hermit's thatch

Picking up from the previous entry about chickadees:

The black-capped chickadee dwells in tree hollows, those spaces within the trunks of trees that have been hollowed out by birds (especially woodpeckers searching for insects) or by injury or from sim[ple decay. These hollows are often deep and include pulpy wood. The hollows are relatively safe and comfortable … for birds.

Not only birds but humans can find especially large tree hollows attractive dwelling-places. A relevant hagiographical example is the 12th century Dutch hermit Gerlac.

Gerlac Valkenberg had been a secular, worldly character most of his life, a soldier and mercenary. When his wife died, he began wandering, reaching Jerusalem on a penitential pilgrimage. Upon his return to his Netherlands home, Gerlac renounced his possessions and became a hermit, finally settling into a oak tree hollow as his dwelling.

Gerlac’s eremitic life upset the abbott of a nearby monastery, who tried to convince Gerlac to join the monastery. Gerlac refused, and the abbot began spreading rumors about Gerald’s supposed thievery and robberies, even persuading the townsfolk that Gerlac was hiding stolen money and goods in his tree hollow. A mob marched to the tree and chopped it down, only to discover nothing hidden in the tree, vindicating Gerlac. Towards the end of his life, it is said, Gerlac communicated with Hildegard of Bingen and was counted her friend.

A delight of deep winter is offering sunflower seeds to birds, specifically, to black-capped chickadees.

The black-capped chickadee is probably the most resilient of birds. Around December first, when heavier snows are falling and temperatures dip below freezing -— and it becomes clear, too, that bears have gone into hibernation — the time is right for putting out feeders. The best feeder is vertically long and tapered to frustrate squirrels and avoid bird flu from busy horizontal trays harboring germs from other birds and retaining their feces. For chickadees, life is short enough without additional hazards.

The chickadee will probably live for a year or two. They are born in May and have several months of summer to build rigor and memory. These smart little birds actually retain memory of food source locations and flight patterns, and even come to recognize humans.

Chickadees live in the hollow of a tree, which is why one can create a box in which the chickadee will happily reside if the box floor is strewn with wood shavings. They will have reproduced during that first splash of new spring and summer, and prepare themselves for first winter. If they can survive winter, the chickadees can eke out another summer, but probably not survive the upcoming second winter. They seem to live consciously, with a repertoire of songs and calls, which will linger into late summer and early autumn.

To hear the songs and calls ofchickadees in late autumn conveys a great poignancy because we know that the bird that is singing may not survive much longer. So the modest chickadee joins its more decorous counterpart, the hototoguiso, the Japanese nightengale, which, however, sings in mysterious night of the arrival of spring.

Jalal Al-Din Rumi (1207-1273) is a complex poet. His frequent use of flamboyant, often sensual, metaphor to express mystical thought can both confound and illuminate. But Rumi’s Sufism denominates his spirituality as being derived ultimately from a monastic versus an eremitic tradition, or perhaps rather from an intellectual or artistic source given his poetic propensities.

Rumi approves of that necessary solitude that equates to occasional or routine spiritual practice or discipline. Hence, his advice on solitude, while not as compelling to pursue as is the trace of his fantastical poetry for its literary brilliance, is nevertheless helpful.

Here are most references of Rumi to solitude, citing the Coleman Barks translations.

*****

Move outside the tangle of fear-thinking.
Live in silence.
from “A Community of the Spirit”

Be melting snow,
Wash yourself of yourself.
…..
A white flower grows in the quietness.
Let your tongue become that flower.
from “Be Melting Snow”

Be quiet and clear now
Like the final touchpoint of calligraphy.
from “Sanai”

Feeling lonely and ignoble indicates
that you haven’t been patient.
from “Craftsmanship and Emptiness”

Finally I know the freedom
of madness.
from “No Flags”

Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,
there is a field, I’ll meet you there.
from “A Great Wagon”

Live in the nowhere that you came from,
even though you have an address here.
…..
Spend less time with nightingales and peacocks.
One is just a voice, the other just a color.
from “Tending Two Shops”

A great soul hides like Muhammad, or Jesus,
moving through a crowd in a city
where no one knows him.
from “Buoyancy”

