I am apprehensive, feeling strange to the place, despite a kind welcome. The usual nervousness about being among people I don’t know, forgetting names, being awkward. Plus an unusual apprehension: Seven days with no obligations, no routine, no society except at dinner time—but not exactly vacation days, not holiday: workdays for the real work, without any distractions except those I invent. This is austere, this prospect. A Shaker week, silent, celibate. A week of listening where there are no sounds (but the birds and the wind). A test? Will I pass it? Will I be able to keep the woodfire going to keep my Cedar Cabin warm, when the clouds and rain return? Will I be able to keep my own fire going?
Not wanting to use this week for “trivial pursuits,” I did not bring the material for an essay I must write about Cordwainer Smith—not a trivial writer, but it didn’t seem appropriate work for this week. I decided that I should hope to be blessed by a story, and should hold the days free for that. And if I am not blessed, I have several heavy books to read. I will read seriously, I said, not skim and gobble, for once. So I have Lévi-Strauss and Clifford Geertz, Garcilaso de la Vega el Inca and Bernardo Diaz, and Sanday on Gender, and Leanne Hinton on Californian Languages: surely enough! For novels I have only Angélica Gorodischer’s, in Spanish, and my Spanish dictionary; and Joaquin Miller’s Life Amongst the Modocs, which Dan Crommie lent me. I didn’t bring anything easy. My choices were stern, austere. Will I be sorry?
I brought a tiny sketch book and colored pencils, but no camera. Nothing easy.
Lunch came in a pretty basket: two kinds of pasta salad. Greens would have been nice and something in the way of juice, but I guess one gets one’s own juice and stuff in foraging for breakfast after dinner. Water seemed fittingly austere.
But how perfectly beautiful it is, this little clearing of mown green grass ringed in by dark firs and bright, new-leaved, April-blossoming shrubs and trees! What utter luxury, to sit here like a lizard in the sun!
5:10 pm.
A little rabbit: the longest I’ve ever watched a wild rabbit (I was indoors in the windowseat). Brindle brown-grey, with flour-dust along the flanks, and the white scut elevated now and then. A healthy young rabbit, glossy fur. The great, black eyes, light-circled, are still visible from three-quarter-back view, so that Her Elegance can see what’s behind her as she grazes in the grass like a nervous little cow. Slender, reddish hind legs. She stands, the nose twitching and wiggling, one front paw dangling; she hops on; tucks her hindquarters under like a cat (like my cat, whom I miss).
Denise showed me about after lunch—the farm, the paths and pools. We heard the he-goat scream. Recently he had to have his penis cut off because of bladder stones, and now pees forcefully backwards through a tube; and the vet had to clear the tube, which evidently hurt. Beautiful herb and vegetable gardens, an orchardlet, berry bushes, root cellar, greenhouse—the dream farm. Oh money what wonders you perform (and how rarely are you so well spent). Beyond the farmhouse lie the wetlands and Useless Bay, a most endearing name, and blue land over the water—part of this or another island or the mainland, I don’t know.
I drew and colored a picture of Cedar Cottage as the ring-encircled sun faded into white sky and the temperature dropped; now, as the sun crosses my windows to the right behind the trees, it has cleared up again a good deal; but I don’t trust it to be fair. Now westering sunlight shines through the small young pale-apricot-color leaves of a sapling maple, and dapples the grass again. I am in my windowseat with a shot of whiskey; must leave for dinner in a short while. I have read the kind effusions of women who have stayed in this cottage in the record-books kept here. I felt somewhat unworthy; cynical; bad. We women do work so hard at keep the weaving from unravelling!
A rabbit just traversed the grass in a charming loping hurry—same one? Only rabbits know.
8:20 pm.
Dinner at the farmhouse table—rice and beans, cottage cheese and fruit, a lovely mushroom filo triangle, and green salad; wine and coffee—With the other residents—one young and black from Brooklyn, one from Calcutta, one Native Hawaiian; one young and Asian-American—and Linda, the manager, and Nancy Nordhoff, the founder. Laura cooks, eats, serves, clears. One resident is away.
