I come to stay here in a creekside cabin to vacate, to retreat, to
Conversations For Transformation,
to refuge, to look in silence newly at what's possible. The
simple wood cabin, deep in the forest of massive towering redwoods,
is cantilevered out over the rushing river.
Cabin #2, Ripplewood, Big Sur River, California, USA
I find myself asking the cabin to grant its permission
for me to come inside it. It does! Then, once inside,
I turn around to lock the door behind me and, catching myself in
the middle of this illogically autonomic reaction based on fear, I
burst out laughing and throw the key onto the bed, leaving the door
It has everything I might need, and I don't need everything it has.
There's a shower with hot water and clean towels, a dreamily
comfortable bed, and a tiny kitchenette. It has a simple heater for
cold nights, a small desk and a power outlet for my laptop
computer. It has electric light but I prefer candles when I'm here.
The windows have drapes but I want them open all the way, each
window providing a vista of such splendor that I'm simply rooted,
standing still in the middle of the floor staring out, mesmerized
and immobile. I'd change all the wooden walls to glass, if I could,
so the mighty forest could come inside with me.
There's no television, no telephone, no internet access in here.
Aside from my laptop, there's no electronic or digital
anything here - just the bare essentials. And now that
who I am
is both very bare and very essential.