Pond Man must have his methods of living, his rituals, and rhythms, otherwise he will be captured; and so I am spelling this out — the dangers, the lurking predators, the sycophants, the naysayers — all will try to own him.
Own. To possess, to rule over, to have authority over. From Old English agen, meaning ‘possessed by’ — not another —-I would say Pond Man is possessed by himself. He is self-possessed. Possessed, from Dutch eigen, German eigen from past participle of PIE root, aik. I hear oak in that word - aik -and I think of Pond Man. An old oak, he bends to the vicissitudes of time and place of which love is the most demanding. Love who lives in this place, and her roots run deep.
The oak tree which lives a hundred years at least, although a true veteran lives to a hundred and fifty if not two or three hundred. An ancient oak is four hundred years and some may live as long as a thousand which is hard to imagine because we cannot hold it in our hands: she slips through — living, life, the years.
I would settle for five hundred years myself, but I don’t think I could manage my hair for solong (I am terribly lazy when it comes to hair; all that wetting and combing and conditioning. They say sea kelp is good.) So how will Pond Man or the ancient oak manage to untangle his branches, his limbs? By reverence and affection; by moving through the knots and difficulties of his own life'; by moving through the lives of others; because Pond Man is in service. He has given himself over.
We all desire that, although we may not admit to it. Service. A dirty word full of obligation and class connotations, but I do not mean servants. Pond Man is not a servant, just a willing server; he brings weight and heft and years of waiting. Prescience. Insight. Intuition. More dirty words in an age of reason, although we are no longer reasonable creatures and it isn’t reasonable to claim so for we do nothing for ourselves. We wait upon the advice of others, their words, their actions, their advice. We never seek our own. Too lazy, too distracted, too full of misgivings about the future. But what are you hoping for? Release, relief, your petty grudge avenged.
It is not petty you say! It is wounding. You have wounds to bear. Meanwhile, Pond Man is hoping for nothing more than to persuade himself to take a day off from working and to wander out over the hills; to follow his fancy; for he has treasure too. He has a love. And they have been many years waiting.