I look like one of those people, but I’m not. No, I don’t watch television. There is too much else to do. But that “else” isn’t pursuit of the spiritual, the religious, the social. I do things with my beat up hands, with my land, with my horses. In my spare time, I either stay home or pack bags and go: near or far, with a pass or a passport; drive, take the bus or train, or fly; stay in a tent or a motel or a hut.
I’m not a total luddite: I will indulge in crazy animated movies once in awhile. I obviously use electronics, digital cameras, a computer, a smartphone, a tablet.
But a bald eagle tumbling through the air grabbing at the talons of a territory-invading hawk is a commercial free distraction. The dark eyes of a harbor seal that has followed my kayak home and hovers in the pool by the beach is a soulful farewell. A hummingbird that weighs less than a nickel defending a stand of bee balm from butterflies, bees, and birds entertains. These moments are far more arresting than a conversation over chai tea in a carefully designed faux salvage cafe decor.
This region’s legendary traffic is my excuse for not indulging in urban cultural events and going to dinner with friends. My friends live three dozen miles away, south on a perpetually crowded freeway, or a thousand miles away. My family, like many, is spread across the country. But travel isn’t really the barrier, because I do that a lot. I just like wandering around by my lonesome, in the moment, in as natural an environment as I can find. 
I paid my dues retrieving my mother’s blood spattered, broken glasses from the wreckage of her truck 30 years ago. Already supremely independent and restless, I’ve never again been that easy close to people after that little tragedy. I wander afar, road trip, hike, and camp on my own, or stay home to do artwork and landscaping in the company of animals, most of them wild. In practice, I’m an absent, unrelaible friend, checking in sporadically with pictures and stories about travel and home. 
So I don’t watch television, attend retreats to become mindful and soulful, seek cultural events and stimulating conversation over gourmet meals. I sound awful. But I’m not a hermit: I work with the public and give volunteer presentations and workshops whenever I’m asked. I’m friendly to every friendly person I meet. I care about the friends I don’t keep up with. I’m interested in other people’s stories. It’s just that when the day is done, I take my stories home, disconnect from humanity, and go where the wild things are.
And that’s okay. The world has enough people- it doesn’t need me out there.
The animal company I keep does need people, though. They need us to plant more trees and shrubs, build more rock piles and slash piles, hoist up more nests until there is enough nature to build their own. They need cleaner, cooler water and skies without flight hazards and light pollution. At my little sanctuary, they reward my efforts by mulitplying and bringing their offspring back each year. My visitors are a study in simplicity, with simple wants: food, family, turf, home. This, I understand.
Silver Snag Studio 