Behind this doing, however, it seems that we are really asking about the being of life. Why are we here? What is our purpose? It just isn’t enough to know that our search for meaning is ontological. We have to grasp some personal answers, a big answer as in our individual mission, and small answers, which are present in seemly random moments of deep satisfaction.
Writing about writing is a fascinating, eye-opening process. Here I am, consolidating what I have written during the past four years about the cottage, travel, solitude, social life, faith, my mom, being in my 70s, and more, and also journaling about that very experience and what I am currently discovering. And what is that? That we human beings are continually asking, ‘And now what?’’, which includes the doing part of life, such as the next meal, appointment, friend to see or help, book to read, trip to take, be it a vacation or to the supermarket ….
Behind this doing, however, it seems that we are really asking about the being of life. Why are we here? What is our purpose? It just isn’t enough to know that our search for meaning is ontological. We have to grasp some personal answers, a big answer as in our individual mission, and small answers, which are present in seemly random moments of deep satisfaction.
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After a yummy burger and gratifying conversation with my niece at the Cheese Cake Factory on my way here, the choice was obvious-- nap or walk. I chose to walk, although the idea of a nap was mighty appealing. But with cold weather coming tomorrow, I reasoned that I’d better get out while the temperature was hovering at 40 degrees instead waiting for tomorrow’s forecast of 15 to come true. And besides, there was the burger (and fries) to consider, or shall I say, to deal with. Every day my beach experience is different. Today, no waves, which meant no surfers. The beach was clear, except for at one end where piles of seaweed had gathered. Where had it all come from? Where will it go? Very likely on my next visit, except for a few stray pieces, the seaweed will have disappeared. Although there were quite a few people out on the beach, very few were alone, and so, for the umpteenth time, I got thinking about how different it is to walk by myself versus with someone else. Having just returned from a social weekend, I thought about the conversations I had. Chatter, profound and everything in between. But when I’m alone, I can choose not to talk at all, which is what I did tried to do today: “Stop that chatter and look about, be aware of the present moment. You can’t do that when you’re with someone else.” It is only when I am alone that I can drift into that place of longing, those holy moments when thoughts disappear and a deep satisfaction, beyond words, takes over. It began to happened this afternoon on the beach, but takes a day or two for me to settle into silence solitude and simplicity up here. I trust that those moments will come more willingly and with less difficulty. They always do. Every day I set out expecting to have the best-ever walk—and I do. Oh, sometimes I have to stretch the point a little, but not often. When I begin my walk I’m not always certain whether I’ll go to the long beach or head up to the lighthouse. Yesterday, on a cold, vitamin D3 walk, I found myself trudging along the snow covered roads to the Cape Neddick Lighthouse (locally referred to as The Nubble). There at the parking lot was a college-age man viewing something on the rocks through his telescope. A small crowd gathered as he invited each of us to take a look, at, did you guess it? A snowy owl. And how did I get this picture? With my iPhone; put the phone up to the lens and snap. This bird lover was involved in a bird census count sponsored by the National Audubon Society. I loved his enthusiasm and generosity. No question, he had found his passion and was following his bliss. Serendipity that I headed to the Nubble? I have no idea, but this was definitely a one-of-a-kind best-ever walk. As I drove up here the other day I promised myself that I wouldn’t take as many pictures of the sunrise. I must have 1000 stored on my computer, and that ought to be enough. But no; promise broken. Each view is the same, but oh so different--different hues, clouds, water, time and location on the horizon. Each sunrise is of the moment, of what is there, and what I see on this given day. The sun will never arise or appear again as it does today, which is why I sit for an hour and watch. Awesome. Back to the cottage: Part 2. My fourth season at the cottage begins in two days. Nothing basic has changed, at least not the physical venue, my routine or my intentions. I still long for silence, solitude and simplicity and sometimes I like to be alone. It’s the deepening that has changed—a deeper longing and a deeper feeling of peace. I keep asking the big question: ‘Why do I want this?’ I keep hearing the same personal and mysterious answer: “So I can be with God and pray for people.” I don’t usually share these details of my personal journey. You have your own path, I have mine. I have no intention of trying to convince you to do as I do, think as I think, or believe as I believe. I share in the hope that what I write will tweak some longing in you. I believe, however, that all human beings long for something beyond the self that they know, beyond words or intellectual understanding, something deeply felt and mysteriously known, call it peace, God, the Holy, Soul. One of my walks takes me along some conservation land in town. The other day I stopped near the parking lot to watch a man get out of his van, open the back trunk, remove a wide plastic stepping stool, place it by side door, and slide the door open. I expected to see a toddler emerge, but no, out wobbled a huge, white-faced golden retriever. Simple love. |
Contact me: bobbifisher.mac@mac.com
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