Not a monk

One of the things Flibbertigibbet (aka Nina) mentioned to me Saturday night was that some of my blog posts made it sound like I wanted to be a monk.

I've never been in a monastery (except for that place that used to be in Forest Park), but from what I've seen and read, the discipline and regimentation is a lot more than I could deal with. I am the least regimented person you'll ever know. I wake up in the morning with no fixed plan and go through day more or less spontaneously.

What I want to be, I think, is not a monastic, but what I am now: something of a recluse. I'm not completely cut off from society, but I can limit my exposure if I so desire. If I want a few days with no contact, I can have that. But if I want some time with other people, I can always find someone to hang out with.

Henry David Thoreau's Walden pond was right on the edge of Concord, not out in the wilderness. He was in town all the time, visiting his mother or his landlord and mentor, Ralph Waldo Emerson. The poet Cold Mountain, of whom I have written frequently in the past, lived in a more remote location than did Thoreau, but he was no hermit, either. He frequently visited with farmers and shepherds in his area, and often visited a Zen monastery a day's ride from his cliff dwelling home. That's how I want to live - not completely alone, but with more seclusion and private time than most people find comfortable.

I suspect that if I were completely honest with myself, I would also say that I am trying to get away from myself as much as I am from other people. Or at least from the person who has left behind the long trail of relationship failures, professional screwups and social gaffes. If I'm alone, I can feel reasonably sure that the only person in the room who knows my checkered past is me.