CAMPING WILD

 

There is a term called “wild camping,” which I suppose means camping away from regular campgrounds. It’s funny how we define every permutation of every apparent activity.

“Did you go camping?”

“No, I went ‘wild’ camping.”

There is also something, I learned, call “glamping,” where you camp but with all the luxuries of home.

This is already a camping trip. Life. And it’s always and only wild. Untamed, Unknowable. And not even that.

Since this group of three retreat guests and Fiona and me are not under restrictions of silence, but silence is “recommended” by our retreat owner, there was a discussion of whether to be silent or not. The retreat owner, who I’ve nicknamed the Lord of the Manor but may just end up calling the benefactor as he does pay everyone’s way, wants my opinion. Fiona says he has told everyone I am “enlightened.” I have to be careful to say very little so as not to expose myself!

I tell them that silence will bring you no closer to life or love or whatever you imagine you are or are looking for, but that being primarily silent among other people seems to allow another way of relating to happen. When you don’t know someone’s thoughts and opinions on every little thing, despite the fact that assumptions are still calculated by your neural programming (she’s pretty, he looks like a stoner, etc), there’s a degree of openness that arises. It seems greater than when people focus on differences and defending beliefs based on their interpretation of what others have said. And holding your thoughts to your imagined self, rather than spouting your beliefs and theories and judgments, forces you to interact simply on what seems to be happening.

I’m not saying this is a practice or method that anyone should employ, or that it’s better or worse, but it’s easy to notice how much of your mental activity is based on responding, even only mentally and emotionally, to your interpretation of what other people are saying. It’s all about interpretation, and it’s all illusory.

My friend Lynn held a theater camp with young people, and she took several kids with her the day or two before it began and gave them a role to play, an identity they would portray for the first few days. The identity was somewhat controversial or unconventional, and she asked them to notice how others reacted and how it felt. Then, about three days in, she revealed the ruse. The kids generally all noticed how much of their reactions and feelings about the others were based totally on what they said, the thoughts they shared that turned out not to be their own. Lynn went a bit further and worked in some nonduality and neuroscience, suggesting that the thoughts and identity we have are never our “own.” She says a few kids started to get upset, and then she moved onto the regular acting portion of the camp. But there were a couple who wanted to talk to her in depth, as they already had the sense that the conventional story of who we are wasn’t quite true.

So, after a little discussion about our thoughts on being silent, we decide to be silent about our beliefs and personal history, but could share reflections on what we feel. Funnily, or not so funnily, those reflections end up being as much a “me-story” as any other. Someone asks me how I think our “rules” are going. Somehow I reply. I ask if anyone notices that when they are talking about their feelings, they are already talking about their beliefs and opinions. Simply saying you feel connected to everyone and all of “nature,” as one man did, means you have a story of separation. There is a separate you and separate others who you are feeling this connection with. It also implies others with whom you might not feel a connection. And what is nature? Is there some nature separate from what we are, from all that appears? And are you sharing what you feel or are you trying to make something special out of life simply as it happens?

That’s as much as I say. I don’t know how they take it, but it pretty much quiets everyone for the rest of the trip. But I notice people seem to move a bit slower, and there are more smiles, and gentle touches as people pass each other. Anna, the young dancer, one morning says it feels like she has nothing to say. The young man who had talked of his feelings of connection said he felt the effort to try and explain had faded away, and he realized his words were more about having to always explain himself than anything genuine. Fiona pipes up, saying it’s all genuine and nothing is genuine, but the story of why we do anything will never explain what’s happening. She says life needs no explanation, and then adds that’s a good thing as there is none. I say nothing and let her take the quizzical looks and nods of agreement and giggles. I marvel that I ever said anything at all. What am I going to do next, give a sermon to the squirrels?

There was a plan for some talking during the trip, as Fiona tells faerie stories and tales of the sea monster around the fire at night. This was promised, and will no doubt be a highlight of the retreat. It’s a small, delicate fire, and she tells her stories well, filled with dramatic exclamations and local phrases. At the end, she says that we are also stories, no more or less true than those of fairies and monsters. She pokes me and gives me a look when she says that, as if we are co-conspirators of no thing at all.

After a walk around a large part of the lake at the end of our apparent journey, we head back to the cabins. After we are all resettled, our benefactor comes by to thank Fiona and me for making sure the tents and sleeping bags and backpacks and food were all ready and that the food was so good. He also thanks us both for our “wisdom and guidance.” He says he is very grateful we have chosen to stay here, and he feels very blessed. Fiona smiles.

After he leaves, she says that being included with me makes her feel she is being spiritually promoted. We both laugh. There is no wisdom nor guidance to offer, nor any needed, yet words seem to pop out.

But only the sea monster knows what is really going on…and she’s not telling. 💓