heart to them. Even married to them, if you stay shut, you won’t ever get the news. If you pontificate over them, you’ll be basically talking to yourself. And what would be the point, this manufacturing based on what you already believe, that only leads to you being perpetually disappointed. I can’t find the logic in it, only an insatiable hunger for domination. I’ll walk, and I’ll walk, I’ll walk into the wilderness, rather than be ruled by such ignorance. Don’t try to dominate me. More interesting than over-powering, is listening to the soft patter of rain. And bending & kneeling, to hear the roots of trees growing. And things spoken between confidantes. In the places where we don’t have to fight to be recognized, or “validate” ourselves in any way, the paths are mossy, comfortable and upwardly mobile. Even as I wander a strange puzzle of blue sap line, where maples have been roped together, I’m untethered. Because my dreams continue to drift above the fray. The concert halls, the hushed crowds awaiting musical royalty, my own complicity in serving the kings & queens of celebrity, it’s all an ephemeral sham. My own heart is an empty theater. Yet also, a forest, of amazing depth, & mystery. I’ve loved every inch of every illusion, so terribly, desperately, destructively, wrongly. Good use of a life, perhaps. I won’t commit to thinking I’ve done right by my conscience, until the final bell has rung, pealing its death. Ringing across the most tremendously, breathtaking alpine slope, and pasture. Reaching every little sheep. and every little bell.”
