In My Cave, and Thanksgiving words from BigBird
I have learned a thing or three.
Goals and targets provide a path, a map for travel.
Timelines, benchmarks, and measures help with pacing and managing expectations.
Ideal finish line conditions, or ending conditions, create the carrot, the prize.
Leaving worse things behind provides the push.
But still, here, I have not done anything. Sure, I have planned, I have prepared, I have dreamed.
But I have not gone anywhere, yet.
The willingness to do what it takes.
The willingness to do whatever it takes. Whatever it takes. Whatever it takes.
The willingness to change.
The willingness to sweat, hurt, suffer, fall, bleed, and lastly, break.
I have found that only when I am willing, will I succeed on my journey.
Willingness, bravery, courage, and sacrifices are my sword and shield.
I will suffer, I signed up for it.
I will bleed, I signed up for it.
I will be scared, I will get hit, I signed up for it.
Emotionally, I try to live as one with my physical nature.
Physically, I try to live as one with my emotional mind and heart.
Emotionally and physically, I will break, I signed up for it.
I am on the grandest adventure of my life, my one and only true purpose. This target I set for myself, almost a year ago. This, was a new game for me, one I had never played before, so benchmarks were unknown. I had a target, and I had a timeline, that is all. Everything else, per my norm, everything else will be learned along the way. Constant evaluations, being brutally honest, occurred often. This memoir writing was not proceeding as expected. My memoir was slow. I needed to readjust, heavily, and now.
I know “whatever it takes”, I have tasted those tears of blood. I know how to suffer, and I am not afraid. My 13-year game of Russian Roulette ceased, first when I laid down my needle, then the pipe, the coke, the dope, and the crank. Next to go were the pills, the microdot, the paper, the shrooms, and the speed. Last to go, was my one-time precious, the weed. I knew I could not live with those things in my life, because I put them above myself, and they were there to take life away from me, I put them above myself until I did not. I left many once-friends behind, I left everything behind that was in my way of staying alive. I chose to stay alive, but not for myself, for others.
I had just quit the devil’s game, because he and I played our games together every day, all day, for 13 years. The devil does not give up easily, the devil loves to play, and he does not like it when the games are taken away from him.
Whatever it takes.
I arrived at my cabin in Seeley, Wisconsin, just before midnight on Tuesday, November 3rd, 2020. Seeley is about 40 miles south of Ashland, WI. Ashland sits majestically on the shore of Lake Superior, so it is up there. On a horizontal line, it is slightly north of Quebec, and equal to northern Maine. I was there at my cabin, aka BirdHouseNorth, to write. I was there to write heavily and write hard, writing more of my life memoir. My memoir has been my only work, my only job in 2020, and I would attempt to finish this work by Thanksgiving. My time in Seeley earlier this month was an incredibly fascinating adventure, on multiple levels.
Whatever it takes.
I was committed to being there for at least three weeks.
I would assume the role of a recluse and would reimagine BirdHouseNorth as a retreat cave. BirdHouseNorth would be my cave.
I do not know how to write, but that was not going to stop me. I dropped out of school when I was 16, finishing the 10th grade, but I do not remember any teachings past 6th grade because my drugs occupied my attentiveness, my thought, and my openness to everything else in life, most of all school. I was there at my cave to write because I have chosen to write down everything I have learned and leave this work to my two children, aka my one and only true purpose. This need to share is intrinsic and runs deeper than deep, and the depth of this work is correct. I am no academic, but I have a PhD in drug addiction, a PhD in figuring shit out, a PhD in self-introspection, a PhD in working really fucking hard, and a PhD in making shit work despite all else, aka, whatever it takes.
BirdHouseNorth is a glorious 600-square foot log cabin, constructed 120 years ago, now with electricity, running water, a full kitchen, and a shower. I have a big wood stove, which is my only heat source, and I have a pimping outhouse, so no potty in the cave, because duh, caves do not have potties. In my cave, there is no internet. In my cave, I have no cell service for more than 10 miles around. In my cave, there is no phone, none. In my cave, there is no TV or any of that, none. Just music, books, and nature. The only way I can communicate with the world is smoke signals, and the only way the world can communicate with me is to pop-in and knock on my cave wall.
I had committed to the concept of “Burn It Down”, meaning I would light that candle of intent and attempt with this writing, and I would burn the wick down, giving myself entirely to the work. Soon after I arrived and began writing, Burn It Down transformed into Open It Up. And open up I did, with every painful memory, every blockage, and every scary monster. Open It Up then transformed into Break Thyself. I was open, I was not afraid, even though it hurt like hell, but there was something else beyond what I had already experienced, there was something else waiting for me and to find it, I knew I had to break. And break I did.
Finding My Religion
Finding My Religion, my snippet, my small encapsulating piece, my meaning of life vignette.
