SEPTEMBER 1, 2021 – When I prepared to escape Monday afternoon, I collected what I’d need for a week of isolation at the Red Cabin—food, phone, tools, clothing, computer, et cetera. After 120 miles, however, I remembered what I’d forgotten: my journal and The Hidden Life of Trees by Peter Wohlleben. I felt like an absent-minded backpacker when he realizes—far along the trail—that he’s forgotten . . . matches and poncho. To ward off panic, I inhaled deeply and gathered my senses: I’d survive without fire and hope for good weather.
Privation, moreover, can spur inspiration and opportunity. “Instead of writing with your fountain pen,” I told self, “pull out your violin—which you did manage to remember—and play some Bach, Dvorak, Mendelssohn, and whatever else you can play from memory, since . . . you didn’t manage to remember to bring music.
“As to the book,” I continued, “there are loads of books at the Red Cabin. Surely you can find one of interest.”
“Okay, okay,” said self. “You’re sounding like my mother—I mean your mother or any mother, for that matter. Yes, I’ll check out the shelves and find something, except . . .”
“Except what?” I said.
“Except,” said self, “most of the books up there are either fiction or nature reference books. A person doesn’t read The Guide to Woodland Mosses, and I’m not into fiction.”
“Perfect!” I said.
“What do you mean?” said self. “How can the imperfect be perfect?”
“Now’s a per-fect time for you to read some fiction.”
“Why?”
“‘Why?’ You’re sounding like Illiana. But just as I try to answer each of her ‘Why?s’ I’ll answer yours: because there’s lots of truth in fiction. In fact, some critics argue that truth is to be found only in fiction—never in what is purveyed as non-fiction. Besides, literary fiction is edifying, and honestly, for a guy who likes art and music and writes a ton, I’d think you’d be open to the edifying effect of quality literature.” I hadn’t meant to preach, but there it was.
“Okay,” self said. “Why argue? For the next few days, it’s gonna be just us at the cabin, so we should start off right and get along peaceably. I’ll follow your reading recommendation if you’ll follow my exercise regimen. Deal?”
“Deal.” With that, I thought . . . how ’bout stretching “literary” all the way to “poetry”?
After settling in, I pulled from the shelf a vintage edition of The Song of Hiawatha by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, who, in 1823, lived in the same dorm (Winthrop Hall) at Bowdoin College as his best friend, Nathanial Hawthorne—and where I resided exactly 150 years later.
With trepidation I handed the book to self. “Huh?” he said, paging through the beautifully illustrated edition. “This is poetry.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Poetry is to literature what moss is to the forest.”
“Hmmm,” said self. “That’s an odd comparison, but a deal’s a deal.”
It remains to be seen how much edification occurs, but remember the adage, Reality is stranger than fiction.
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© 2021 by Eric Nilsson
