How exactly good it is
to know myself
in the solitude of winter
my body containing its own
warmth, divided from all
by the cold; and to go
separate and sure
among the trees cleanly
divided, thinking of you
perfect too in your solitude,
your life withdrawn into
your own keeping
—to be clear, poised
in perfect self-suspension
toward you, as though frozen.
And having known fully the
goodness of that, it will be
good also to melt.
-Wendell Berry
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
=>The meaningfulness of solitude and peace is huge, I think, these days—especially in the midst of the chaos of life, as it starts back up again. But also the meaningfulness of being able to come outside of our shells of solitude, having discovered what we were to discover, having felt the magnitude of the solitude and the overwhelming splendor of the winter. And, like Berry, to finish that sentence, to let it change us, then start a new one, melting the solitude but sharing our melting with others, and allowing that to be good.
.
Friday, January 8, 2010
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Backpack
I just saw Up in the Air, a fantastic movie (in my opinion) where the main character, Ryan Bingham (George Clooney), is a jet-setting, money-making, never-cared-about-a-relationship-in-his-life “Termination Facilitator” (aka he fires people for a living), who spends the majority of his time flying around the country, attempting to accomplish his lifetime goal of 10 million miles. Occasionally he travels around giving a few of those motivational speechy-type business workshops, teaching people how to be more effective at whatever it is they’re doing in that corporate world, and he’s pretty good at it. His typical spiel is, as follows:
I like backpacking. A lot. Actually, I love backpacking. Spent more than a few summers doing so, and go whenever I get a chance (which is, rather unfortunately, not very often). Have occasionally pondered introducing myself by saying “Hi, I’m Andrea. I like to venture out into the wilderness for weeks at a time, occasionally with a dozen or so complete strangers.” Just for kicks, ya know.
There’s something about the experience that keeps me coming back, every time. Some part of it is being in love with that Thoreau-ian ideal of wilderness, that adventure of being in a place where no cars can come within ten miles of, and pondering the epic…gorgeousness of where that is. I love being alone with the trees or the water or the rocks or just a few leaves, wildflowers, or mushrooms.
But one of my favorite things, hands down, is the people. Yeah, I’ve carried a 40-something lb pack. And yeah, it’s usually pretty darn heavy. Hard to make it up mountains. Sometimes you don’t think you’re even gonna make it a few more steps. Probably be a lot easier to just…fly. Or helicopter. Without all that weight. And sometimes it’d be a lot easier to stay quiet on trail, even with ten people around you. To keep to yourself, interact on the outside, but just work your way up the mountain on your own, figuring it out, carrying the weight, do your own thing. Leave the tough stuff, the stuff that would make you connect, relate, understand—just leave that all alone. “Your relationships are the heaviest components of your life.” That’d weigh on you. Feel…heavy. On your shoulders.
But carrying that backpack, feeling the weight of it, it feels good. Sometimes it hurts, sometimes it gives you a few bumps and bruises and scars, and sometimes you just want to throw it off your shoulders and bound up the hill. But when you get to camp at night, and your backpack has your tent, and your beanie, and your food, and your jacket, and your coffee mug, and your dry socks, and your sleeping bag, it feels heavy, yes, but it makes home. Sometimes a temporary home, sometimes a more permanent one if you stay a few days, but that stuff, that heavy stuff you keep in the backpack, it all connects you, warms you up, gives you sustenance, keeps you dry when it’s raining. Home.
Some of the best conversations I’ve ever had have been backpacking, and some of the best friends I’ve had have come from those experiences. Wouldn’t give it up for the world.
In the movie, Clooney’s character spends 320-something days a year on the road, no home to speak of, no one to call when’s he’s off travelling, no relationships to weigh him down. Spends more than two thirds of his days on an airplane at some point, flying high. And for the most part, he’s pretty aware he’s living the life. Free as a plane and high up on the mountaintop of his success and life’s work.
Sure, you can fly to the top of the mountain. Take a plane, or a helicopter, even a ski lift it you please. Up in the Air. But me, I’ll take my backpack.
(Wanna join?)
“How much does your life weigh? Imagine for a second that you're carrying a backpack. I want you to pack it with all the stuff that you have in your life... you start with the little things. The shelves, the drawers, the knickknacks, then you start adding larger stuff. Clothes, tabletop appliances, lamps, your TV... the backpack should be getting pretty heavy now. You go bigger. Your couch, your car, your home... I want you to stuff it all into that backpack. Now I want you to fill it with people. Start with casual acquaintances, friends of friends, folks around the office... and then you move into the people you trust with your most intimate secrets. Your brothers, your sisters, your children, your parents and finally your husband, your wife, your boyfriend, your girlfriend. You get them into that backpack, feel the weight of that bag. Make no mistake your relationships are the heaviest components in your life. All those negotiations and arguments and secrets, the compromises. The slower we move the faster we die. Make no mistake, moving is living. Some animals were meant to carry each other to live symbiotically over a lifetime. Star crossed lovers, monogamous swans. We are not swans. We are sharks.”
I like backpacking. A lot. Actually, I love backpacking. Spent more than a few summers doing so, and go whenever I get a chance (which is, rather unfortunately, not very often). Have occasionally pondered introducing myself by saying “Hi, I’m Andrea. I like to venture out into the wilderness for weeks at a time, occasionally with a dozen or so complete strangers.” Just for kicks, ya know.
There’s something about the experience that keeps me coming back, every time. Some part of it is being in love with that Thoreau-ian ideal of wilderness, that adventure of being in a place where no cars can come within ten miles of, and pondering the epic…gorgeousness of where that is. I love being alone with the trees or the water or the rocks or just a few leaves, wildflowers, or mushrooms.
But one of my favorite things, hands down, is the people. Yeah, I’ve carried a 40-something lb pack. And yeah, it’s usually pretty darn heavy. Hard to make it up mountains. Sometimes you don’t think you’re even gonna make it a few more steps. Probably be a lot easier to just…fly. Or helicopter. Without all that weight. And sometimes it’d be a lot easier to stay quiet on trail, even with ten people around you. To keep to yourself, interact on the outside, but just work your way up the mountain on your own, figuring it out, carrying the weight, do your own thing. Leave the tough stuff, the stuff that would make you connect, relate, understand—just leave that all alone. “Your relationships are the heaviest components of your life.” That’d weigh on you. Feel…heavy. On your shoulders.
But carrying that backpack, feeling the weight of it, it feels good. Sometimes it hurts, sometimes it gives you a few bumps and bruises and scars, and sometimes you just want to throw it off your shoulders and bound up the hill. But when you get to camp at night, and your backpack has your tent, and your beanie, and your food, and your jacket, and your coffee mug, and your dry socks, and your sleeping bag, it feels heavy, yes, but it makes home. Sometimes a temporary home, sometimes a more permanent one if you stay a few days, but that stuff, that heavy stuff you keep in the backpack, it all connects you, warms you up, gives you sustenance, keeps you dry when it’s raining. Home.
Some of the best conversations I’ve ever had have been backpacking, and some of the best friends I’ve had have come from those experiences. Wouldn’t give it up for the world.
In the movie, Clooney’s character spends 320-something days a year on the road, no home to speak of, no one to call when’s he’s off travelling, no relationships to weigh him down. Spends more than two thirds of his days on an airplane at some point, flying high. And for the most part, he’s pretty aware he’s living the life. Free as a plane and high up on the mountaintop of his success and life’s work.
Sure, you can fly to the top of the mountain. Take a plane, or a helicopter, even a ski lift it you please. Up in the Air. But me, I’ll take my backpack.
(Wanna join?)
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