Bonds from Old Norse were called bóndi or ‘tiller of the soil.’
Bonds are connections that are mutually beneficial.
Bondage, from Anglo-Latin bondagium means serf, peasant, or householder.
When we no longer believe we have the freedom over our own lives, it’s akin to being a servant. We are no longer serving a greater life purpose, but serving someone else to satisfy our needs. Then we are no longer indapendant.
The severing of our serfdom can be metaphorical. Or by the act of chopping wood. If it’s our intention to be free, to not cling to anyone’s ideas, dogmas, beliefs, or rules, and cleave away from what kept us chained, then swing away.
Thoreau did it. Walden was a perfect example of a man who made a live worth living by forging bonds without creating bondage. The act of making bonds are good. We can make connections, or connect with the land. But when we think we cannot do without this or that for ourselves, we create a sort of bondage and give up our power. Like a manufactured relationship, it’s never sustainable.
I observe, that is to say I have the freedom to turn my attention to whatever I want. But when there are more manufactured images than natural ones we tend to begin believing what we’re told. Lack of discrimination between what’s in our best interest, and what others are interested in for us, can be dangerous.
Those who have not seen the light cannot light the way. But our ability to see the sublime is always available. Everything and nothing can lead us to know that we are bigger than we believed. Yet we knew it all along. We don’t need anything or anyone to remind us of it. But sometimes we forget.
Remembering our sovereignty takes work. A continual effort towards bettering ourselves. And when splitting the grain of our logic we glimpse the void, remember to be amazed. An aroma of curiosity, a wellspring of wonderment is released back into the air and permeates everything.
How to cleave the wood of our discretion is up to us. If the axe is dull, and our first blows are met with resistance, no matter. We can always take time sharpen our tools. It’s time well spent in preparation for something better.
Let the weight of your tools assist in your work. The better the tool, the better the result. The better the result, the better you’ll do next time.
Posted on 04/27/2011, 5:30am, Viborg, Denmark.
I awoke to a ruby red sun washed grapefruit room. The solar disc barely visible over the tile-roofed horizon. Darting towards the lake, across the open field thinking how some years ago, at this very hour, reluctant dreary infantry lined up for their calisthenics as a demoralizing General barked out their routine in Danish. Passing pockets of stupefied juveniles, only now coming back from their evening pub crawl. Animals seemed to be everywhere, coming and going in pairs as though beckoned by another call of the ark, waiting to disembark. Entering the graveyard I spied a young hooded couple, tangled on a park bench. Responding in silence as I overtook them. I almost ducked as a bizarre strident sound pierced the sky. Looking up I discovered two white geese rhythmically flying and warbling in perfect unison. Animals in twos were everywhere.
Cutting through a marine cu-de-sack, I located a path that led to a single dock which protruded into the lake just enough that at the furthest tip the bank disappeared. A tiny blue sign nailed to the post labeled “Private.” But after seeing the sorry state of the pier (a bench half decayed, dock covered in gull white stains) I decided to press on. A set of sun salutations later, I began my breath of fire technique as the haze began drifting from the lake. With each exhale ripples would form, as though I were orchestrating the fishes surfacing for breath. Planting myself on the intact portion of the bench, facing the vermilion orb now issuing it’s warmth, there I sprawled. With my eyes closed I became aware of the fluctuating light bouncing off the hulls of small row-boats, and washing over me.
Each ripple was like a pulse, as though systematically scanning me for melanin deficiency. There were arresting nasally honks and once more I spied a goose duo this time pitch black, flapping strangely out of sync. As they blundering ahead I couldn’t help compare them to the pair of whites before, as the very picture of grace. I much preferred these two, and since they were probably bound for the same terminal ark, I bode them well.
Making my way back required a kind of stealth as people began to stir in their rust-colored homes. After being caught red handed crashing a wedding at the Best Western, I opted to take the ‘less traveled’ route, which took me through trellises, behind flower beds, under/over gates/fences, and through a tombstone factory.
I began to wonder at the many measures people take to maintain privacy. “If everyone goes to such lengths keep themselves to themselves, when do they allow others in? I thought. Especially in such a safe environment.” Yet another unusual custom we adhere to, promoting our isolated and xenophobic tendencies (when crime is so negligible.) Upon entering the graveyard, I nearly bowled over an elderly greens-keeper woman, who barely flinched as she was in her element, maintaining the landscape of flora that ran between every grave site, headstone, and plot of land.
Barefoot I returned to the training field, now empty (save for swarms of low-flying insects) savoring every step before returning to home base to a breakfast of champions (B.O.C.) Breakfast of Champions – Corn Flakes with rice milk, coconut oil, cacao powder & cinnamon. Topping: Banana, Flax Seeds, and Walnuts.