I’ll be driving back home today after three nights and two days alone at my cottage by the sea. I’m in good company, though, for I understand that Thoreau often walked back and forth from his cabin in the woods to Concord Center. Evidently he went for a home cooked meal, and rumor has it that he arrived with a bag of laundry for his mother.

       Like the sun adjusting to the every changing clouds this morning, when I get home I’ll have to ground myself in the social reality of conversation, telephone calls, grocery shopping, food preparation, bed making, church activities….. It is a challenge for any of us whenever we shift from alone time to social time, from introvert time to extrovert time.  And I’m not going to walk in the door to the smell of a home-cooked meal and into the arms of a mother ready to receive my laundry.

   I’ve taken a break from my Thanksgiving obsession with simplicity (it is just way too complex) and have begun musing about silence. Here’s what I discovered as I walked on the beach, listening for silence.  First I noticed that the chatter in my head started calming down, at least a little, but that’s another topic.  Then it came to me that silence isn’t about hearing nothing, but about paying attention to what we do hear.

    When all that mental conversation ceased, all I heard for the next half hour was the sound of a very quiet sea, a few gulls squawking and dogs barking, and the hum of an occasional car. Amazing, considering all the human-made noises out there in our world.  (As I write this someone has a leaf blower going next door. Ugh.)

     As I have stated, this blog is for people who are looking for silence, solitude and simplicity and who sometimes like to be alone. I have been the first person to sign up and ask a thousand questions. Why do you want silence? What are you hoping to discover in the solitude? What might simplicity offer?  What happens when you are alone at your cottage by the sea? The answers are impermanent, washing over me like waves on the sand. At this moment I know that simplicity is complex and that silence is full of sounds. 

      Thoreau wrote,

I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.

      I’d have to say that I’ve come to the sea with the same kind of wish.

 

   I had planned to tell you about Thoreau today. Over the weekend we had walked around Walden Pond and seen the site of his cabin in the woods, and of course he and I are into the same thing—silence, solitude and simplicity and sometimes liking to be alone.

    But instead I must tell you about the farmer I met on the beach this morning. Yes, a farmer, and an organic one at that. He told me so when I stopped to ask him why he was pitch-forking seaweed into plastic bags. Seems that seaweed is the best fertilizer imaginable and free for the hauling, the only cost being a sore back that he pays dearly for every time. 

    I like to think of farming, especially organic farming, as a return to the simple life—working the land from sunrise to sunset, healthy for mind/body/spirit. But here was my farmer friend lifting, pitching, bagging, hauling. There may be something very pure and wholesome about it, and therefore simply in some ways, but it is also a very complex endeavor. My friend didn’t seemed stressed, in fact he was enjoying the particular activity as well as the general idea of organic farming. According to one of my definition of simplicity—if you’re not stressed you have simplicity--I’d have to say there was simplicity in his life.

    Simplicity is complex!  I’ll have to make some more observations about it. I’d love to hear any examples of yours. 

     For those of you who were up all night waiting, here’s the carcass report that I promised. Yesterday afternoon I tore the big chunks of turkey off (for sandwiches) and stuck the rest in a pot with water, salt, pepper, poultry seasoning and onion (didn’t have any celery). Simple, yes? But I still have to deal with the carcass. The meat will fall off easily and the soup will be ready. Simple, yes? But I notice I’m a little stressed about it, indicating that this can’t go in the simplicity category. And yet, I’d be stressed if I had just thrown the carcass away, because then I’d have to deal with the guilt of wasting good food and money. Simplicity isn’t simple. 

       Hey, all you people who sometimes want to be alone. How did your Thanksgiving feel? I say feel because that’s what we’re after, isn’t it--feeling the calm that comes from silence, solitude and simplicity, whatever the situation?

     Thanksgiving at my niece’s was a resounding success. It felt simple and effortless, although I readily admit that I wasn’t in charge of getting the meal on the table for twenty-one people. However, everyone brought something and helped along the way, and our mother doesn’t have to know that we used paper napkins. There was simplicity—no one appeared stressed over all the work.

     On the other hand, how do we consider silence and solitude in the midst of the Thanksgiving holiday, a time that is clearly to be shared with others. Yesterday, during all the conversation and body-bumping, I was able to step into moments of silence and solitude. I like to think that the time at my cottage by the sea is paying off.  

    Today there are leftovers and the carcass to deal with. Will it be simpler to make soup or let someone pick the meat off the bone and eat it on the spot. I’ll give it the stress test and report back.