The next passage — the entirety of “One Who Wraps Himself” — contradicts the image of Jesus expressed in “Bouyancy” by advocating that the listener live, practice, and preach in the marketplace and not remain hidden and anonymous (like the hermit?). These views are reminiscent of Nietzsche’s dilemma for Zarathustra, where the latter comes to realize the futility of the marketplace, and, therefore, the necessary rejection of the world and of public teaching

God called the Prophet Muhammad Muzzammil, “The One Who Wraps Himself,”
and said, “Come out from under your cloak, you so fond
of hiding and running away.
Don’t cover your face. The world is a reeling, drunken body, and you
are its intelligent head.
Don’t hide the candle of your clarity. Stand up and burn
through the night, my prince.
Without your light a great lion is held captive by a rabbit!
Be the captain of the ship, Mustafa, my chosen one, my expert guide.
Look how the caravan of civilization has been ambushed.
Fools are everywhere in charge.
Do not practice solitude like Jesus. Be in the assembly,
and take charge of it.
As the bearded griffin, the Humay, lives on Mt. Qaf because he’s native to it,
so you should live most naturally out in public and be a communal teacher of souls.
from “One Who Wraps Himself”

Which is worth more, a crowd of thousands, or your own genuine solitude?
Freedom, or power over an entire nation?
A little while alone in your room 
will prove more valuable than anything else that could ever be given you.
from “The Private Banquet”

The rich traditions of eremitism in ancient India established several categories of hermits common to Hindus, Jains, and early Buddhists. This history is useful in considering the forms of eremitism that can be pursued in modern society.

The trajectory of eremitism in ancient India can be charted in its highlights. The RigVeda is the expression of Brahmin culture, of the dominant religious and economic class. The era of the Upanishads represents the shift from Brahmin deity worship and ritual to Vedantic enlightment and focus on consciousness. Eremetism becomes a strong option for spiritual expression during this latter period. Historically, however, the shift is muddled and does not follow a straight line.

Even the original eremitic group of ancient India, the Kesin, are radically distinct in appearance and decorum from the staid and dominant Brahmin culture. The Kesin are known only from one hymn recorded in the RigVega (10, 136). The passage about the Kesin describes them as having “long, loose locks” and as being “all sky to look upon” (that is, naked, like the later Gymnosophist). The Kesin are considered muni or “inspired,” with the term muni later referring generally to holy men or saints. The Kesin worshipped the deity Agni, the god of fire. Their appearance alone suffiesto demonstrate the germ of rebellion aginst Brahminism.

Sramanas pursue the same asceticism as the ascetics of the sixth and fifth century groupings, but systemitize their meditative and yogic practices, influencing Buddhism and Jain. Sramanas more conspicuously separate themselves from the Brahmin class. This separation becomes a social necessity, reflective of the social break that historical eremites everywhere pursue.

Sanyasi are renouncers who affirm the life of detachment in order to pursue a solitary life. Their place in the fourth asrama as forest-dweller is a later formality. Many figures from kings to householders were reputed to follow ascetic practices to varying degrees, while remaining in the world. The evolution of the sanyasi from practitioner to renouncer completes a cycle.

This culmination presents the sadhu,a phenomenon both ancient and contemporary, eremitic and social, religious, pious, quietist, and also flamboyant, colorful, and public. The sadhu is renoncer of the world and yet embracer of the world in deliberate and public display. The sadhu is a unique historical and eremitic figure.

With the history of eremitism, the evolution of presentation in Hindu (and other) India is useful in understanding that eremitism evolves from practice and belief as well as personality and psychology. The modern solitary, with only a handful of acquaintances or living in the city and not the forest, may have more compelling reasons for renouncing the world than merely personal preference. It is difficult to conjure an ancient renouncer’s motive, especially since nearly the entirty of Hindu,Jain, and eearly Buddhist society of ancient India was at least sympathetic to his values if not outright supportive of renouncing. The spiritual and moral effort of the hermit could be more readily accepted in those special eras of history when the whole of society admired the spirituality if not the practice.

If April is the cruelest month because it encourages the growth of flowers but can suddenly cut them down with resurrected cold, autumn is its counterpart. The last warmth of summer lingers into autumn, and the trees reflect the turning of the season with their colorful, dying leaves. Thoreau says of autumn that the leaves teach us how to die. And the variations of color in this final process seem to crown life’s effort with triumphal portraiture.

