I met a man who spends his summers on an island in the arctic. Has for the last forty years. For thirteen weeks he lives in an eight-by-ten cabin and spends his days putting bands around the ankles of baby seabirds. He said, “I can’t imagine doing anything else.”
He said, “I like spending time by myself. You’re never thinking on a different level than the other people around you. You don’t have to explain anything that’s going on in your head to anyone.”
I cracked a smile, shrugged my shoulders, and responded, “I pretty much only think about things even I don’t understand.”
The rest of the group dispersed quickly—a circle of people that didn’t get what that means. But he stayed there and he talked to me.
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