The Little Cabin

 July 31

Friends,

Parallel flames walking this great plain,

Maybe to the horizon

Or maybe to join the sun.

How do YOU see your fellow human?

I'm looking out a cherished window, soaking in a cherished view, from a cherished little cabin.  The steam is rising from my jasmine green tea, the chicken on this mug is still sitting on her nest, the same place I left her last year.  I found the purple fireweed we pressed last summer, and I laid them by the lantern on the table in front of the window. 

Last summer the universe led me to this place through Darren, a Canadian I hitch hiked with. Because of him, we hiked out the the bus that Chris McCandless (Into the Wild) stayed in, and on that hike I met Diana, a Connecticut English major. She was up here on a writing grant focusing on the bus.  She was living in this cabin for the summer.  We became best of friends and explored endlessly for weeks and the cabin gave us shelter.  Jon and Joyce-the couple who homesteaded this land years ago and have a bed and breakfast on another part of the property-sort of adopted us.  

That's a short non-significant way to tell a long, significant story, but that's for another time, and now you have the context.  

So this summer Jon and Joyce kept the little cabin open in case Diana or I wanted it.  I wanted it, and thats how I'm here now, just 20 miles north of the entrance to Denali national park. 

I have mixed emotions being here.  On one hand, it is one of my favorite places, I feel safe, I feel clarity, I feel a sigh of relief, I feel alive. On the other hand, I've never been here alone. It's strange. It's quiet, I can only hear the walls, and the rain, and the leaves, and my breath.  And I think that's what I need.

Everything here carries a magical essence, even the smell, like sweet, cooked cabbage, and wood.  Out the window, the familiar birch and aspen weathered the winter well, and through them, I can see for miles to the east, across the lush valley, way into the snow capped mountains beyond.

I've been painting the trim on the B and B cabins blue. Jon and Joyce say this is their last year. What characters they are. I didn't tell them when I was coming and they found me looking at their garden and came out with smiles and hugs. We sat with the tv on, talking about Jon's medical problems of the last year, and their times in Michigan-how all the old men there carry little dogs-and their experiences hosting the campground at Myrtle Beach in South Carolina.  

Our relationship is progressing. I can tell because they told me I should charge devices and get Internet from their sun room in the house, instead of the guest area.  And when I was filling my bottle with hose water Jon told me to come fill it up at the sink.  Then they told me I could take a shower tonight in their house.  Maybe it's because they're starting to smell me, but it still means something, you know? 

Yesterday I went to Rosie's cafe with them.  I watched their small town jive with all the other locals that they've known for years. Miners and guys that Jon worked with at the power plant.  They told me about whispering John who lived out behind the mine, no one knew where he came from, he was seldom seen and had a quiet raspy voice.  Joyce remembers one day when he gave her a heart-shaped candy.  When he died in his cabin, no one claimed him, so they just buried him there. No one claimed him.

I watched an inchworm today, and every time it flung its head frantically into the air I heard, "What! No further?" It never got old.  There was a small blur of brown fur in front of the cabin. A little mouse. It flew over the ground faster than a squirrel. I tried to imagine what that meant the legs were doing.  I watched it, leaning forward, the edges of my lips turned slightly up.  The Js have seen a moose and a calf around, and a few days ago there was bear poop by one of the cabins. I look forward to sharing space with these larger animals.  Why do I feel the sacredness of creatures in proportion to their size?  Flies bug me, mice entertain me, at eagles I stare in wonder, at moose or bear I stop still, my whole being floods with presence.  Is it in relation to the threat they pose? Does it have to do with the frequency with which I see them? Or is it something else? Does their larger body somehow channel a bigger energy field or spirit that resonates deep within me?  Why do I not stop with this thunderous awe every time I see a fellow human?