Writing and Wilderness

Writing and Wilderness

I read from Rainer Maria Rilke’s, ‘Letters to a Young Writer.’
The poet is one of my Gods, in that he endorses so much of
what I value in my life, and he offers me a blueprint for growing
meaningfully as an artist.

‘Go inside yourself, if you really must write,’ he says.
‘Bring the elements of your life into harmony with this mission.
They will only play an ancillary role.
Find nature, solitude and patience, ignore critics and journals.
Write for yourself. Here lies true artistry.’
He also says we should turn to memories of childhood
and children, for children view the world through innocent eyes.
They are unfamiliar with artifice and pride.
They don’t know how yet to obscure emotional truth.
I plan on consulting Rilke more often.
As the religious man goes to his bible, so I will go to Rilke. 

For ten days I have revelled in solitude – the longest stint in decades.
How fortunate to live here in the Blue Mountains.

One recent December I organised a six-day writing retreat
away from the hubbub.
Each day in my remote cabin, I was conscious of my girlfriend
waiting for me to end the indulgence and come home…
Now it’s only blood relatives who have unconditional claims on me,
and even then…I answer to my sons, my mother and sister.
I also bow to nature, the foundation of my life in poetry and fiction,
granting me a fresh way of seeing.
Finally, after half a century of life on this planet
I am the caretaker of my fortunes and I choose
to willingly surrender to the aesthetics of life.
All else plays a supportive role.
This is bliss for me, so long as I stay humbly focused,
keep away from spirits, show empathy for my fellow beings
and continue to seek solace in wild solitude.

Early evening – time for exertions in the wild.
Regardless of the weather conditions.
The wind blows and fog swirls above the Leura escarpment.
The track head for the descent to the lush valley floor of Leura forest
is barely visible.

And then I’m running the paths and negotiating the stairs
and ladders that carve through the rock and foliage.
Rain starts, erratically at first but then a steady beat,
weighing down the fern fronds, bouncing off the stone steps.
Water pounds the track and gathers momentum.
Thunder now, so loud and sustained, it sounds like
the mountains train crashing over the escarpment.
Lightning punctuates the drama.
I only hope the branches dancing above me stay attached
to their trees.
I’m looking forward to viewing the swollen waterfalls.

The roar  hits me first – then it’s the white curtain of water
unfurling over the cliff (the image above).
I film nature’s show on my phone with a little commentary
for my sons. (Having spread their wings and touched down in Europe.)
I want to share and can only take so much of Rilke
and his solitude.