But the progress of autumn reminds us of the dissolution of summer. Shall we look back at the flowers of summer only to reflect on their brevity in our fields and gardens? Last night, the robust flowers — yellow, orange, red, and violet — succumbed to an overnight frost. In the morning the shriveled flowers hung crestfallen and lifeless. Should we have anticipated this event and turned “modern” in our attitude? Have brought out the technologies: the plastic wrap, the warm covers? Who would encourage it?

Not the transcendentalists, who visited their flowers in visits to open nature, not by maintaining contrived and entrapped closures. Thoreau delighted in venturing to the woods, not in sitting stultified in a captured zoo-like presentation of nature. Emily Dickinson teaches us that the processes of the universe must necessarily take their course, just as nature intended. To militate against them, regret them and curse them, is to deny them and ourselves, of insight into what is true and wise and necessary. The cycle will go on with us or without us, and we are better to choose to be with it. The flowers understand, and yield, perhaps, however, dreaming that things should be otherwise.

From the Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson is number 25 from the “Death and Life” poems identified by her subsequent editors:

Apparently with no surprise
To any happy flower,
The frost beheads it at its play
In accidental power.
The blond assassin passes on,
The sun proceeds unmoved
To measure off another day
For an approving God.

Solitude emerged in the early modern era, attempting to recover the motive of the medieval hermit, polished over several centuries to become a suitable alternative. But the process was slow and tortured, and has never realized the validity of eremitism. The validity of medieval eremitism was purposeful and spiritual, wherein life became a project, but by the early modern era had been identified as quaint, eccentric, and irrelevant.

Medieval eremitism had always been deprecated by the Church, and was attacked by the twin pillars of Augustine and Benedict as a practice riddled with thieves and vagrants. Eremitism was intolerable to authority because it represented the priority of the individual and the moral over the institutional and the rote. Still, great efforts by eremitic innovators of the central Middle Ages, from Romuald to Stephen Muret to the Beguines, attempted to reconcile the two. Eremitic religious orders patterned after the decentralized communities of the desert hermits thrived until the end of the medieval era, until Church and state combined to overthrow the remnants of eremitism. The subsequent wars of religion attacked eremitism from both a Catholic and Protestant critique. By the dawn of the Renaissance and early modern era, eremitism was formally ended.

A few early modern era thinkers (Petrarch, Montaigne), hearkening to Stoicism, hoped to salvage solitude for its core ethics. This core was noticed intuitively, hesitantly, tentatively, without a firm structure applied to living. Solitude in this era wavered between disintegrating into eccentricity and instability, presented one moment as a balm to society and at another a dangerous disaffection. Stoicism was insufficient. Solitude was not truly the hallmark of Stoicism, as Seneca (the chef ancient Stoic) reveals.

The hesitancy of Seneca in his moral advice to Lucilius is indicative of how the later moderns might proceed with solitude. Seneca knows that solitude is an aberration in society and cannot be justified because the world condemns solitude and the individual who is alone. The logic of Seneca is that aloneness, without check from a guardian, friend, or mentor, leaves the individual open to temptation and dissolution. (Of course, Seneca’s notion of solitude is not coming from a tradition of eremitism but from the somewhat cold-heartedness of ancient Greek Stoicism). The following passages (from Letter 25, to Lucilius) is indicative:

“There is no real doubt that it is good for one to have appointed a guardian over oneself, and to have someone whom you may look up to,someone whom you may regard as a witness of your thoughts. It is, indeed, nobler by far to live as you would live under the eyes of some good man, always at your side; but nevertheless I am content if you only act, in whatever you do, as you would act ifanyone at all were looking on; because solitude prompts us to all kinds of evil.”

What Carl Jung called “culture” in his assessment of social impacts on the stages of life, and in his presentation of the dichotomy between nature and culture, is here presented by Seneca as the strong censorious character of society that will pass judgment on otherwise innocuous social conventions. Thus, to the young Lucilius, Seneca cautions against an embrace of solitude because it will appears too anti-social, too youthful, too revellious, too flagrant. Not only that. Solitude will appear to be a cover for immoral behavior!

“You ought to make yourself of a different stamp from the multitude. Therefore, while it is not yet safe to withdraw into solitude, seek out certain individuals; for everyone is better off in the company of somebody or other — no matter who—than in his own company alone. The time when you should most of all withdraw into yourself is when you are forced to be in a crowd. Yes, provided that you are a good, tranquil, and self-restrained man; otherwise, you had better withdraw into a crowd in order to get away from your self. Alone, you are too close to a rascal.”

