Simple

It was chop wood and carry water, except the wood was split and dry and stacked in the woodshed, so all I needed to do was bring in a couple armloads a day. My friends’ cabin is a simple structure - four walls, two windows, two doors. It holds the necessities: a bunk bed, a futon, a table and chairs, a camp stove and makeshift countertop, some shelves, a woodstove, a chest of drawers. No running water, no electricity, no insulation. It is just right.

In childhood, my inner artist was nurtured by two women with roots in the anthroposophic community. I learned from them at a young age to round the corners of the watercolor paper, wet the whole page with water, paint with a large soft brush in only red, blue, and yellow, the primary colors sufficient for a child - basic, and full of potential. Joan Moora died in a car accident many years ago, in early middle age. I learned of Lili MacCormick’s death while at the cabin last week, at age 94, also in a crash. The violent death is a strange commonality for two gentle women who brought form to life.

The same day I heard about Lili, I also learned of Jane Goodall’s death. I did not know her personally, but my father’s friendship with Sy Montgomery, who wrote Walking With the Great Apes, brought Jane Goodall, Dian Fossey, and Biruté Galdikas (Louis Leakey’s “Trimates”) into my awareness in a way that felt personal. Goodall was present enough in my consciousness growing up that it feels like we’ve lost a clan matriarch.

The circle of life feeling was strong as I drank in the early October palette of blue sky, golden light, red leaves. The days were warm, the nights chilly. For four days, I ate lentils and rice, wrote and read, hiked through the woods to bare rock vistas, and thought about endings. Even when keeping it simple, the days go too quickly and our time here on earth feels too short.