You have met Stella the wood stove and our eight squatting squirrels (eviction papers successfully served).

I would now like to introduce Bert.

Unlike Stella who makes me work for her affection, Bert and I hit it off immediately. Our relationship is satisfying and simplistic.

Bert is the outhouse we inherited with the property.

As there is no existing well, we do not have a septic system. There is a small, portable composting toilet inside, but Dave and I do not agree on its efficacy. After living in Asia and using a variety of squat toilets on a daily basis, my idea of what constitutes a good vessel differs from his. For now, the outhouse is our primary pit.

Dave recently installed a solar light on Bert. He was proud of this little addition and proclaimed, “When you close the door you will have light!”

He lost me at ‘close the door.’

Why would I close the door when this is my view:

In winter, the only way to access Bert is on snowshoes while slowly shoveling a path from the cabin to his crooked front door. It isn’t far, but it takes a bit of time. It can feel longer if your bladder is expanding faster than a threatened Pufferfish. How could I shut the door on all this splendor and a perfectly sculpted path?

When I asked Dave why he needed the Privy door closed, he spookily responded that the forest had eyes. And that the answer lay in the name.

I doubt the forest gives a rat’s ass about me doing my biz. If it’s the neighbor we haven’t met yet wandering around, the damage is on his psyche not mine.

Bert used to be a two-seater. In addition to the solar light, Dave made Bert into a one-seater with a reinforced platform (good idea), new air-intake/smells-outta here pipe (great idea) and a non-butt-pinching toilet seat (super idea).

I am not (completely) romanticizing crapping in the woods. I am grateful for our flushable toilet at home and bless the sanitary engineers who deal with our collective waste. I don’t have to shovel a path to it in the winter or approach it with caution in the warmer months, banging on the door and kicking the bench to warn 8-legged seat-lurkers that a human arse approaches.

Bert has renewed my appreciation for sanitation and the comforts of home often taken for granted. March 11th was World Plumbing Day. I learned about Plumbers Without Borders: a non-profit organization formed after the 2010 earthquake in Haiti by two retired Seattle plumbers and their wives. This brought a tear to Bert’s eye: the ordinary guy making a big difference.

Toilet Meditation (yes, it’s a thing)

There is something about Bert that evokes a mindfulness which rarely exists when using modern facilities.

I can’t just dash off to the loo mindlessly like I do at home, or at school during recess with every other adult in the building. I have to plan and prepare:

• empty all pockets (critical)
• ensure there’s a spare bunch of TP in hand (useful)
• walk or snowshoe to Bert and kick front door in warning (prudent)
• enter the abode and do a 180 turn if in snowshoes (dexterous)
• gaze at wonderful woods, hum a tune, come up with blog material (poetic)

If I took this much time toileting at school I would be an immediate outcast. At recess you have 20 seconds to do your business, sanitize the space and get the hell out.

Maybe next time I’ll yell, “Hey man, I’m meditating in here!” to buy a little extra time.

At the cabin I have to slow down to get the job done. I’ve got nothing to prove and nowhere to be. I breathe while I pee. I don’t check text messages (c’mon, I can’t be the only one who multi-tasks on the pot).

I discovered that toilet meditation is an actual thing. This is a cute little clip about it.

Claim your Right to Pee and Be.

Natural Woman

I visited Bert recently. Snowshoe clad, I sat and stared at the shivering trees waiting patiently for spring’s gentle smile. For a moment I was a kid again. Ordinary actions were fun-filled feats and the freedom to be ourselves was claimed as birthright.

A lot changes as we age.

Bert may favor his left side and exhibit wounds and bruises from years of service but he is still purposeful and authentic. He reminds me to be grateful for human ingenuity.

Bert the Sage also reminds me that it is good to stop and smell the proverbial roses along the way, albeit with shallow breaths in his presence during the warmer months.

I often hum a particular song on my jaunts to consult Bert. I doubt one of Bert’s ancestors was the inspiration for Carole King but who knows. Maybe she too, felt like a natural woman with each forest stroll to relieve both body and mind.

Karma Cabin Lesson #7:

Inspiration can arise in the most unexpected places.