PHILIP EUGENE TIMM

MERCI MARCI

December 18, 2021

The world is not made of atoms, it is made of stories.

There are stories we have heard or read, stories we tell ourselves, and stories we live. Some are the choicest of relics and others are consigned to the flames.

I have been telling myself a story about how to live for quite a while. It’s time to revisit the story line to see if I may be missing something. That is why I am traveling to the village of Introd, in the Aosta Valley of Italy. To live up to our promises we must tend to them. They should not be broken, especially those we make to ourselves. Even if my promises are silly, meaningless, or costly, I work hard to keep them. It’s an illness of sorts. Some call it a well-meaning stupidity; others call it obstinacy; I call it a foolish integrity. Whatever it’s called, I am going to be where I said I would be and, for me, that is never a small achievement.

I need to get away. One might call it a vacation but I do not. Vacations are a way to change the scenery without changing the players. But the context of a problem is the only context available to the person with the problem. The scenery doesn’t matter. I am seeking contextual change, a new way of engaging reality, not a change in scenery. Like a bolt of lightning that levels differences in potential, I am looking to adjust the delicate balance between separateness and connectedness. I am looking for lightning.

When I am embedded in the context of my life, I have no contrasting frame of reference other than close friends who are obligated, by the closeness of our relationship, to tell me what they see/think. Without such input, a life lived alone leaves one at the mercy of doubts, fears, and confusion. Such isolation is what likely contributed to Ted Kaczynski becoming the Unabomber. Solitude without community can be fatal. But even another’s perspective is sometimes insufficient. There are times when it is prudent to remove myself from the context of my life, stand back, and examine it as an outsider. To see myself as perhaps others see me. To clarify the intent of my life.

But what exactly is the contextual problem I am looking to solve/understand? My primary context is a life lived alone. I find few companions better than solitude. Like an old bear, I prefer the company of trees and believe that a taste for the beautiful is best cultivated out of doors. It works, but it has limitations, particularly the travails associated with fancied self-sufficiency. I fear I have placed too much weight on the side of separateness and my connectedness is beginning to fray. In a world rich with possibilities for connectedness, I suspect I may be missing something. Specifically, I wonder if my life would be enhanced by being in a “romantic” (surely there are better words) relationship, that perhaps there’s something “unnatural” or “wrong” with generally preferring to be alone.

 
Most people enjoy being matched in a partnership and work to establish and maintain these relationships. No one would suggest that it’s easy. Others, such as I, prefer solitude and being on their own. Likewise, I believe that not one of us would suggest that it’s easy. It’s impossible to ascertain which life has a higher degree of difficulty or provides more enjoyment, although my sense is that it’s like an embattled fortress, where everyone on the inside wants out and everyone on the outside wants in.

Living alone, one forgoes the “vaunted intimacy” of sharing life with another person (sounds a tad jaded, n'est-ce pas?). The idea that sharing one’s life with another is the pinnacle of human achievement has led many a man and woman to the altar and there’s much to be said, and has been said, about the joy that way of life brings. I am often envious. A cousin of mine and his lovely wife just celebrated 50 years of marriage. It’s inspiring to know this. Being in a long-term relationship is a rich challenge and, to me, it makes climbing the Matterhorn look like child’s play.

 
I have lived alone for almost 40 years. I have been married twice, the first, at age 20 for 5 years and, after an interval of 11 years, a second marriage of 9 years. I was fortunate to have been loved by two extraordinary and beautiful women. I suspect my selfishness and childhood development contributed largely to the failure of both unions. I learned early in life that I do not need anyone, I can and must do this by myself. Sad, but workable.

 
Kind of. Sort of. But is it still viable? Was it ever?

There is a trite cruelty in the logic of certainties that I subscribe to and use to comfort myself. There seems to be at the bottom of my life something like moaning, or is that desire? Am I, as some friends have suggested, just kidding myself about being content? They assure me that life is “better” lived in tandem, that even on the ark, they had to go two-by-two.

I will ask Marci what she thinks. She would know.

Whenever Marci looks at me, she tilts her head like a dare. She is stunningly beautiful and sings like a diva. I am in love with Marci and she dares me to tell her. I am not in love with her beauty or her voice. I love her because she is damaged and doesn’t wish to be fixed. She loves her wounds and licks them as if they were candy. Like Levon, she wears her wounds like a crown. We are forever exhorted to become “better”, to improve ourselves, but Marci loves herself as she is.

I do not love the beautiful and well-made as I love the wounded. I am a wabi sabi lover. The wounded inspire me. They teach me. They are kinfolk.

