Living in a Treehouse (Part 1)
I’m sitting in a treehouse, writing under the candle lights. Yes, even as the author of these words, I can hardly believe that this is happening. I suppose this is how it feels to be a cool person. You’re so cool that you yourself could hardly believe it.
Those were the exact words written in my journal as I was sitting in a treehouse in Asheville, North Carolina a week ago. I will not explain how I got there for I feel that that fact is rather irrelevant and would only add length to an already lengthy post. I will, instead, indulge you in the moment of what happened, for that is where the heart of this story lies.
Treehouse, Asheville, July 27, 2017
There were four trees that went through and supported my treehouse. I had to use the word “my” because not claiming ownership of this little piece of property, however temporarily, would feel like a gross missed opportunity. The house was no more than twelve feet long and ten feet wide. The inside was fitted with a double bed with gray linens, two small writing tables, a mirror on the wall, and of course, room for the tree stumps. The roof slanted at a perhaps twenty-five-degree angle and was made of wood. Likewise, the house outer walls and floor were made of wooden planks. The builder had lined its inner walls with canvas-like fabrics, probably to prevent water leakage and extra insulation. In any case, the construction materials were light, which made sense given the fact that this whole structure was pecked twelve feet off the ground. There were two windows on the opposite ends of the house, one facing West and the other facing East. Given the bed’s position, the sun would be rising behind my head every morning. This would be my house for the next three nights.
It was a little unnerving to drive out into the middle of the woods amidst the darkness of night, but surprisingly, I got past that rather quickly. Now that I had had time to settle, I loved the candle lights and the sounds of the birds and the bees and the brooding bubbling creek behind my house.
I had gone into town earlier in the evening for dinner at a vegan place called Rosetta’s. I had peach Kombucha and a meal of fried kale, brown rice with gravy, and grilled Portobello mushroom. The food was wholesome and tasty. The Kombucha made me very happy. Well, at least, that was what I attributed the cause of my mysterious happiness to be for, after half a pint of the Kombucha, I started a fit of uncontrollable giggling. Surprised by the sudden rush of unexplainable happiness, I was further amused by the thought of what these guys at this vegan restaurant might have put into my tea. Whatever it was, I had no complaint.
After dinner, as I was walking back to my car, an incident happened that filled me with guilt. It was raining and dark. As I sauntered down the streets of Asheville, I walked past a number of homeless. No big deal. A block further, after crossing an intersection, a gentleman approached and asked me politely, “Sir, can I ask you a question?” I had given this gentleman one sweeping look from top to bottom before he even approached me so when he did, I shook my head and walked away. I imagined his feeling of astonishment and hurt, as I walked away from him. The man was wearing shorts, a Caribbean shirt, and looked slightly disheveled in the rain. Whatever impression he gave, I had, in one instant, rejected his very polite plea for help. I turned the man away after a single glance that lasted less than a second! Even if he was a homeless asking for money, I should not have turned away like that. It was rude. It was against everything that I stood for as a person. As I walked away and had more time to reflect on what I just did, I felt terrible! I was stricken with guilt for refusing to even hear what another human being had to say, out of fear that he would be asking me for money? I could not believe it! That was not me and I vowed that, from then on, I would always stop and listen when a person asked me for help. Only after I learned what the person was asking for would I provide a response of ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ I would not repeat such rude and unsympathetic behavior. I hoped that that gentleman was kind enough to forgive me for my inconsideration.
Treehouse, Asheville, July 29, 2017
I sat by the fire outside my treehouse, protected from the July sun by the shade of the woods. It had been a pleasant morning, the weather cool with a light breeze. It had rained all through the night. After two nights sleeping in the treehouse, I was still not used to it. The mysterious noises of nature, the rain drops that sounded like someone shooting pellets and pebbles against the house, the creaking of the tree branches, they interrupted my sleep and filled me with irrational bursts of terror. Any sound that my mind made out to be unusual or irregular awoke my senses with fright. And out here, there was nothing usual or regular about noises. There was no predictable pattern. In this unfamiliar world, it was as if a part of my brain was continuously kept awake, like an alarm bell that stood ready to ring its warning sounds, at any notice, against potential dangers, real or imaginary. Imagination can be a terrible companion. I kept imagining scenarios that involved armed serial killers that would bust through the unlocked door and hack me to death with an axe. Of course, I would not have gone down without a fight, but such fanciful imagination certainly didn’t help to bring about a peaceful slumber. The weirdest thing of all was that my house was not far from the road. There was a road that cut through the hill behind the treehouse. There were cars passing through frequently until 1am, and yet, those signs of a nearby civilization did little to assuage my fear. Far from the peaceful quiet evenings in the woods that I imagined, this had been an odd experience that blended the wild and the civilized. My caveman’s instincts were confused. I could not quite completely relax and put my mind into a more peaceful state.
I had also been missing home. The mind, facing itself, can be a terrifying place. I struggled with boredom last night. For a few hours before I felt sufficiently sleepy to dose off, I felt so bored I resorted to reading news on my cell phone, all the while protesting in my head this gross reliance on modern technology, finding it to be a violation of the very purpose of living in a treehouse. I thought I would be like a kid in a candy shop with imagination running ablaze like wild fire, dreaming of fairies and wizards, but no, that was not what happened. No imagination of fairies or magic. Instead, I got bored. Such a disappointment!
Out here, the mind is easily seized with fear. Fear creates distrust. Distrust further stokes fear. A vicious cycle. I remembered seeing a young lady on my way out of the farm yesterday. She was staying in one of the farm’s housing units. Without ever talking to her, my thought had been “she was probably some naïve yougin-wanna-be-hippie.” That was an unfair assessment, of course. She could very well have thought the same thing about me. Needless to say, I had not been impressed by my own thoughts these past two days at the treehouse. The human mind is easily corrupted by fear, which can lead to damaging thoughts and actions. (to be continued…)