      I am home from the cottage, scurrying about making beds, tidying up, shopping and cooking, getting ready for Thanksgiving visitors. And I’m not even hosting the main meal here! Thanksgiving never lends itself to the three S’s, which is just as it should be. There is no silence or solitude when we join with others to be thankful, and that’s what the holiday is about for most of us—family, friends, connections, conversation, remembering, missing, laughter, and yes, tears. It’s a challenge to keep things simple while keeping up traditions, many of which came from a time when households had a staff in the kitchen.

       As I scurry, however, I notice that I am present to silence and solitude. I feel a certain inner satisfaction in fluffing the pillows, clearing the piles of books from the coffee table, and chopping the vegetables. As far as simplicity goes, I gauge it by my level of stress, and modify accordingly. If I feel overwhelmed with all I have to do, I have to simplify—it’s as simple as that-- which might includes buying cookies instead of making them from scratch, being satisfied with tarnished silverware or (don’t tell mother) using plastic, and, one of the best options ever, asking for help.

       Um, it just occurred to me that getting ready not to be alone is a rewarding way of sometimes being alone. Ponder that one.

       I just got the call. They are on their way, arriving in an hour and a half if they experience good traffic karma. Then I can relax and we can all work on this simple 1000 piece puzzle. Maybe we should go out to eat at an automat, which was the scene of Rockwell’s Thanksgiving masterpiece.

 

    There were very few of us on the beach today—just me, a seagull and an old man.
     I broke my “vow” of silence and asked, “Finding any treasure?”
     The man opened his hand, and showing me a piece of common white shell, said very slowly, “Oh yes, I’m finding all kinds of ideas.”
      Ideas? What did he mean? Day after day people wander the beaches of the world picking up treasures--the ones they put in their pockets and those that they store in their minds. Shells, stones, and driftwood morph into ideas, which are then transformed into collages, decorations, paintings, inventions, and oh, so much more. 
       I’m still thinking about the surprise of that brief exchange. I was expecting a more common response—that no, he wasn’t finding anything, or that yes, he was finding shells. But there he was, all by himself, searching for ideas, and, finding them. He and I and the gull alone in the mystery of it all.

   My thought for the day came early this morning--in fact, soon after 4:45 as I sat on “the deck” sipping coffee and waiting for the first glimmer of morning twilight to appear. I was reminded of the impermanence of life, and that I am not in as control of my life as I would like to be. Alas that's one of those lessons most of us have to keep learning again and again!   
        Even my camera doesn’t do justice to the awe I experienced, but here are a few pictures to tweak your imagination. They were taken over the period of an hour. By 6:42 the sun had risen in the east, while the moon was  getting ready to set in the west just a minute later at 6:43. 

Then there was the moonrise at 4 PM.

  An easy hour and a half drive from home and here I am at my cottage by the sea. It was just a year ago that I came here for the first time, so on first glance everything is familiar and I’m prepared for the same routine. For example, I know that I want to read and relax in the living room (which I call the deck) because it is right on the ocean, facing due east; and I know that it is high tide when I look out the window and see that the waves have covered certain rocks along the shore.

   But I have forgotten how difficult it is to settle into really being alone. The cottage is silent, but my mind is full of chatter. There’s not a soul around, and yet images of family and friends pop up as I wander from room to room. My calendar for the next three days is blank, but the myriad choices before me do not suggest simplicity. It’s going to take determination and concentration to get out of my head, to stop thinking.

    Okay, I’m going to take a walk along the beach and practice being in the moment--- with the water, rocks and sand, sea gulls, and clouds. Off I go. I’ll report back.

   I’m back after a glorious hour and a half walk, feeling more grounded and present to it all--this cottage, the rocks, the calm sea, the silence. This is why I sometimes like to be alone—to experience myself in the moment, to let feelings and thoughts wash over me and rest with me. And then there are the thoughts that only seem to come when I’m alone. Today along the beach I told myself how happy I was. “But is that fair,” I asked, “with all the suffering in the world?”  Well, maybe, just maybe, if I can feel peaceful, I can better be there for someone else. It's worth a try.

  

      My life has been anything but silent or simple during the past 48 hours. Isn’t that the way? We’re exhausted before we even finish packing for that vacation that we’ve set up to satisfy the solitude we crave. 

       Here a picture of the stuff that I am about to load into my car to take to my cottage. Except for the pillows, everything should fit in the trunk. It may not look like simplicity, but the bedding and food staples are a one-time haul. I figure that on most trips back and forth I’ll just have an overnight bag, another for books and my computer, and a small cooler. I'll be traveling light.

      I’m about ready to launch. I will check in when I get to my cottage by the sea.