by David Budbill
Forty years ago I had an urge to go away from the world,
retreat, into the mountains. At that time I had no idea this
kind of thing was a part of an ancient tradition. I knew nothing
about Taoist Chinese hermits; I'd never read a single ancient
Chinese poem.
All I knew was: I couldn't stand where or who I was anymore.
I was only twenty-nine. Yet the vision was distinct and undeniable.
I turned my back on all kinds of possibilities, opportunities, ambitions
not to mention disastrous scenarios for the rest of my life.
I went away instead into anonymity. I went to work in the woods,
a common laborer among other common laborers–just like all my
relatives had been back there in Cleveland.
I felt at home among these people and in my new mountain home.
That was forty years ago. I'm still here and still at home.