Morning sunlight beams through a window of

past years, and thus my tenure on the property

my camper-van, promising warmth down on
is that of a caretaker.
the meadow. I stretch in my sleeping bag, and

Past the picnic table and the fire ring
arise.
which are between the cabin porch and the

For these many months now, I have
pumphouse, which I park my van next to
parked my van on the property of an older
there is a crew of robins who are hopping in the
couple of my acquaintance,
morning dew while scouting
who are like family to me. On
for their dietary raw material.
several acres in Northern
Enduring Enrichment A wren is warbling from the
California, they own a
red huckleberry bush. And the
summer cottage a half dozen
ravens take to the air from
miles from the small coastal town where they
their haunt in a fir tree, as I sip my fruit juice
reside. They, and their nearby offspring and
and alight from the van.
families, utilize the cottage for overnight

Wooden steps were built into the brushy
summer stays and occasional year-round
hillside that leads away from the road, and
barbecues, picnics and holiday celebrations.
below them is an alder- and cascara- shaded

This property is an enclave in the midst of
corridor which ends at the level, grassy plateau
forested hills which are ownedand
that is open to the sun (mid-morning to midperiodically loggedby the timber company
afternoon) above the distant ridge. At the
that operates the mill in town. Access to the
farther end of this meadow stands an oldproperty is through the company-maintained
growth redwood grove, carpeted with countless
logging road, and it is sometimes frequented by
seasons of spent, brown needles. This grove
hunters or dirt-bikers or mushroom pickers: the
traditionally is the chapel for family weddings,
sight of a fully-equipped cottage in a remote
and the meadow its reception hall.
setting has spawned burglary and vandalism in

Unfurling a canvas ground cloth, I place
over it a padded mattress cover, and, removing

my sandals or slippers, stretch my body full in

the sunlight. The bordering trees normally
shelter this location from all but the friendliest
breeze, even in winter. For a half hour or so, I
perform a routine dance-like muscle toning
exercise; and, for perhaps another hour, relaxed
sunbathing is combined with unhurried yoga
postures that are ended with a foot massage.
When I lay back restfully to look up at the pale
blue sky, where perhaps wispy or fleecy clouds
are forming, the murmur of Pudding Creek
lulls me.

At one side of the redwood grove, a path
through the sword ferns leads down to a sandy
edge of this clear, shady stream. Around a
water-smoothed stump, the creek has widened a
flowing pool that is about the size of a hot tub,
in winter, or about as deep as a bath tub, in the
summer. Its bottom is gravelly, and large rocks
or logs here and there tickle the water so that its
chuckling sometimes masks my barefoot
approach, to the surprise of a quaffing deer or
frolicking otter. Though there is no month of
the year that the water cannot be plunged into,
the stream is never really warm. I splash around

for just a minute before grabbing my towel to

briskly dry off in the sun.

The noon whistle can often be heard, by
now, from the mill across the still distance to
town. My tarp and mat folded, I may stop to
harvest a few blackberries for my cereal, as I
return to the van. This van was custom-built a
few years ago. Completely self-contained, it has
its own generator to power the refrigerator,
microwave oven, water heater and water pump
(for the sink, tub/shower and toilet). The folks,
though, have permitted me to plug into the
electricity at their pumphouse, allowing me to
conserve gasoline and propane.

I prepare a dish of fresh fruit and my
accustomed bowl of oatmeal, after brushing my
teeth at the pumphouse spigot. In the shaded
and cool van, I usually slip into a sweatshirt,
and tie a sarong around my waist. I collect my
folding chair and straw hat, and juggle a cup of
herb tea and a cookie while strolling back to the
meadow for another hour or two of reading,
answering letters, writing, or contemplating an
inquisitive ant on my toe or the butterfly
pausing on my wrist.


