Intense

January 16, 2017

Greetings from the refuge,

In a way it, was the first home I ever owned.  A few yards of nylon, some zippers, fiberglass poles.  It rolled up as small as my sleeping bag, but when it was unpacked it was all the room I needed.  It became all the home I needed.

For many years I strapped the tent to the back of my bike and set off to see.  It was a comfort knowing that wherever I stopped for the night I would have shelter.  In truth, most of the nights on the road I slept in open air, a sky of stars for my ceiling.  On picnic tables, under bridges, behind barns, in cornfields and wheat fields and someone’s backyard.  Sometimes just wherever I was when the day ended.

But the tent was my companion, in the literal sense.  It was there when I needed it, always reassuring me.  ‘Tonight, when it is too cold, when the rain is too hard, when you have no where to go, I will be your sanctuary.’

It was not perfect; it would leak, small drips formed on the roof and splashed on my face.  Wind would slip in thru uncovered places.  Mosquitoes would find their way in through the tattered screen. It offered little comfort from unforgiving earth.  It was not perfect.  It was better.

Inside that tent, nestled in my down sleeping bag, my gear tucked in around me, everything I needed, I was at home.  I felt something relax in my chest, a sense of peace. 

Yesterday I felt it again, as strong as every mile I travelled forty years ago.  Running twenty miles in the cold morning, the bitter edge of the day trying to leech the warmth from me. My view of the world was from the shelter of my balaclava, rimmed with frost.  I was protected from the hostile cold by a few layers of fabric.  I felt at home.

There was a night Tom and I spent in that tent, still wet from too many rainy nights humping through the Alleghany’s, and lined the bottom with newspapers to stay dry and warm.  Another; crammed in with Abe and Lou, holding on for life in a horrific storm in the Bighorn Mountains.  Another: hiding from the swarms of insects in Mississippi, waking to look at the screen, covered with ravenous bugs, humming their evil intention.  Another: sick, shivering with fever in Maine, bundled in all the clothes I owned tucked in my mummy bag.

In this little temporary shelter, reading by flashlight as I readied to sleep, I created a small refuge from the wild world.  I felt comfort, safety, I felt at home.  That sensation of having a place to go, to rest, to gather strength.  Most nights I slept soundly, foolish or not, feeling protected in my cocoon. My companion said: ‘Rest easy.  I will watch over you.’

It was a two man tent, but there had been as many as three people crammed into it.  The roof was sky blue and the sidewalls were a bright clownish orange.  It lacked the technical design sophistication of today’s tents, but it served its purpose, and then some.  Like most great things that come into our lives, the beauty and value was hidden in the simplicity.

There were some amazing views through the opening in that tent.  Mountains, desert, ocean, trails, people, snow, rain, sunrises.  But what I always think of first is shoes just outside the zippered mesh, under cover from the dew.  My grasshopper stove boiling water for oatmeal and chickory.  The beginnings of the day just outside the folded flaps.

I’ve felt it sitting on an airplane, eating a meal in the small cone of light. I’ve felt it as I put my collection of things in my little altar space in a hotel room.  I’ve felt it in the first glance at a map.  Each time I’ve started a fire.  Finished shoveling the driveway, standing in snow, surrounded by winter, at ease with the shelter on my back.  Every time I have been alone on a run in every place I have ever travelled through.  The sense of being at home in the world.

My home is different in this phase of life, and I love it as much.  The fact there are enough bedrooms for everyone, and more room than I could fill with what I need, is not important.  I am at home here, feel that same sense of sanctuary, and I am grateful for the view each morning.

What came with that blue and orange tent was more than protection from the elements.  It provided me with the confidence to go out into the world.  I don’t know whatever became of that tent, but the gift remained with me.

 “Every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home.” Matsuo Basho

Hope this finds you at home,

David

Copyright © 2017 David Smith