We are shaped by love and injury but often consider love the better artist. It isn’t always so. Trees that grow along the tree line, in poor soil and ravaged by wind, are often bent and twisted into grotesque shapes that are beautiful because of the damage. So, it is with us. We are bent and shaped by the soil in which we were planted and the storms that visit our lives. Our advantage is that we can walk. We can, and often do, seek new soil and shelter from the storm so as to continue to grow. Italy is new soil, different winds, and a chance for lightning.

 
I believe we can be more beautiful because of our injuries. We do not need to seek them out, rest assured; injuries will come. Many lovers seek to undo or fix the damage they see in another but deep love does not. Love’s blindness more often sees what is not there than what is. Deep love is based on the acceptance of imperfection and the transient nature of all experience.

I have known Marci for 23 years. Because synchronizing our lives has never been easy, we meet at long intervals that tend to increase are value to each other. Sometimes a year or more goes by without a meeting. With each reunion, we act the part of a young couple meeting on a train platform in some 1940’s movie. She sees me, tilts her head in recognition, and runs to me. I catch her, lift her up and we kiss like the lovers we are. When we part, we enact a different scene, like old friends, we politely hug and shake hands. We cherish somber goodbyes that carefully avoid the pain of too much tenderness when parting.

Marci was married but got divorced shortly after we first met. I was not the cause. We met in Washington, DC when I was working for American PCS. She was almost the perfect age to be my mistress. I was 50 and she was 31. The French have a saying, or it has been attributed to them, that a mistress should be half your age plus seven years. We both agreed that we were close enough. It made it more acceptable for us to have a mathematical basis supporting our relationship.

I am aware that the concept of “a mistress” may now be considered passé and that some may think it sinful or sexist. Some may well object to the logic behind the age calculation. But, what if you knew that we were happy, even if momentarily? Would you still object or just assume that we were fooling ourselves? Somehow you surmise we can’t be happy, that such relationships simply cannot work. You are wrong. We are quite happy but our happiness is carefully circumscribed to moments realized during infrequent liaisons. These moments become jewels, treasured against the “sometimes pain” of living alone. We have always maintained our relationship in a cloak of secrecy as it adds to the romance and saves us from unwanted commentary and unnecessary explanations.

 
At our last rendezvous, years ago, Marci asked that I take her picture. I took a dozen shots with my phone and she reviewed them. “That one”, she says and “this one”. “Delete the others, I do not like them.” Marci does not use contractions, it’s always “do not” rather than don’t, I will not rather than “I won’t”. It’s part of her attractiveness.

 
She asked me to get large prints made so that she could hang them in the bedroom. When the prints were ready, we hung one over the bed and one on the wall across from it. Marci wants to see herself as she wakes up and as she goes to bed. She is vain, but not in a disturbing kind of way. When she looks at the pictures she sees her wounds. This reminds her that she is her wounds and that the wounds are not simply a part of her. She knows where her beauty comes from and doesn’t pretend otherwise.

We have no pictures of us together. I keep but a single picture of her and she has one picture of me. Each time we meet, we tear up the old photo and make a new one. We do not want our history to become our gravity. As we are infrequent lovers, we wish to recognize only what we are now, not what we have been. Some photos are funny, or sexy, or posed but each has us smiling broadly. I sometimes lay my photo on top of hers and remark how well we fit, she playfully suggests that it’s better than when we are in bed.

 
Not having a photo of us together makes keeping our secret easier. Three can keep a secret if one of them is dead. Our aversion to keeping photographs is also partly borne out of the experience of Eadweard Muybridge who, in 1871, when he was 41-years-old, married 21-year-old divorcee Flora Shallcross Stone. Flora became romantically involved with Harry Larkyns, a friend of theirs. Muybridge found a photo of his child with "Harry" written on the back in Flora's handwriting, suggesting that she believed the child to be Larkyns’. Muybridge tracked down Larkyns and upon finding him, shot him point-blank. Muybridge was acquitted on the grounds of justifiable homicide. An innocent photo, a name on the back, then a dead man.

I was hoping to see Marci once again, perhaps in Introd, as it was a place she had suggested we visit shortly after we first met. She is the one woman I know who seemed to enjoy being alone as much as I and never sought to apologize for her life. She loved our infrequent liaisons and was clear that nothing more would ever come of it.

Then lightning struck. Some months ago, I received a letter postmarked from Washington, DC. In the envelope was a sheet of Crane’s Kid Finish 100% Cotton Fiber paper and a photo. The paper held a pencil sketch of her eyes. The photo was of me, the last one I had given Marci. On the back she wrote, “We loved each other, remember only that”. The brevity of the message was hallmark Marci as was her complete and devastating sincerity. She had found an answer to the murmuring in her life and, in doing so, perhaps answered the question I was hoping to ask her. There will be no further contact, of that I am certain. I am off to Italy next year.

