Smaller Comforts

You know it is coming and you try like hell to get ready, to trim it down. The load that is. You are clawing your way to the bottom of Maslow's Hierarchy: bare necessities. You will take a sleeping bag, a pad, some kind of primitive shelter, a tiny stove and cup, and enough clothes to keep you from freezing when the wind blows and the rains come down without mercy or regard for what the hell it is you want. You know that you will miss the recliner, the TV, pillows, hot showers, cold beer, and the security of a house. But you move toward the brink anyway. You force yourself to plan, to pack, to set in motion the conditions that will launch you off into what you don't quite know or understand. All you know is that your comforts will diminish to the degree that you invite contact. Contact. Wind. Sun. Stars. The road. Undeniable concrete need will come rushing in and you see how much you want to carry on while trying not to snivel. (Okay... while trying not to snivel too much...) You have to discern the difference between luxury and need. You have to quiet the voices of want and envy. You can turn toward gratitude for what you carry. At least you have the small comforts, you say, a fine boundary between you and the live, naked wire of what is.