During my sanctuary time in Seeley, forcing myself to break, something was presented to me, a gift.
Something was definitively shown to me there, previously unseen by these eyes.
Something I had thought, previously existing only on the surface, and not as truth like I would soon and entirely comprehend.
Something I had written, but previously unrealized.
Well, what happened?
I dug deep, I worked tirelessly, I slept little, I ate little
Digging deeper, then deepest, I began to see, or so I thought
I had already believed it; I had already felt it
I was limiting myself to four hours of sleep per day, the entire time. I set an alarm on the evening of day 1 so that on day 2, I would not get more than four hours of sleep
On day 3, I had awoken five minutes before my alarm was scheduled to go off, and I popped out of bed, after three hours and fifty-five minutes of sleep. I did not use my alarm to wake the rest of the time. Almost to the minute, I was waking after 4 hours of sleep, like a clock
I was averaging 11.75 hours of writing per day through the first 8 days, but something felt wrong, something was not working
I went to bed at the end of day 8, perplexed, so I leaned my pencil into my notebook once I burrowed in under the thick flannel bed sheets
It did not take long after I distanced myself from the clack-clack of my laptop keys and got horizontal, that I encountered my first breakthrough, then and there on day 8
With new-found focus, I pushed harder, writing 17.75 hours on day 9
I pushed harder, and harder, but grew slightly frustrated
At the end of day 12 and after 14.5 hours of writing, I started losing it. I was indecisively frustrated, but why? I was yelling out loud at myself, throwing shit around the cabin, and at 3 am, I slammed my laptop shut, totally frustrated, and headed to bed, knowing that something was wrong, this work was somehow incongruent, something missing, misaligned
Always I have a notebook and pen on my nightstand, and tonight, I knew I would need it. Something was off, and now away from my laptop, I thought through it from a different direction. And voila, breakthrough #2 on day 12!
I wrote in my journal, “This is not a fucking vacation, this is my life’s work”
Day 13 began with clarity, focus, and excitement. I wrote 19 hours on day 13
Day 14 began to hurt. I realized I was still missing something bigger, something deeper, and I had much further to go. I understood that emotionally, I had to break to not only finally see it, but commit myself to the embodied whole of the work as I pick up the broken pieces of my Self
I wrote in my journal on day 14: “The self-evidence of this unhealthiness is moderately alarming. But maybe, this is the way it needs to be. It might be the self-sacrificing that finishes the memoir- not me”. I wrote 15.75 hours this day
Day 15 was horribly unhealthy. I was unsure at times, stopping, going for a couple of walks in the woods, and brutally questioning myself twice during the day. I was mindfully punchy but kept punching, and kept pushing, writing 15 hours on day 15, and knowing I had further still to go, emotionally. But why was I disturbed? What was I missing? And would it present itself to me before I go entirely mad?
I wrote in my journal on day 15: “This is either going to hurt me badly or it will be a spectacular piece of work, maybe both”.
On the evening of day 15, I went to bed at 1 am. So, it stood to reason that I would awake at 5 am, exactly the same as I had the previous two weeks. Strangely, today would be different. I woke solidly and feeling rested enough, I got up straight away, turned on my bedside light made from deer antlers, and made my bed. I do not keep my phone, aka alarm clock, next to my bed. I have a wall clock on the other end of the small addition to the main horizontal log structure, which houses three queen beds for sleeping, I have a clock on that other end but the clock is not illuminated. I did not even look at the wall clock in the bedroom wing because it felt like I just got the prescribed four hours of sleep. Something else felt weird though, but not the amount of zzz’s I had collected. Something felt heavy, it felt deep, like maybe it had dumped snow all night and as soon as I stepped outside my cave to pee in the wood, two feet of snow would greet me. Something felt weirdly acoustical like maybe there was a large insulating layer all around my cave which made it different, feel different, sound different. It was different, and it was very weird. I finished making my bed, walked into the main room, turned on the small accent light, hit the play button on my Bose iPod SoundDock, and grabbed my sweatshirt to go pee outside my cave. I stopped, looked around, and wondered what was different. I couldn’t figure it out, and the suspense was building by the second. I slung my hoodie on, and started to walk outside, stopping in my tracks right before I passed the kitchen. I glanced up at the clock as I was heading for the cave door and it must be wrong, it said three-forty, not five am like it was supposed to. I was totally puzzled but I knew something was afoot, but also shook it off as something that would present itself to me later, or maybe not. And then, I opened the cave, barely had one foot outside and it hit me. There was no wall of snow, but Mother Nature was screaming at me, loud! And she was telling me exactly what I was waiting to hear. I ran back inside my cave to get my phone and record it, recording the found religion that rained down upon me, standing outside my cave at 3:42 am last Thursday, and needing to pee.