I learned a new word today,
“insouciant” – blithely indifferent, carefree.
I will use it in a sentence.
I wish to have insouciant feelings about us.

I can’t. 

​

A scream.

ACEDIA

November 12, 2021

I don’t want to do this anymore. I am so done with this.

How did I ever get to think this is what I was meant to do with my life?

I am selling my home, property and what possessions I can shed for a price. The rest I will give away or abandon. I will find a home for the bees and animals. I first called them “my” bees and animals but they were never really mine. As for continuing prayer and meditation, I am undecided. It doesn’t seem to “do” anything anymore. I do not want to talk about this. I am simply going to leave. 

I am moving to a small village in the Aosta Valley, in Italy. I will be able to see the Matterhorn from my window. No matter that I don’t speak Italian. Immersion is the best way to learn a language. In preparation, I am watching Italian movies with English subtitles. My current favorite is Martin Eden. In Italy, I will not be posting photos and do not expect to entertain visitors. I will walk and wonder. I will fix simple meals. I will find a new source of strength to begin again. If this Italian experiment should turn to naught, so be it, life is experimentation if it is anything at all.

 
An accident triggered this malaise, this train of thought. Sheep needing deworming and a hawk killing the chickens increased the inflammation. Again, I am finished. No kidding. Outta’ here. Vamoose. Gone like the wind.

 
It was another glorious morning, and I was out in the cool air inspecting the hives in the back field orchard. There are two hives and one had a new package of bees that I had installed earlier in the year. The other hive, which had survived a rather cold and snowy winter, was still going strong.

Although I call myself a beekeeper and a farmer (among a host of other names, good and bad), there are days when I am not filled with joy at all the work that’s required. It’s a lot for an ‘old man’ to keep up with; bees, chickens, geese, ducks, fruit and nut trees, sheep, a pond stocked with bass and bluegills, and the ongoing maintenance required on any small farm. It’s not so much a complaint (it is a bit) as a statement of how things sometimes weigh on me. Most days, my life flows with a quiet fullness that satiates both body and soul. On other days, it’s just work.

I pried the lid open on the hive with the new package of bees and worked my way to the bottom deep focused on the task at hand, looking to find the new queen, marked with a white dot on her back, so as to make finding her a bit easier. My eyesight hasn’t gotten better with age and I rarely wear my glasses under the veil when checking the bees.

 
I still had the hive tool in my hand, which was not customary. I usually laid it aside after opening the hive but the frames were sticky and I was using it to pry loose the frames and lift them out. Two frames in, I found my queen. She looked healthy and happy, as only a beekeeper can see, and her minions, acknowledging their appreciation for her existence, were building honeycomb. It appeared that we were well on our way to a solid honey harvest.

Sliding the frame back in, the hive tool slipped from my hand and in some bizarre “Act of God” (for lack of something else to blame), it struck the frame right where the queen was and knocked her to the bottom board. She was mortally wounded. I had little choice other than to squish her and finish her off.

The walls that keep my life from falling apart are brittle. It doesn’t take much to open a crack in my enclosure. With the death of this tiny bee, a wave of anger, nausea, and deep regret came rushing over me. I moved away from the hive and sat on the ground, still in my bee suit and started to cry. I had failed yet again. I was lost.

I got up, and considered just leaving the hive open to the elements. I no longer cared about the bees. I slammed the lid back on anyway and dragged myself back to the barn and tossed my outfit and the tools on the floor. I was filled with a sense of frustration and anger that would not let me be. I stewed in a pot of self-pity and resentment.

​

The death of this bee was followed by a hawk killing four chickens on four separate days, leaving the bloody carcasses for me to deal with. I took measures to “scare” the hawk away, to no avail. I moved a posse of geese into the orchard to serve as an early warning system but, ignoring the geese, the hawk flew in and almost caught “Big Silver”. She’s at the top of the pecking order and was fast enough to escape the attack. The hawk remains a threat. Shooting the hawk crosses my mind but it’s illegal without a federal permit and the hawk is “just” doing what hawks do. Still, I am upset.

Dead queen bee, hawk killing chickens, and now the two sheep, Woolbur and Fudge, have scours which is another word for diarrhea. I am in the front paddock, working alone. There is sheep shit on my pants, boots, and gloves. The smell is as you might expect. I am cleaning their tails, their back legs, and their butts to prevent flystrike. Sheep are particularly susceptible to this condition because their thick wool, if sufficiently contaminated with urine and fecal material, provides a breeding ground for maggots. After hatching, the maggots bury themselves in the sheep's wool and eventually under the sheep's skin, feeding off their flesh. It’s is a slow and painful way to die.

