writings from west virginia, one

When I stepped out of the cabin this morning, what struck me was the silence.  No birds were immediately audible, though I hear them now.  I think as a city boy I half expect all I have to do is walk out the back door of a mountain cabin and I'll hear all sorts of animals, see some.  I think nature is full of big visible things.  But what I forget is the vastness.  It's not full like the city is full.  Not busy in the same way.

Once I adjust to that, open myself to the silence, then I begin to notice the real fullness.  Something dove into the water as I approached the lake.  "Lake Arnold."  It's a pond.  I can hear at least two kinds of birds. Still, it's not undisturbed here.  The pond is green, which I expect has something to do with the cow pasture uphill.  Directly in front of me by the road is a red fire hydrant.  A car drove by a few minutes ago.

The wind is making ripples on the pond.  It's making me think of the Taoist idea of non-action.  My brain is noisy.  Sometimes I quiet it or try to connect with the world.  But I do so in a way that seeks to impose my will on the world.  I will the birds to sing, the deer to come closer, and as such I am still trapped in my own mind.  If I am to be still, I expect the world to be still.  I expect the water to be still, but it is not.  The world has currents not caused by me, and so it is my place not to create stillness, but to practice the non-imposition-of-will.  To let the currents of the universe move me.