Still Solitary

as a new Earth appears

I never intended to live here alone. But when I was invited—my friend Steve M says “summoned”— I could not say no. So here I am still. Solitary.

When I first heard the summons, Covid and its isolations were not yet on our collective radar screen. Perhaps I sensed what was coming, for in that year-before, I (actually, my friend Mark H and faithful crew) built me an Ark. A cabin, we may call it, though really it’s a little chapel plus tiny-house kitchen and a small room that serves as my monastic “cell.” My cell is 9 feet by 13 feet—just enough for a bed, wardrobe, bookcases, writing table and rocking chair. I am immersed in woods rather than waves so this Ark does not float, but it serves a similar purpose: Transformation in God as a new Earth appears.

When I made the move, quarantines were just beginning. Forty days, I thought. I will immerse myself in the wildness for forty days. You know how powerful forty days can be. Noah and his Ark with all their companions—human and creatures of all kinds—floated on the floodwaters for forty days. When they emerged, a new Earth appeared. Moses ascends the mountain for forty days. Ezekiel lies on his side for forty days, Elijah journeys for forty days, Jesus goes into the wilderness for forty days. Forty days represents a time of sacred transformation, when we depart one embodied life and are borne into another.

My forty days has gone on a long time, so there must have been a lot to leave behind. As of this writing I’ve been here six years times three hundred and sixty-five days, plus two leap-days, two months (thirty and thirty-one days, respectively) and fourteen days. I’ll save you the math: Two thousand, two hundred, and sixty-seven days. Fifty-six times forty, plus change. That’s lot of transformation. Most of it invisible. I will not here catalogue all that I have let go in that time but if I piled it up, the mound would reach a long way toward the Moon.

It’s not as though I stay in the woods all the time. I do go out—to get food and other supplies, to visit friends, family, and others, to walk in the mountains. I went to the movies the other day, and out for ice cream. I connect with far-away places and people using remarkable electronic gadgetry that is both blessing and curse.

The great majority of my time, though, I spend here alone. Well, not actually alone, of course. Like on the other Ark, I am surrounded by all the creatures of the forest. Some, especially this time of year, sing a lot. Some sting. Last night Porcupine came to gnaw on my woodshed; I’m not sure why. People come here too, to walk and to visit. For wild church on Sunday mornings, which brings joy and love to many hearts. You are invited.

In the past year especially, I have been kept company by The Book. The Book who was my companion in waking and in sleeping and who has now taken her first wobbly steps into the wide, wide world. My writer-in-place friend Mary Lyn had alerted me that I might feel lost when She departed, and indeed I did. Bereft is the word I chose. I was bereft because my dear companion had left these woods to take up her place in the world.

She is now in the hands of my capable editor, then soon will return to me for a little more smoothing and sageing before heading out on another adventure. Before long, She will leave the nest for good.

I promise more news as it develops, but in the meantime you can put this in your calendars: Book Tour in the fall of 2027. Stories of transformation, of mystery, of Christ in the woods, of new Earth emerging, of becoming sacred space. So though I am solitary still, I can see the ending of this time. When She goes out into the world, I will follow—and a new Earth will be emerging.