NOVEMBER 23, 2019 – If you’ve read any of my previous three posts, you know I’ve been “up north” tending to my trees—a kind of rehab operation for a veritable, and once incorrigible political junkie. The retreet—I mean retreat—involved 48 hours of sequestration from the woes of civilization and quality time among a few hundred white pine seedlings among acres of harvested woodland.
Much of the work required bare hands. In Thursday’s snow and wind and in Friday’s clear, still, cold air, the conditions brought focus if not a little numbness to the brain, as well as to the hands. What brought a little more focus were the long series of rifle shots sounding from the “40” immediately north of the “40” where I was working. It was our reclusive neighbor, I figured, target-shooting in preparation for the deer-hunting season opener today. Just in case our neighbor or someone else might go for an early start, I wore a hunter’s-orange vest.
Hours outdoors in the bracing cold makes one appreciate the warmth radiated by a wood-burning stove—and the nourishment provided by a simple hot meal improvised out of a can of baked beans heated in a saucepan and devoured with a soup spoon. You come to embrace the simple comforts of life—good footwear, warm clothing and comfortable lodging; food in your bowl, coffee in your mug, and a good book in your hands.
With no TV reception and sluggish internet service, detachment from the “news” came easily. Several times I checked slow-loading headlines, but in quick order, I eschewed the substance under them.
As I rejoined the rat race late Friday afternoon, I longed for the quietude and isolation I’d achieved at the “treetment center.” I realized that my rehab experience, however brief, had done something to reduce, even cure my addiction. Gone was my former obsessional curiosity about whatever had happened or might have happened in the big world beyond my little world. Once everything back in the city had settled down, and I was free to do as I pleased, I didn’t check the news. I didn’t watch TV. I didn’t look at the newspapers of the past two days. Over a dinner of Chinese takeout, I pulled out the dense account of Reconstruction and the Gilded Age, The Republic for which it Stands—the 900-page book I’ve been plodding through for over a month. I made significant headway. I then went for a long walk in the cold, invigorating, November air.
I can’t yet say that I’ve been permanently cured of my prior addiction. Perhaps I’ll slip down the slippery slope, grab a fix of headlines, and with elevated blood pressure, jabber away again into the general chorus of political cacophony. But the possibility exists that something truly has affected my psyche, my outlook, and in the end, my addiction.
Stay tuned to see how I’m doing . . . as I pursue a range of interests more productive and less destructive than my (former?) political addiction.
(Remember to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.)
© 2019 Eric Nilsson