I walked the paths after a tiny spatter of rain—first north to a lovely black pool, and along the east perimeter; to the supply house, where I called Charles at home; then on round the northwest perimeter, back to the black pool, and home. It is strange, there are so many paths, and between them the forest is so thick, evergreens and currant and salmonberry and a laurelly tall shrub with white panicles—elder, that’s what it is—I thought at one moment of the Sleeping Beauty’s hedge—the red salmonberry flowers nodding down from high above me on their thorn-furred stems. Yet it is all within a fence, and all only 33 acres. You can get lost and never be lost. It is dreamlike. The little cottontails are everywhere, quite fearless. A great contestation of crows above my roof broke up at my approach, swooping off blackly.
Twilight now, and nearly clear. Very still. Evening bird remarks. The white, sweet-clove-scented, ball-shaped flower clusters of the shrub just facing the windowseat windows grow whiter as the light fades.
DAY 2. 21 April.
11.45 am.
I hoped to rise at dawn, but lay instead till 7:30 in the broad loft-bed as the day brightened in the beautiful arched window with its tulips of colored glass. I sought my story. I did tai chi. I made my breakfast of granola, banana and orange juice, and tea, and ate it in the windowseat, which is where I think I will spend the week.
I didn’t bring the laptop, because Charles wanted it for the coast and because I decided I didn’t want the baggage of it, either physical or psychic; I brought three notebooks, this being one of them. I’m glad I did, so that I can write in the windowseat with the triple window all along beside me to the right and another narrow light at my feet, so I have the sky and trees, the white-flowered shrub, a fine romantic stump sheltering a rhododendron, and always the hope of rabbits.
After story-planning, I leapt up to walk before the rain—it threatens, though blue patches still show; the wind is strong in gusts from the south, not cold; I haven’t yet lighted the woodstove. I went down past the waterfall pond and round by the goats, whom I gave a twig apiece of elder, which they stood up politely for, gazing from their goat eyes; walked west along the Millman Road to where it rises to Double Bluff Road, the only route down to the beach—a goodish walk it must be. I hope it doesn’t rain so I can’t walk, as I love that alternation of writing and walking. I found two fine stones on the roadside among many pretty granites and interesting composites and generally good pebbles. And a tuft of rabbit fur by the farm driveway; a hawk at dawn? Came home by the pond with its lovely bronze statue of two otters under a great dark cedar. Two white seashells in the leafmould—an offering, surely.
5:30 pm.
Scribbled story, sun came out, I took off sweater, moved out onto porch; mowers mowed lanes of grass down vistas of forest; I drew the Blasted Stump that leans so picturesquely in the SE of my windowseat view (I drew it sitting on the same hummock, or Tussock, that I drew the house from); I scribbled more; the sun went in, and so did I.
Now have read some more Lévi-Strauss and sewed a little on my difficult Mimbres birds and geometries, having some whiskey. I wait for rabbits. Only flies come. But a fine, young, coppery-colored lizard came out from under the porch and glared balefully, fearlessly at me, just as I went in. This must be the lizard Denise inquired after. It has a fine new tail. The one I saw yesterday was dusty and a bit scrubby looking; it had lost its tail, and was very small. This one was maybe four inches long. Well, maybe three.
DAY 3. 22 April.
7 am.
By going to bed at 9:30 I woke up at 5:30, and listened to the birds’ dawn chorus (not numerous, but sweet) and saw the treetops in the charm’d magic casement. So I was up before six and finding it clear, the brightness showing through the trees behind the house, went out with my boots on (it rained a l
ittle in the night and the dew is very heavy) and did tai chi exercises on the only flat bit of Cedar House’s clearing, and then went walking, thinking it would be fine to see the Black Pond at the break of day. I wandered a while before I found it. What it is, east and north of the house, is a Labyrinth—a true, random one, where all the paths lead into other paths and branch away from them and reconnect. A rabbit started me on my wanderings, a fierce brave rabbit as in Beatrix Potter; it really didn’t want to run away, moving in short, grudging little runs, and then I’d catch up to it again, till finally it left the path in one disdainful lollop over a bush into the darkness of the undergrowth, gone. I finally found the Black Pond again. I saw my reflection in it, edging cautiously onto moss on the spongy rim, leaning over. Trees and sky reflect perfectly in it, the black water making a mirror. My head was a black, uneven round, featureless. It is an uncanny little pool. I guess it feeds all the other, lower, livelier pools, with their waterfalls and duckweed.
