I Notice The Wrens Tea Kettle...

August 6, 2003 Wayfaring Stranger. I believe at times, I'm a perpetual wayfaring stranger. a stranger even in my homelands. It's odd, when I look at my family history, legends - At least the family I most identify with, the Indians over the Upper Cumberland watershed. there are times, the deepest since of belonging I've ever known, is upon a gaze of the Big South Fork River - At times I've gained such a powerful since of belonging, in an instant, upon a visit, deep, not focused by myself, tears form in my eyes. And for me, beings like me, the deepest, happiest, strangest tear one can shed, is the one of happiness - happiness in belonging - belonging either to a child, belonging to a lover, or, as in the case of which I now speak, belonging to a land, or a river. There are times when I look down on this River, I am compelled to the greatest since of ease. And it's not something I look for, deep inside. It is not something I assist, or bring upon myself - it is a natural swelling of the land, up to consume me - and I am powerless. And as is the case a great much of the time, such a powerful belonging to one place, one land, one river, often leaves a person feeling like a wayfaring stranger when not in those places. These eight and a half months - this year, 2003 has been a strange time for me. It has been a time of great self discovery. It has been a time of change. I don't pretend that the times or this phase is over - on the contrary, uncertainty is the only thing that I am certain of these days. I know that I have not kept up with this journal as I have in the past. It is something that wasn't a part of what needed to be done. but I have often thought about it, even had anxiety over it. wondering if I'd ever get back to it. Now that I sit here, and I write for you, I still do not know if it is something that I will maintain regularly - I am still writing the novel that I dream of. Regardless of what remains to be done, or what I will do, I am here, back at Richards Bend for a while at least - and, for the moment, I am compelled to write for you. I am rusty - the gears and processes between my ears are rusty - what I create here, I am not as happy with as I once was. And I think this is for many reasons. The most obvious reason is because I've not done it regularly in so long. Another reason is that maybe I've lost the belief that it is a worthy use of my time. Maybe I no longer believe my words or worth the time spent reading them. Or maybe, as I am led to believe at times, my life here in these woods, in this isolated cabin is more of a liability than an asset, at least in terms of how I am viewed by others. There have been folks think and say some pretty harsh things about my personality when they learn of where I live. What's interesting, there are those too, who say just the opposite - that a life like this one here, would be a marvelous thing. And it seems, nobody is indifferent. I guess I have come to ask myself the ask question that a great many other people are asking for me. and that is, why? Why am I here? I spent a year building the place, the project itself, decent and worthy in anybody's opinion. and then it came time to move in; the spooky nights, the remoteness, some loneliness, the cold, snowy nights and getting iced in for days at a time - no one else here but me - and with the loss of the ability to write, I really did begin to question why I am doing this. Writing a journal, an online journal from such a wholesome, isolated setting was something I wanted to do and it seemed to me, in "The Habitation", I failed. It felt as if it were to much. It felt as if the life were too perfect or something. It felt as if, no matter how hard I tried, I would never be able to communicate in this format, what it was like to live here. It is also hard to update my pages from the cabin. And so I slowly began to withdraw. And so I'm back now - I've made peace with this journal. I've made peace with a great many things this year. a great many other things, I'm still fighting. But I've come to believe, I don't have to keep this journal in order to believe in living here. At one time, it felt as if living here and keeping the journal were synonymous - that I couldn't do either one without the other. Now, at least I believe, I am at peace with it. I do love being here. I love the isolation, but I do go in to town for visits with friends. I love the remoteness; the solitude. I love being independent - keeping the place warm with wood. I love the wilderness, and for what it's worth, I love keeping this journal.