Eventually the sun ducks behind the trees
or clouds, and the breeze becomes more
noticeable. Hefting my gear and returning to
the van, I prepare perhaps a toasted cheese or
tuna-salad sandwich to browse, along with
celery sticks, cherry tomatoes and a plate of
baked beans. I slip on a pair of loose cotton
slacks, socks and walking shoes, and exit
through the wooden gate across from a
splendorous, rambling wild rose bush. This
graveled road saunters along Pudding Creek,
past the abandoned orchard that in the fall is
thick with yellow apples. For three quarters of
an hour, I walk until Ramsey Ridge Road
divides and both forks head into the hills
where I usually turn around for the amble
home. There are days when no vehicles,
bicycles or horses traverse this stretch of road
and one may spot a fox or bobcat or a young
coyote crossing the road, or, on one of the
oblique skid-trails, the tracks of a mountain
lion.

The sun setting behind the ridge has
burnished the sky, silhouetting the trees; and the
airclean and sweet in any seasonhas cooled
by the time I unlatch the gate. Unlocking the

cottage door, a swallow darts past from its muddaubed nest in the porch eaves. With a coffeecan scoop, I carry dog kibble from a bag in the
utility room and dump it into an old dishpan in
the yard. Someone, sojourning in this cabin a
few years before, abandoned a mongrel puppy
that has since grown into a handsome,
longhaired shepherd-collie. Wolf, as the folks
call him, quarters in a gutted stump behind the
wild rose across the road. The folks feel a
responsibility for him and have arranged his
daily feeding. Whenever I am away, at a hired
house-sit, they drive out from town to feed him.
He is to be respected for his independence:
although a ward, he is not obsequious. He
allows himself to be seen, but not to be
touched. A true lone wolf, he has not come
within a human arms reach since he was
abandoned. I sometimes have glimpsed him
following me on my walks, tracking me distantly
as perhaps a curious wolf might do. He appears
to be alert, healthy and contented. And he is
providentially cared for by a source which he is
not even expected to pay obeisance to.

Reentering again my twenty-foot
domicile, of three years, I fix a cup of coffee or

tea. I purchased the motor home with cash,

from my half of the equity in the house which
my wife and I sold upon our divorce. Cooking a
light supper, I listen sometimes to a tape
cassette or radio program.

It is on my weekly trip to town that I
collect my mail at the post office; replenish
staples at the natural food store; visit the library;
walk along the ocean; and shop at the Franklin
Street farmers market. My tiny incomeless
than $500 per month, from the business I
operated prior to my divorcediminishes
annually and in a few years will disappear; so I
continually learn to live more simply. What is
left of my income after medical insurance,
vehicle insurance and van maintenance, is
allotted to groceries and nutritional
supplements. The refrigerator is stocked today
with garden-fresh organic produce, and tonight
Im dining on snow peas and mushrooms,
curried cabbage, and baked potato with cottage
cheese (after munching on guacamole with
carrot sticks). And I might later indulge in
microwave popcorn, or stewed fruit compote.

Dinner finished, I often swivel the
captains chair, on the passenger side of the

cab, so that it faces toward the opening in my

living room, andwith all lights out on a
moon-graced nightsit quietly and relaxed,
sometimes for hours into the night. Aside from
the canticle of the rain or windor the
welcomed exception of the frogs, crickets or a
stirring owlthe evenings are soundless here.
This is a regenerative interlude that presents
itself as the natural culmination to a timeless
day, a matchless day, a day for which no
embellishment has been wished. This moment
is an insightful awareness of the abundance that
is provided to every ordinary being.

As I unroll my sleeping bag onto the
convertible-couch, I might recall the words of a
song recorded by the Tommy Dorsey Orchestra
in 1940; sung by (ironically) Frank Sinatra:
By

a country road,
wild roses grow
that need my
special care;
A cheerful brook
on a mountainside
is sad

when Im not there;

and a friendly gang
of robins
are peeved
when I forget
that Im the second tenor
in their quartet:
So, with all the things
I have to do,
Im very much aware,
if I wished for wealth
it wouldnt be
quite fair

Ending each stanza is the refrain: I havent

time to be a millionaire!

Robert Wolfe, www.livingnonduality.org

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