On that day, day 16, I wrote 16.5 hours and experienced breakthrough #3
By day 17, I knew I had to flee, I had to leave, I had to go home. The memoir was nowhere near done but I was scared, terrified, and I had to get home. I started packing and wrote for 15.5 hours that day.
On day 18, I mostly packed, drained the hot water heater, cleaned my cave, and prepped to leave. I only wrote 9.5 hours that day.
I wrote in my journal, “here in my cave, I see it. Now I see it. I need to go home. Not want to go home. Or ever. I need to go home. Soon. And fast. Soon. This thing, I know not from where it came. This is not mine, it is not me. I must go. Fast and soon. I am done here, in my cave. I need to fly home. Fast. Soon. Here I sit, cloistered in a cave but preparing to fly.
On day 19 and after 249.5 hours of writing in my cave, I flew home. No writing on day 19, I arrived home, exhausted, and tried to make sense of it all.
Here we all are, at the singular poker end of the divining rod, and regardless if you reside on one side of the rod handle or the other, we are one, and here we fucking are, all together.
What did I find? What did I learn anew for those 20 days up north?
It was me finding my undeniable north star, my deity. What I saw was instantly and undeniably realized, and is highest in reverence to me, but not in a traditional or contemporary way. Plus, I recorded the darn thing. That which is divine to me is my spirit, my presence, my intention, my willingness, and my commitment. I love people who find a higher power in their deity, religiously, like my dad BigBird did. I love people who walk soundly in their own shoes, spiritually, like I try to do.
I worship the most southerly layer of the bag of skin that encapsulates me. I worship this skin on both sides, one as being the outer layer of skin on my feet as I stand and journey throughout the world. Second, as being the internal lining of the same piece of skin, the metaphysical and spiritual connector to the tools I use during the journey, and trying to make a difference in the world.
My long-gone dad, BigBird, spread the good word as a Christian Protestant minister for most of his adult life, 30 years behind the pulpit, but many times, you could have never guessed it, because he cursed like a motherfucking goddamn son of a bitch sailor. Still, my pops had wicked smarts and a wickedly huge heart.
On November 19, 1995, my father wrote a Thanksgiving sermon that he delivered to his small church in north Baltimore. Here is a piece of BigBird’s heart on that day, because the fucking guy could sling some words, and now, I will step aside because of how BigBird shared all he had with the world, my dad runs circles around me still:
“The legend of Thanksgiving deals much more with those things in life that nourish the soul.
thanks for physical survival & rightly so!
but, if physical survival was dominant concern they should have / would have stayed in Europe
Pilgrims & most other early immigrants came to America for the soul’s freedom
Let your Thanksgiving be more for what nourishes soul than for what nourishes body
If the physical/material side of life is suffering/sick/broken, then life is hard
but if one’s soul is well and prospering, then there can be much to celebrate
But, if the soul is suffering, sick, impoverished, wounded then no amount of physical health, wealth, fame will make life anything to celebrate
What is really worthy of celebration and thankfulness are the soul-goods of life
(some years ago I was bemoaning my son’s decision to quit school, when he had so much talent and so much to gain from school
o when a friend asked, “But, is he a decent human being?”
o and I had to answer that he is, indeed, quite a spectacular human being)
Clearly a child who is rich & famous, but a rotten SOB, gives little cause for celebration & gratitude
Just as your own life, even if filled with great prosperity & material success, gives little cause for celebration if your parents disavowed you, your spouse hates you, your children won’t speak to you, and your neighbors all shun you.
Let us not descend into triteness as we catalog our blessings
don’t bother being grateful for things that do not really matter
rather, dwell on the true blessings of life, the blessings that no matter what hardship comes, still make life rich and good
For, we all would rather have
a child’s smile than the world’s finest automobile
a mate’s love & trust than the biggest mansion
a parent’s respect & pride than all Ft. Knox’s gold
an eye to see the world’s beauty than the Hope diamond
a heart of peace & contentment than high office or position
a true friend than a great stock portfolio
To paraphrase Jesus’ teaching,
Give thanks not for the things that nourish and enrich the body, but stifle and kill the soul
Rather, give thanks for those things in life that nourish and enrich the soul, even when the material side of life may be sick or weak or impoverished
Give thanks for the things worth being grateful for!
~ Ray Norman Bird, aka BigBird
Happy Thanksgiving everyone and do good shit today!
Yeah, yeah, but what did I really see a week ago today outside my cave? It will be a surprise, reserved for my children within my memoir to them, and then shared with all later. I will not deliver the final bound book under the tree this year, and that is fine. I am doing it correctly, whatever it takes, and no matter what. To me, the ridiculousness of my depth is correct here, and with that, the stars align.
