MAY 21, 2020 – From the perspective of isolation at the Red Cabin, the outside world seems even more cartoonish than when we’re back in the city surrounded by the cacophony of civilization.
Up here spring is at least a couple of weeks behind, the effect of which is similar to what you experience when hiking quickly up long, steep slope immediately after the sun sets. You get to re-examine the whole operation.
Here my brain re-adjusts to “the way things were,” as I contemplate visits with friends—lively conversations over morning coffee and breakfast out on the dock; long hikes through the woods; kayaking, sailing on the lake; “happy hour” followed a scrumptious dinner on the porch; sitting on the dock to watch the sun set and the moon rise to the silent accompaniment of gathering stars; rousing card games on the porch; more star-gazing out on the dock; then reading time.
But then I catch myself. None of that is to be this year. When will it be?
As I encounter remnants of last summer’s wedding, when 150 people descended upon our quiet corner to celebrate life to its fullest, I recall the lights, the laughter, the lightness of being. I remember the happy conversations in multiple languages going on all at once, as if the world was everyone’s oyster and our place was now the world. All then was right with the world.
Now that world is in turmoil wrapped in fear, bound by uncertainty. A new scourge with old attributes has upended life as the world knew it—at least since the previous pandemic or other world crisis. The economy teeters, while the shortcomings of American disunity are laid bare for all to see—or deny. In contrast to the aftermath of 9-11, the response to Corvid-19 has been divided and replete with rancor. After 9-11, the national slogan was “United We Stand.” In face of today’s common threat, the national chant is, “I’ll Do as I Please.” America has become the Comic Book Country, and who knows, might not be long for this world.
All of which carries me back to this quiet, isolated corner of the earth. With the energy of the irrepressible spring, I tend to the new generation of white pine seedlings that will one day rule the realm. As I envision that day, I clip-clip-clip the poplar shoots and arching raspberry plants that would shade out the seedlings. The work is rewarding as it is never-ending. In nature’s resilience I find a model of hope-filled persistence. As birds around me sing incessantly and loons out on the lake sound their familiar calls, an eagle floats overhead with the fresh wind of spring.
All’s right in this corner of the world, which is still very much the world that is in perpetual turmoil. Amidst that turmoil, in this season of resilience hope springs eternal.
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© 2020 by Eric Nilsson