At dinner last night A. joined us; she had been in town for sonograms of the baby she is carrying. She and B. are both black, beautiful, and pretty young. I am by far the oldest. L., who has four children in Hawaii, leaves today. As we walked back from dinner and stood at the parting of the paths under the trees, she told me her children’s names and what they mean and how they imply the child’s destiny, what that child must do in life.
It is utterly silent now. This will be a silent day; we don’t meet for dinner, but will have it brought with lunch, as Laura has to drive two residents into town. I will cultivate silence. Maybe I will not cultivate it but leave it fallow.
I’m curious to have a weather forecast, but hate the idea of turning on the radio, spoiling, polluting the pure silence. I only did so once, for less than a minute.
9 am.
The rabbits use the paths.
Should wild things use paths? But after all they make their own, why not use ours.
9:30 am.
A large, dark rabbit has made himself Guardian of the path to the woodhouse. He sits, erect or in classic bunny pose, ears erect, motionless, in the middle of the path. Occasionally he patrols it for a few feet. Then he returns to his post.
From the rear they are like little short-legged deer. The behavior is very like deer: the grazing, the motionless alertness, surveillance. I live with a small predator, at home. It is interesting to watch small prey.
He’s off guard now, grazing just out of the sun near the Blasted Stump. He doesn’t “nibble,” he grazes. Big leaves of grass go in very quickly, twitching up and down as he chews, like spaghetti.
The light ring around the great, dark eye is also deerlike, and the leaf ears.
5 pm.
Unease of the gut and a bad taste in the mouth grew in me today and have kept me close to the cottage and perhaps depressed my mind. I wandered about in mid-afternoon and drew the view south from the largest, lowest pond, over the cattails, to Deer Lagoon and blue Useless Bay; then came home and sat out, finishing Lévi-Strauss, reading a good bit of Geertz, and a little Gorodischer, and wrote more, on and off, at my story; very ‘productive’ and industrious, but lacking vitality and spark. “I work as a cow grazes,” Käthe Kollwitz said of herself when her children were grown. I feel a bit like that, with nothing in my present life but the work; I would (I think) really prefer some regular variety, not necessarily company, at least not of strangers, but of other work—physical work—to cook, or clean, or garden, or something, at a regular time, or for a regular length of time, daily. As it is, I walk; but today didn’t feel fit to walk far, and so am a bit stale. Being outside ever since eleven in the variable sunny, hazy, breezy, mild day has been very good, though my tail is tired from sitting on the hard porch. Both lizards visited. Dinner will be alone, here, tonight; I’ll try to call Charles, who was out last night. The story alas is very slow and circumstantial—probably overly so.—I thought it would be nice to write short things, tiny stories, here; but what I have hold of is the tail of a very large, long creature. It seems a mild one, so far. A vast lizard?
Two walking sticks stand by the door, one just a weathered branch, the other a marvelously polished, dark-yellow staff about four feet long, tapering, with a few knots, fairly straight: is it yew wood? The door of Cedar House is of yew, its journal-book says. It is also yellowish, incredibly smooth and grainless, very beautiful. [Nancy later said the staff was probably rhododendron wood.]
I suddenly realised that I can get rid of the flies in my windowseat windows, which come in the door and buzz and distract me, by opening the windows. The flies fly out. Ma che stupidezza!
8:20 pm.
Two rabbits just outside the windowseat window—One has a good sprinkling of white in its fur, I would say an old rabbit, but do wild rabbits get old? The other darker—my Guard, I think. Intensely purposeful, the neat quick warm bodies move and halt in the twilight grass on narrow, delicate feet.