Clearly, Seneca is not a true proponent of solitude as it would be understood in modern circles. He is conscious of its attractions but uncertain if it would not alienate the solitary from all social interrelations, whether in society or even among friends. In the worldly sense, Seneca’s advice is sound, perhaps. If we must function in the world we may as well conform to certain (or many) conventions. This position reveals the absence of psychology and effectively leaves solitude to those who can afford it. And, perhaps, he is right. Perhaps the hermit is not made for society, not made to succeed in the world.

In searching for a prototype modern hermit, one is confronted by the reality that after the Middle Ages, hermits in modernity were destined by authorities to disappear. In order to survive, eremitism transformed into solitude, and hermits transformed into solitaries.

Unlike historical hermits, however, who seem so similar regardless of geography, culture, or era, solitaries present more variable phenomena. Life styles of modern solitaries depend more on circumstance and personality. Solitaries were not necessarily more accesptible to society, but at least were more readily disassembled and concealed.

Today, the topic of solitude is standard fare in popular psychology. Even the most aloof bureaucrat to the most troubled artist is tolerated for solitary behavior, indeed, even redeemable and rewarded for eccentricity and showmanship. In offering solitude to their audiences, columnists bid us to cultivate solitude as a preliminary to big events: athletic, business, legal, artistic, or personal. Solitude is treated as a homeopathic remedy: not too much such as to appear strange, but just enough of a suggestive remedy to overcome a lack of confidence or mettle, a meditative moment before embarking on stress.

How far solitude has come in the modern mindset, stripped from its roots and mental character, far away from eremitism. Thus, pop psychology plays a contradictory theme. Solitude in small doses is good for a fighting spirit, but too much solitude is neurotic and dangerous habit. Too much solitude leads to loneliness, isolation, and depression — a chief malady of the old, we are told, who do not socialize enough. The goal of the populoar adviser is often mercenary and views solitude flippantly yet like a prescription. How can one approach solitude not as a temporary remedy but a “lfestyle” that does not undermine itself? Can its link to erenmitism be restored or reconstructed?

A useful model for beginning this project is found in psychologist Carl Jung’s 1931 essay on “The Stages of Life.” In this essay, Jung moves through the individual’s psychological stages, but within the context of the perennial factors of Nature versus Culture. Here the danger of oversimplification also obscures the real context of our lives and the stage of life. Nature is not merely heredity but the autonomy of the growing person to come into contact with Nature and its context of universals. This is where each life stage discovers not only its self-interests but its relationship to our universe. In contrast, Culture (what some writers call Nurture, a midsleading term) is society, relationships, institutions, ideologies,in short, all the binding contrivances that we encounter in the stages of life, their character and impact relevant to the moment, intertwining their contrived content with the capacities and vulnerabilities of the individuial in the given culture. This presentation by Jung gives full reckoning with the influences of stages or situations, so that we cannot think of stages outsideof the context of material and cultural contexts. We cannot make the stages mere abstrctions. We can never know the content of the psyche without understanding that Culture is not merely a context but is content, depending on the individual.

This is all prelude to understanding solitude. Solitude could come out of the individual will, but it also emerges in relation to Culture, so that we are obliged to ask why this phenomenon of solitude, why now at this stage, why in this social context what it is? Could it not have been different? In fact, is it different elsewhere? Resisting the temptation to dismiss solitude as subjective also means resisting the temptation to view solitude as social failure or unintention, society letting down its guard. Revisting Jung restores complexity, but also reinstates simplicity, addressing the inner and outer factors while inviting us to look at their conjunction, the conjunction of what the individual is made of and what society is really all about.

All of these factors were, ironically, visited by the Rousseau versus Hobbes debate about human nature. Jung refreshes the debate with a subtle presentation of the psyche that neither Enlightenment progenitor coulod have addressed. Rousseau, however, was quite willling to concretize the historical chasms; Jung merely goes back and illustrates them with logic from psychology. All that’s needed is to plug the hermit of history into the conversations.

