As we
went I could tell that the way to the old lake was a good way. What does it
mean? It is that since we were going in off-hours, on an off-day, that there
were not too many cars on the roads. This makes a big difference. Vexatious and
discordant become the vibrations when the populace increases. Everybody knows
it. At least on some level it happens and at the least everybody knows it on
another level. I remember the pieces I wrote way back when about the area, -
some anyhow. One lauded the area in a regular and orthodox way as a place to
visit. It mentioned the sun, the roominess, the greenery, the water, and could
have easily been…heck, - was, a travel article about a northern lake, about
camping. But another, something about an ode to the road to Damascus or some
such thing,- spoke in more spiritual terms- having a kind of revelation, or
little satori,- that whole trip of experience and inspiration. More on the side
of plain old inspiration. But now, this day, it was neither. But good if one
had to choose. It’s a place, and wholeness is everywhere, is it not? - Who is
to know for sure? The lake was not for scrying and the clouds were not to be
read, the earth did not hold rocks and pebbles with secret gnosis. The trees
did not talk, if even in a symbolic manner. No, it was not really a Gnostic or
self declared Essene, mystic, seeker, or such-like, - that was there. That
person is gone, gone to some October about five years back. It was just what
is. It is just was is. A lake, blue. The rocks, rocky. Sky. Vessels in the
distance. Some near. Little fires from tables that cook things. Snails. Clouds,
- clouds that are just clouds. There is a place where the trees grow impossibly
tall and it is quiet, quiet, quiet…the floor of the corridor forest blanketed
with old brown pine needles. What else?
As the paths are walked the day is
open. An open secret. It offers the air and the breeze and the rest. An old
house is there and once, the entire land, acres and acres along with the coastlines,
were owned by an affluent family that came from across the pond as it were.
They must have had a hard time those first winters, even with their money.
Maybe they were good people and maybe not. Perhaps they wrote long letters,
longhand, to certain souls back home. There has to be spirits or whatever word
you prefer, phantom, spectre, apparition, departed soul, so forth, - out there,
roaming the land, then and now. What would the world be without them? Some come
in later, and I can sense it, - but they are not necessarily benevolent, and I
tell them to go. I am nobody, but I tell them to go. Arch Angel Michael, and
Christ, - they are somebody, and in their name I ask for clearance and
protection. The old dirt and gravel roads are there. Out across the way is
other land. Imagine, I think, the undiscovered Chaga hiding there, and inside
the rest of the forests that are not trodden. Who is to know? The chaga shall
bring vivid dreams many nights together. I look a few more times at the land,
its verdant long stretches, and its little structures that reflect the sun. The
day is nice. I think of nights when storms visit from the water, and try to
imagine the wind and rain shaking the tree lines, spitting on the shore, the
whitecaps, the rocks being disturbed, the frog, snake, snail, spider, coyote,
groundhog, even bear or wolf and other, - hiding out- dens, tree stumps, caves,
and the like. The travelling around there and after is sound, sane,
uncluttered, not luxurious but enjoyable. Simple things are best. Zen.
Minimalism. A book just in case. Towel. Shorts. T-shirt.
Zeitgeist of summer
towns. And the forests out there that eventually meet the water. That water is
then calm, for it is the day, a time of brightness. It laps in gently like a
slow and paced story. Its lines are calm and also calming. My grandfather, long
gone, would like it. Maybe he was present. In practically another lifetime ago,
he used to tell me stories about Cowboys and Indians. There was some sort of
dispute, but before the problem erupted into a fully fledged piece of trouble,
they found a way to resolve it. He was no Cormac McCarthy and Cormac McCarthy,
perhaps the best living writer, would not have liked those stories. But I did.
I liked there style. They took place on and near a large ranch that had at the
summit of a hill a house. Around, - horses, cattle. I am back to the lake.
Daydreaming I was. There is the water again, wafting for its lightness against
the rocks as it strolls in. Shah. Shee. Shhh. Shee. So gentle. So gentle the
day sometimes.
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