SEPTEMBER 2, 2020 – Amidst the pandemic I’ve moved the world headquarters of my law office to the Red Cabin. My wife joins me now and again until boredom and her online book business lead back to “the cities.” Although I’m plenty sociable, I’ve also always enjoyed solitude, especially when surrounded by “nature.”
“Nature” is in abundance here, from the surrounding forest with its flora and fauna, the big lake in all its moods, the weather and all of its personalities, and . . . the sun, the moon, and the stars and their time-keeping light and precision. Over an extended period here, a person develops an awareness of nature’s subtleties and variations.
Last night the south wind howled as silhouetted trees watched a full moon spill its light over the lake. I ventured out onto the dock for full interaction with the elements—lunar light so bright it washed out most of the stars; fresh wind tugging so hard at my lengthening “Covid” hair it made me laugh; waves drowning out my laugh as they curled and crested, then crashed upon the rocky shore.
The other day conditions were quite different. The sun was subdued by clouds; the air—still, warm, and humid. Nothing moved—not a creature stirred, not one aspen leaf swiveled, not a single pine bough swayed. All seemed locked tight in time.
Time. I recalled the time of solitude my grandpa told about up here.
When he was a few years older than I am now, he was alone at our family’s old cabin down the way, working on one of his Sisyphean tasks: constructing a 75-foot stone and mortar retaining wall. He said that for close to a week, an uninterrupted stillness prevailed. He hadn’t seen or heard anything move—not even the chipmunks that in less quiet times, ate unshelled peanuts out of his hand . . . to the glee of his grandchildren.
One evening amidst this unusual calm, he was consuming his supper when a fly buzzed around the kitchen, then landed on the table near Grandpa’s plate. The fly walked jerkily a few steps, buzzed some more, landed atop the back of the empty chair facing Grandpa, flew up, flew down, and landed on the table again. Annoyed, Grandpa retrieved the flyswatter from its hook on the wall behind the refrigerator. Now adequately armed, Grandpa was ready for battle.
The fly stepped left, then walked right atop the table. Grandpa raised the swatter and aimed for the kill. The fly stood still, about to be smashed like a . . . bug.
Just then, Grandpa stood down. In fact, he returned the swatter to the hook.
“That was the first living creature I’d seen in a week,” Grandpa later told me. “There it was, trying to keep me company, and I was going to kill it?! Gracious no!”
I’m sure the fly hadn’t a clue as to how close it’d come to “lights out.” But by having let the fly live, Grandpa revealed to me that he had a clue—a very big one—about life.
(Remember to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.)
© 2020 by Eric Nilsson