Here are a few favorite random snippets from Zen resources:

from Iron Flute.
14. Pai-Yun’s poem:
Where others dwell,
I do not dwell.
Where others go, 
I do not go.
This does not mean to refuse association with others;

I only want to make 
black and white distinct.
*****
from Gateless Gate.
19. “Everyday Life is the Path.”
Joshu asked Nansen: “What is the path?'”
Nansen said: “Everyday life is the path.”
Joshu asked: “Can it be studied?'”
Nansen said: “If you try to study it, you will be far away from it.”
Joshu asked: “If I do not study it, how can I know it is the path?”
Nansen said: “The path does not belong to the perception world, neither does it belong to the nonperception world. Cognition is a delusion and noncognition is senseless. If you want to reach the true path beyond doubt, place yourself in the same freedom as the sky. You name it neither good nor not-good.”
At these words Joshu was enlightened.
*****
[Added poem to 19. “Everyday Life is the Path.”]
In spring, hundreds of flowers;
in autumn, a harvest moon;
In the summer, a refreshing breeze;
in winter, snow will accompany you.
If useless things do not hang in your mind,
Any season is a good season for you.
*****
from Gateless Gate.
24. “Without Words, Without Silence.”
A monk asked Fuketsu: “Without speaking, without silence, how can you express the truth?”
Fuketsu observed: “I always remember springtime in southern China. The birds sing among innumerable
kinds of fragrant flowers.”
*****
from Iron Flute.
67. Genro:
The whole world is my garden.

Birds sing my song;

Winds blow as my breath;

The dancing of the monkey is mine;

The swimming fish expresses freedom;
The evening moon is reflected
In one thousand lakes,

Yet when the mountain hides the moon,
All images will be gone

With no shadow remaining on the water.
I love each flower representing spring
And each colorful leaf of autumn.
Welcome the happy transmigration!
*****
88. Yüeh-shan’s Lake.
Nyogen: “Zen monks like to dwell intimately with nature.
Most Chinese monasteries were built in the mountains or by a lake. Zen records many dialogues between teacher and monks concerning natural beauty, but there must also be many monks who never asked questions, simply allowing themselves to merge with nature. They are the real supporters of Zen — better than the chatterboxes with all their noise in an empty box.
*****
89. Hsüeh-fêng’s Wooden Ball.
Nyogen: When Yüan-wu gave a lecture on Hsüeh-tou’s selected koans and poems, he criticized one phrase after another, then published them all in book form under the title, Pi- yen-chi, or Blue Rock Collection. After his death, his disciple, Ta-hui, gathered all the publications together in front of the temple and made a bonfire of them. What the teacher builds in shape must be destroyed by the disciples in order to keep the teachings from becoming an empty shell. Western philosophers create their own theory, then followers continue to repair the outer structure until it no longer resembles the original. In Zen we say, “Kill Buddha and the patriarchs; only then can you give them eternal life.”
*****

An acquaintance of an acquaintance indicates that a relation, a man nearly forty years old, has passed away. This man was scorned by family, rejecting of society, and clearly suffered much trauma. He was autistic, reclusive, anxious, depressed, obsessive-compulsive, suffered diabetes and cardiac issues, dying of heart failure. He eked out a life dependent on disability funds, and lived in a basement.

His life presents the involuntary solitude born of psychological trauma, brought low by illness, not at all conscious or deliberate solitude. The basement, an inexpensive hovel sufficient for his circumspect needs, was reflective of his entire self. Yet he had enlisted himself as an organ donor, perhaps because he despised his body, or because he played a final trick on the world, showing them that he was capable of “caring” wherein “they” were not. No one knows.

One cannot help but note an analogy to the famous basement dwellers of recent literature: Dostoyevsky’s anonymous denizen of Underground, and Ellison’s hapless Invisible Man. In literature, the subtleties of psychology are not over-analyzed. We are presented with a seamless lot of syndromes and maladies, to be accepted as a literary package, with the off-goal of entertainment, even as the authors hope for deeper appreciation of their protagonists and how they might reflect issues of the day.

But in the case of the afore-mentioned acquaintance, there is no reflecting or speculating. He is known-of and gone in the same instance. One might have imagined conversing with such a person (though it is said that he insulted anyone who came too close). How far away from the imagined cave-dwelling historical hermits, for example, Paul of Thebes, who would receive others and converse with them, if only to chide them about their tolerance of their worldly milieu. We have no right to inquire too much, but with our literary protagonists we can only nod and think that, yes, given their premises, they were bound to turn out the way that they did. Can we say as much to justify ourselves?