Docking their tails (cutting them off), is often used as a preventative measure to lessen the chance of flystrike, but docking brings its own set of problems and is becoming less of a formal practice. Sheep have tails for a reason, one of them being to spread fecal matter by swinging their tails as they defecate. In any event, cleaning the sheep was not an enjoyable experience. Why do I keep thinking this life is always supposed to be enjoyable? Why do I continue? Again, I ask, is this what I was meant to do with my life?

 
I am having an attack of acedia. It’s a deadly “sin”.

Acedia comes from the Greek word akedia meaning “lack of care”. It’s a profound weariness with one’s present reality. I repeat, a profound weariness. This weariness manifests as discouragement, irritability, and disgust with everything. Acedia tempts me to consider escape, to secure a respite from the perceived painful reality of where I am, to find renewal in Italy. It thwarts my ability to choose the good and robs me of what had been a source of great joy.

Acedia arises in response to the commitments we have made to ourselves, to others, and our vocations. It calls forth the question as to why we ever entered into these arrangements. What was I thinking when I thought it a good idea to become a farmer? a lawyer? a mechanic? Did I have even a clue when I signed up for this? Why should I keep going on? Why did I ever get married? Why am I still working here? Living here? Everything feels small and suffocating. Positivity is a burden and release seems imperative.

 
Acedia constantly reminds us of how we messed up. Filled with shame about the past or anxiety about the future, we look to escape. The escape takes many forms: technology, Netflix binges, travel to Italy, social media, pornography, alcohol, drugs, work, and laziness. We seek to medicate our wounds and mitigate our lack of self-worth. But these distractions don’t work for long. After a brief respite, we are left empty as the questions we try to avoid pop back up. Avoiding the questions can leave one trapped in this mindset for years never really progressing in life. We tell ourselves that we are fine just as we are, there is no need to revisit our commitments or the angst they generate. I’m fine. I will get through this. All this is just a whistling in the dark.

 
A characteristic of wisdom is not to do desperate things. When consumed with acedia, it’s prudent to stop and take stock. There are no simple answers and in this condition, anything becomes permissible as long as I call it by the wrong name. When I call my commitments “burdens”, I no longer see them as noble, inspiring, or life enhancing. They become an albatross around my neck and I can sanction any measure to be free from the life I have chosen.

 
Yes, I chose this life as you have chosen yours. I am never contained except that I made the prison. If I wish to break out, I must first confess to being in prison. And perhaps, it’s not a prison at all. I need to remind myself of this. There’s no convenient villain to blame and no one has assigned me this life. Even believing that this life is God’s will for me doesn’t take away from the fact that I must choose every day how I will live and to what purpose. I call things by the wrong name to enable me to pull away from what I have given myself to. I pretend I never agreed to this. I was trapped or tricked. Bamboozled. It’s not my fault.

But I can never truly leave the present moment no matter what name I give it. Ultimately, my commitment to my small farm, this sacred dwelling place, the creatures, the trees, and to the people who are part of my life, all of whom seem to be the very cause of my acedia, is the very path out of this malaise. The way out was everywhere I looked but nowhere in focus. The love I have for this place was asleep.

Yes, I get like this and perhaps you do as well. It’s not attractive nor pleasant, but I believe it is necessary and quite refreshing. It’s good, at times, to want to run from myself and my world and perhaps travel to Italy. It’s therapeutic in a “funny” kind of way. It can also be debilitating if not caught in time. I find it a profitable line of inquiry to revisit the commitments I made and rekindle the spark that gave rise to them. Things get dusty, memories fade, life gets hard, I forget why I embarked on the road under my feet. I fail to love what is present and seek to love what is possible instead.

If, while accepting the current moment, I look back hard enough, I see in the distance a young fellow with a bright smile, a twinkle in his eye and a bounce in his step who jumped on this path. He would never have known then the work, trials, and mad frustrations, that were down this road. And had he guessed, he most assuredly would not have concerned himself with them. He thinks; I can do this. It’s what I want to do. It’s what my life is meant to be.

 
A moment passes and this youthful self comes bounding along, catching up with his old man self and, laughing, knocks him to the ground. Get up you old fool! Stop your complaining! Remember me? Of course, you do! Come on let’s get back to work. We haven’t all day you know.

Arm in arm they go, skipping and whistling like nothing will ever stop them and there’s not a care in the world. Healed once again.