12/22/15 - A Kitchawank Essay: A REFLECTION on LOSS and LIFE (Sept. 2012)

He sat in his favorite spot along the upper section of the red square trail. This was his trail, his forest. He wore his favorite, and only, work boots with their scrapes, mud and dust. He had on his “silly” socks and work-stained dungarees. His tee shirt was soaked with perspiration and his wet arms were sprinkled with flecks of pine needles and bits of leaves. His head, with its sparse, but close cropped population of hair, was covered with a bandanna made into a cap. It absorbed his sweat and kept the deer flies from biting his head … at least most of the time.

He had been clearing different trails of underbrush and overhanging branches. The machete was plunged into the ground and his work gloves were resting nearby. His pistol, in its tan second-hand leather holster, was looped onto his belt. Not that he shot anything with the pistol, but it was his insurance policy. It certainly would not deter a bear, but perhaps the noise might frighten it away. Every so often he would take pot shots at dead trees, just for the fun of it. He was a poor shot and needed some real target practice on the pistol range he had elsewhere on his property.

His favorite spot overlooked the lake below his property. If he could just cut down a few large trees he would have a magnificent view. But why cut down trees if you couldn’t use them. He had no roads yet to retrieve the wood for his stove at the cabin … so he would wait … the trees would wait.

He unfastened the laces and removed his boots and set his gloves on top of them. He used a special lacing technique that allowed more flexibility of movement rather than the typical crisscross method of lacing. His “silly” socks looked like wild flowers in a sea of grass. Purposely mismatched multi-colored banded socks. He once dated a woman who had worn these startling socks, and he made such a big deal out of it, that she bought him three sets of socks. Each set had three socks and all of them had different bands of colors. He was making an “I don’t give a shit” fashion statement to the world when he wore them.


He rested his back against a small elm tree and assumed the half lotus position for his meditation. One foot tucked into the crook of the opposite knee, one foot under the other knee. There is no right or wrong position for meditation, but he liked this position since it made him feel compact, small and all together. The pine needles and grass provided a somewhat soft cushion for his butt. The tree was hard against his back but that feeling would go away once into his meditation … it was part of the meditation exercise to ignore outside influences.

It was the end of his work day. He was lean and decently muscled for someone who would pass beyond the three-quarters of a century mark this month. He loved working his trails. He marked them with colored pieces of hard plastic and even produced an accurate map for visitors. But mostly he made them for his grandchildren, who unfortunately seldom, if ever, came to the cabin. But these were his trails and he loved them. Others came and used them and he was pleased. In a way, this was his solitude and time with the forest.

He began his meditation as always with breathing exercises. He considered himself still quite a novice after nine months of daily practice. Breath in, breath out, breath in, breath out, relax the body, ignore the bugs, flies and the hard tree at his back. Breath in, breath out, clear the mind. The silence was not silent. Leaves rustled in the wind, animals stirred … and his mind stirred.

He started meditating during his travels in Nepal, shortly after his wife died. He had held her in his arms as she passed away one agonizing night in the hospital. He found meditation to be a calming influence in his chaotic world. His wife of twenty years was his life. They had remodeled the cabin together, hiked these trails together, lived and loved together. They were the center of each other’s universe. There was no sense to her death and he wondered if there was any sense to his life. He had his pistol in its leather holster. He could join her in an instant if he chose to. What would be his choice?

One thing about meditation, that he had not yet mastered, was that thoughts and images intruded into his mind like a slideshow. He would push one aside only to be replaced by another. He often mixed in prayer with his meditation. He believed in a universal God, a one god or goddess or an “it”. Something out there in the universe created the universe … and he chose to believe it was true. Jesus, Allah, Yahweh, they were all the same one god that people had strived to create in their image, and mold to their purpose. But there was a God, and he spoke to that God on behalf of people in need, and for himself … and for a future partner.

He desired to transform himself into a new person, half of him had been lost, half of him was empty, half of him needed to be regrown. He meditated and prayed for openness, for acceptance, for renewal … for some fucking thing that would help him become whole again.

Love is such an unknown thing. Love with his wife had crept up on him, silent as a wisp of smoke at night. He didn’t realize the depth and commitment of his love until after she had died. He tended her day and night through her various and many surgeries without giving it a second thought. Had she survived, their life would have been very limited … but he always said yes, yes we would be together, yes we would make the best of what we have. Yes, yes, yes. And then it ended with a no!

“This is not the way the story is supposed to end” he told her on her death bed. Tears streaming down his face. He was saying the phrase over and over again as if the recitation could change things. And their story didn’t end the way it was supposed to.

And now here he was sitting with his back against a hard, unyielding tree, in his favorite lookout over the lake, wondering what life was all about and where to go from here. Like the phoenix would he rise from the ashes and be reborn? Or would he stay ashes? He chose to be reborn, he chose to rebuild, and he chose to be renewed.

His meditation, like most times, wandered over many images and subjects. One slideshow followed after another slideshow. Once in a while he would have moments of “nothing”, and these were cherished. As he meditated he would vision himself bathed in white light from the one God, filling him with strength, light and goodness. He had finally gotten over the feeling of being alone. That was the hard part. Rolling over at night and finding the other half of the bed empty. In the beginning he cried himself to sleep almost every night. But now he thought he was okay. The emptiness was there but it wasn’t painful anymore … just empty.

The cabin and its many acres of forest were his sanctuary. It was a place of reflection and growth. Many times his friends would come up for a weekend and their company was welcomed. What is the purpose of having a God-given land and not sharing it? Not that he lived there year round. Mostly it was several days or a week at a time. The cabin was on the side of a large hill or small mountain depending upon one’s ego. It was inaccessible by car once the snows came. The plumbing was above ground so water was only available from late April to mid October when the temperature was above freezing.

Every inch of the cabin had a hint of his wife’s creativity. Nowhere could he look and not find her touch, her thought or her handiwork. She was his second wife and both were “adults” when they met, romanced and finally married. They had no children living at home, and both had jobs … just themselves. And their courtship would have made the pages smolder if it were to be put in print. And then cancer stuck its ugly head into their lives. First one part of her body was removed, and then more parts, and then her heart failed. This is not how the story is supposed to end. Like in the movie “The Notebook”, they were to die peacefully together in bed.

His legs began to ache from being too long in the half lotus position. Meditation had been a bust this time with all the slideshows. He stretched his legs to regain circulation and waken the rest of his body. He put on his boots and tightened the laces. Stiff legged he stood up, picked up the machete and gloves, and began his descent down the other half of the trail.

Like some lizards, who when losing a tail, grow a new one, he was half a man growing into a full one. He had been “dating” women, not looking for a replacement, but for a new adventure. Replacements are not to be had … nor would it be good to look for one, for one would not be found. But looking for a new adventure? Yes, that was the only reasonable course of action.

The continuation of the trail descended down a long slippery steep section with an easy lateral trail back to the cabin. The scent of pine filled the warm air in some places. Deer feces marked their path, muddy puddles formed here and there from the runoff of the mountain. A sense of wellbeing and belonging began to settle in on him. Here is where he belonged, hiking within the forest and his feet upon the trail. Pines, birches, maples, hemlocks and trees of all description surrounded him.

It was not within his personality or nature to be alone. Soon, and with patience, he would find this “adventure” of a woman. She would not only help complete himself, but he would help complete herself. A partnership. Two people coming together for a common good, a common purpose. To be loved, to be cherished and … to fill the other half of the bed.