Spring

By One Man's Kingdom | Source | October 1, 2008

I didn't start this blog a year ago to preach against feminism or the uneven treatment of men in society.

What I had more in mind was something more positive - my own foray away from the general current we all tend to get dragged along by if we pay no particular attention to what we are doing with our lives. Like most men, I pretty much accepted the cultural scenery as a given and the rules and customs of our times as something over which we had little control. Also like most men, the idea of Freedom had an irresistible allure to it, but the practise of it seemed nowhere evident. It was as if we in the West sang ourselves to sleep with the lullaby of our freedom, while in reality we were all locked in small cells. With each passing day, it seemed as if Freedom was being stifled, and that even a pretence to it was beginning to be abandoned.

However, I had made a rather critical error in assuming that freedom is, or ever was, possible in a community of people.

Sharing space with others, invariably having priorities of their own, always means a competition of interests is at work. The more people live in close proximity, the more interdependent they become, the less autonomy any one individual has, and ultimately Freedom becomes an ideal, rather than an attainable end. The closest any of us can come to reaching true freedom is to mark out a small space of our own that we allow no other to enter, and to do for ourselves all that is required to sustain our lives in bearable comfort. This is what I set out to do 3 years ago when I closed my office, said my last goodbye to my clients and installed myself in a small cottage far from the noise of traffic deep in the New Zealand bush overlooking the sea.

My plan was a simple one, but an ambitious one as well. I wanted to completely remove myself from dependency of every sort, then having removed every uninvited influence and hold on my life, to then re-engage only in those ways that I had deliberated over and chosen specifically for myself. In this way I could at last claim to be living a deliberate and examined life. I cannot claim to know exactly what it is that propels me to want to do this, given that most people seem settled in whatever places they find themselves, but I can say that I am grateful for its guidance: a life of solitude, reflection and self-reliance seems now to me to be the most natural and satisfying life that I could live. All other modes of living that I have engaged in - active family life, busy professional career, dating and cohabiting with women, the usual ensemble of friends and the social life that goes with them - all seem now to have been stages in a progression toward the completion of the adult self.

There is an honesty that the self demands when there are no others around to deceive, and this constant demand for the truth, day in day out, of one's every motive soon begins to have a positive influence on the mind itself. The practice of self-reliance also asserts this same primacy of truth. No amount of excuse making or finger pointing will disguise the fact that the potatoes haven't been planted, or the tomatoes well-watered. An empty parlour in winter means I didn't take care enough to stock it with the summer's surplus.

Every action of importance has a consequence. Every lie is transparent. Every thought is judged. Every interaction with others reflected upon. And strange as this may seem, after so much scrutiny, a more natural and tranquil personality develops.

It is the springtime that has reminded me of my original purpose, and no doubt it was this very same time of year a full year ago that motivated me to record whatever progress I was making for whomever might be interested in the first place.

Spring here is the most violent and unpredictable season. Right now, rain is driving hard against my window and I can barely see through it more than 100 yards distant. I am in shirt-sleeves, but only an hour ago I was in full winter dress as strong south-westerly breezes brought very cold winds straight off the sea in strong gusts that rocked the house on its foundations. There will be spells later on this afternoon where the rain-clouds will thin, the sun will make an appearance and the spring warmth will see clouds of heavy mist oozing out of the thick bush on the steeper slopes. Already my grape plant is budding, as are the blue-berries and the lemon tree is well into its spring burst of flower, alongside the autumn season's fruit that are now almost orange with ripeness.

My garden beds, all non-existent 3 years ago, are now heaped high with the black, loamy soil of my own making, a product of fallen branches, fern trimmings, all my junk mail, all organic refuge and the fibrous tissue of all the previous year's vegetables. When I first moved here, nothing edible would grow - the ground is naturally a dense clay, hard as concrete in summer and like a thick, heavy porridge in the wetter months. There was no digging or ploughing it. All that I could do was leave the clay undisturbed and cover it with the contents of a few sacks of compost bought at the local garden store, held in place by a few boards standing on their edges and restrained by some bricks. The first year's results from this impromptu garden were so good that I went on to making more beds of the same design, only I resolved to make the soil myself out of all the waste I had at my disposal. It's a peculiar thing that of all the skills I have had to develop, it's the making of rich, fertile soil that I am proudest of.

Other unexpected discoveries have been the wild and unusual plants that have turned out to be far superior in taste and nutritional value than the regular sickly things that I used to buy in super-markets. Wild cresses, carrots, onions and small strawberry like berries abound here, and the cresses in particular prosper throughout the winter months. Sorrel, mustard and chard also grow with no need for care, and having been left to grow and seed on their own accord require no labour of mine other than that needed to pick them.

In tandem with my peculiar variety of foods I’ve also developed a peculiar style of cuisine. Having no other critic but my own taste buds - and they have surprised me in being far more accommodating than I would have thought possible - the food I now serve myself is no longer recognisable to civilised fare. Every now and then when I get called into the city and have to dine out, I wonder how I could ever have eaten what is routinely served up and not noticed how overdone everything is. No doubt any visitor to my humble household would be equally amazed at the savagery of my daily diet. My favourite cooking pleasure is the bread I bake from nothing more than flour, a little salt, baker’s yeast and the soaked grains of the wheat and oats that I grow myself. With a glass of wine, the smell of a freshly baked loaf wafting through my house, the blue of the ocean to contemplate and the song of the warblers, kingfishers and fantails playing at me from the surrounding bush, I am reminded that however much there may be wrong with the world, there’s still plenty right with it as well.