A female California quail was scratching in a ground feeder outside the farm kitchen window when I washed my dinner dishes, among house finches, chickadees, sparrows. The graceful oval body looked quite large among the little birds. She scratched and pecked vigorously. I love to see quail being quail, they are so full of quailness.
DAY 4. 23 April.
9 am.
Three great crying geese flew south over the trees, croaking clanging.
10 am.
Two deer, following the path from the north, stepping cautious with their delay-walk, nibbling shoots here and there, very watchful. I would guess a doe and last year’s fawn. Brown coats, black tails whisking. The great leaf ears turning and alert, shot through with sunlight, and the chin-whiskers full of sunlight.
Everyone uses the same paths here.
Digestion still off but improving. I woke at six and lay till seven, storydreaming/lazing. Sleep is pure and dark here.
Elisabeth passed her exams. I talked with Charles and Theo last night.
5:25 pm.
Wrote till eleven, then went down to see about the work party—this is Saturday. They were all about, volunteers, alumnae. I joined the weeders in the garden. We cleared a bed of all but a few lettuces and a poppy or two. Then lunch, picnicking about. A lovely day, cool this morning but the warmest yet I think, a clear sky till nearly five. I came back to get my cap and sunscreen, returned to weed again, the edge of the garden by the fence next to the potatoes. I worked till a bit past three, with great pleasure in good company, talking about writers, books, and movies. Felt enough was enough and came back and had a good shower in the beautiful bath house (and put my dirty dirty shirt in the dirty clothes basket to take home. I sponged my jeans—they have to last a few more days.) Met an alumna and her mother on the path, and showed them Cedar House.
Sat out and reread the morning’s work, too buzzy to write more. Read Gorodischer, and started a whiskey at five. A very good day! I really needed the physical work. How could this be managed at a place like this? so that there was some real work to be done, but only by those who wanted to do it? A “garden party” at a certain hour of the afternoon? A list of volunteer jobs kept posted? So that nobody felt obliged, but could have a work-break if they wanted? It would be difficult to handle.
DAY 5. 24 April.
11:45 am.
It began to rain along with dawn, and has rained steadily since. I lighted the stove for the first time—though it’s not cold, it’s dank, and I wanted the cheer and the bother of it, too. Just relighted it. It lights fast, draws a gale, and eats its little bits of wood like crazy. If I go on feeding it I’ll have to squelch out and get wood today.
I’m on page 25 of the story.
Thought of calling the book Making Souls instead of Love is Love. It is as much about “religion” as it is about sex, if not more. [Later: The book this story is in ended up as Four Ways to Forgiveness.]
Doesn’t look like any chance of physical work or walk today, unless I want to get very wet, and then how to dry wet clothes? I think the cabins wouldn�
��t be diminished by a little wall heater, with the woodstove for glory.
At dinner last night Jennifer cooked, with her fat fair baby Nash, replacing Laura; B. was there, and a newcomer/returner, L.; and J., whom I got to know a little better. She came from another writer’s retreat in Texas to this one; I don’t know if I like her, but suspect that if I did I would very much, but it would take a while. Yesterday, A. walked back from the gardens with me and we talked. She is five months along and was not feeling very well. She is beautiful and appealing, with a direct, mature sweetness.
DAY 6. 25 April.
ll:45 am.
The sun gradually came out, yesterday—I went for a road walk, east then west, at two. I went down and investigated the gate which my friend Judith said one could ignore the No Trespassing sign on to get down to the shore of the Lagoon; there was absolutely no ignoring it; I think the fences have been added since J. was here. I got quite warm though it was cloudy; and by evening it was perfectly clear, and cooler.
At dinner G. from India was still away, which is too bad because she looked so nice. Connie the gardener joined us; I liked her; she has grey hair, a bond. B. read us a story after dinner, the first time we have stayed together in the evening—a vampire love story, feministically correct, as far as a vampire story can be! A. is still not feeling very well. L. seems shy but well-disposed. J. made a criticism of a word in B.’s story and then gave way to a charming embarrassment. I can’t tell arrogant from shy, when they’re so young! Or maybe ever?
Words Are My Matter Page 32