January 2: "Highway," Inner Hermit, Hitchhiking

Billy Collins hitchhikes . . .

Highway

by:  Billy Collins

Hitchhiking alone,

I notice an ant

walking in the opposite direction.

I don't know if Collins ever went hitchhiking.  Of course, metaphorically speaking, everyone is on the road to somewhere.  As a poet, Collins certainly understands the need to move from one place to another--from the first word to the last word in a poem, for example.  I've said it before in previous posts, and I'll say it one more time:  change is inevitable.  Nothing stays the same, no matter how much you crave the status quo.

The other part of this poem equation is whether you hitchhike alone or with a companion.  I enjoy being left to my own devices.  However, human beings are social animals.  We all need a certain amount of interaction, even if it's with an ant walking away from you down a highway.  

Today, I spent a lot of time by myself.  I'm on vacation right now from all of my occupations.  For the next seven or so days, I am going to be indulging my inner hermit.  I'm not able to do this very often, as most of my jobs require a great deal of public interaction.  And I enjoy this interaction.  But I truly am an introvert at heart, so it takes a great deal of energy on my part to be in social situations.  At the end of most days, my peopling skills have been pretty much tapped out, and I need to recharge.

That's why I always take this first week of January off.  There's very little I'm doing for the next seven days that requires me to exercise my peopling skills.  I can stay at home, walk my dog, stream movies, read a book, write, and nap.  In fact, I've just listed all of my plans for the coming week.  (WARNING:  If you send me a text this week, it may take a while for me to respond.  If you call me, I probably won't answer.  And if you invite me to any kind of social gathering, I will politely decline.)

Think of me as that ant walking in the opposite direction, trying to escape human contact.

Saint Marty is now going to hitchhike to his couch, turn on a movie I've watched a hundred times before, and let the sun set outside his window.  A-L-O-N-E.

November 14: Inner Hermit, Judith Minty, 6 from "Fall"

I spend most of my days talking with people.  That's my job.  I register patients for surgery, answer phones, meet with students, teach classes.  My days are all about words.

In a single 24-hour period, I may have sixty or so minutes where I'm allowed to withdraw and not think about the rest of the world, if I'm lucky.  Usually, I spend a portion of that time writing these blog posts.  So, in a way, I'm still talking.  I just get to choose what I want to say more freely, without fear of alienating anyone. 

Sometimes, I dream of being Thoreau, living in the woods with my notebook and pen.  Or Judith Minty, retreating to her father's cabin on the Yellow Dog River.  The thought of that kind of isolation appeals to me at the moment.

Saint Marty is getting in touch with his inner hermit.

6 from "Fall" of Yellow Dog Journal

by:  Judith Minty

All day, I stay close to the cabin.
My ax rings the morning.  And half the afternoon
I gather kindling, spread the sticks
to dry.  I am menstruating and have heard
that bear are attracted to women when they bleed.

I haven't spoken in three days, have seen nothing
bigger than chipmunks and squirrels
at the woodpile.  It is only beyond the perimeter
that black shapes hide, breath steaming,
low growls circling their throats.
When the branch falls, I swirl to the sound, ax raised.