No aversion

I get questions about hermitary cookery.

There might not be much to tell; I'll try.

There are as many ways to cook and eat as there are people. Some ways are just "I'll eat whatever they parachute into this refugee camp" or "well, I sure hope I get to eat in the rapidly approaching afterlife." In other words, eating, let alone cooking, is a privilege in the world, more so, perhaps, than when foraged food was all there was to be had.

So, I'm conflicted about what may appear to be showing off. On the other hand, mindful eating can be an exercise in responsible behavior. I do think that my solitary routine, now established, is less wasteful, more nutritious, and healthier than before. While that may not do much for the world, it does something. Dogen tells us a little is a lot in Buddhist practice. You never know where a given small yet sincere practice will take you, but usually not to anyplace those around you will regard as a hindrance. Taking proper care of yourself takes care of others in many ways, often unforeseen.

Dogen wrote a small treatise, the title of which can be loosely translated "Instructions for the Monastery Head Cook (Tenzo)," which was/is intended as a guide to ethically feeding, in effect, a commune. 

The position tends to be a rotating one. Everyone has already been told to tough it out if you prove to be untalented, and by gosh they had better be thankful for it. So it's great that I, an untalented cook with only one patron, don't at all mind most of my mistakes. If it's truly inedible, just apologize to it with a gassho and add it to the compost.

In my movements and attitude, to the extent possible for me, I follow the "Instructions to the Tenzo. "

Here's the kitchen. The hut is nine feet wide. Most daily use items fit along a six foot section of one wall. Some supplies and less frequently used items are stored under or above the sewing table, alongside the opposite wall. Indoor plants and a basin and ewer share the space, along with baskets of fabric and sundries.

You can see I'm a pack rat, dating back to days of actual rather than currently simulated poverty. Everything here is hand-me-downs. I think that matters in the case of an attached hermitary, because I'm duplicating equipment already available in the kitchen of the household. But that kitchen, in a 1950s starter bungalow, is also tiny and the other family members have their own dietary requirements. We stay out of one another's hair, so to speak.

The hut has one wall outlet with its own circuit breaker, good for up to twenty amps, which enforces attentive power usage. The tiny fridge is on all the time, so the kettle and microwave and rice cooker and space heater can be used in twos but not in threes or fours. This enforces some discipline and thinking ahead, especially in winter.

As homesteaders/nomads, we used to cook on a smallish wood stove, the top of which enforced a similar discipline: a pot of water for washing dishes might take up half the surface and a Dutch oven with beans or bread in it taking up the other half. We inverted their lids and set bowls of whatever on them to simmer. My current efforts reflect the frugality of those years.

Back in the day

I forage very locally, mostly on this one city lot.

We don't use herbicides or pesticides, so I safely wander around the yard, then the garden. What draws my interest? In season, chicory, dandelions, nipplewort, narrow leaf plantain, crimson clover, deadnettle, cat’s ears, blackberry leaves, fir or spruce needles, money plant, parsley, sage, rosemary, thyme, Bigleaf maple flowers, willow leaves, herb Robert, and crop foliage such as kale, chard, beet greens, squash blossoms and leaves, pea and bean foliage, corn silk, and the like.

Out of season, many of these are not as bitter as some foraging websites will tell you, and if worst comes to worst, for the pot I steam first and reserve the bitter stock to give to my house plants or garden.

Often the yard is so productive I don't even make it into the garden. That's the maritime Pacific Northwest for you.

I bring my treasures into the hut and decide how they will be used. My cookery revolves around making tea (tisane) first. If what I gathered appeals to me as tea only, I put that in the tea strainer, set the strainer in a cup, run the kettle and pour boiling water over the foliage. It won't make much color in the cup unless there is something like beet greens, or I've dried the foliage, or I'm adding green tea or perhaps Darjeeling. That's fine. Minimalists need not be nutrition maximalists, let alone flavor maximalists, except perhaps if they can afford some loose-packed Darjeeling.

This tea is to have when Zooming with the sangha, or a friend, or while reading, or just watching the moon cross the window.

Next, I notice it's meal time. Some things that we all like to eat raw, I have to eat only a little of or not at all, so I do tend to focus on the steamer.

The little Aroma rice steamer, which is the heart of the hermitary kitchen, was handed down because it forgot its time limit for making rice. So I have to keep an eye on it for that cycle. I may use that for rice, or lentils, or root vegs, but I don't need a lot, and I'm not a fan of the coating on the metal liner you're supposed to cook in. My porcelain eating bowl fits inside the liner. So I put an inch of water from the pitcher (rain water, if it's fresh) inside the liner and set the bowl in that. 

I'm also not fond of the plastic steamer basket that came with the appliance, so that added to my interest in learning to cook in various ways in the bowl.

I then cut up any root vegs I'm using, including skins if possible, or pour in the rice or lentils, and add water, salt, spices as needed. Setting on Rice or sometimes twice on Steam. Udon I find I can make on Steam (5 minutes), though the consistency might not be to everyone's taste. Summer vegs such as zucchini should wait out the first five minutes and then be thrown in, chopped. Density is my guide here.

Meanwhile, if I'm adding greens, I have options. I might use what's in the strainer, if it's not anything I really shouldn't try to eat (for example, willow bark). Or I may choose to roll up some dandelion and chicory leaves with onion greens in a leaf of collard or kale and chop small, then check to see if the carbs are done, then turn off the rice steamer, pop in the greens (and maybe small tomatoes and such), and close the lid for some residual-heat cooking.

The bowl will be a little hot to fish out of the liner with my fingers, as there's little room along the sides, so I grab the bowl with a handy pair of side-cutting pliers and set it on a coaster. Here I may add more seasoning or soy sauce as desired. I pour some water or tisane in a cup and keep it handy, or if the broth is palatable, I'll use that, and sit down and eat.

This can be a soggy meal, so I often drain the bowl into a cup and drink the broth from that. This is a matter of taste; in Japan folks eat the solids, then tip up the bowl and drink the broth from it directly. Great! I have to spend a lot of time in my zero gravity chair and pretty much only eat there, so draining the bowl first saves me trouble with wet chin and fabric.

I mostly rotate four "recipes" based on rice, then potatoes, then lentils, then noodles, through the two daily meals and there is my week. For snacks there might be a deadfall apple or whatever comes my way.

I used to do a lot more drying of fruits and foliage than needed for the winters and now mostly just set aside some of my foraging to dry on a hardware-cloth shelf in the "greenhouse," or chop it all up to stuff into an ice cube tray, maybe with a bit of olive oil, for itinerant use.

Aside from this routine, I grind mixed grains in the Corona once a year and jar it up for the occasional breakfast with apple butter, and if I have extra fruit or root vegs on hand I may get out the small graniteware water bath canner and make preserves or pickled vegs to use over the winter, in very small jars.

 
The herb Robert and willow are part of my efforts to treat leukemia. 

I wouldn't ask anyone to try to duplicate my diet, but I do encourage experimentation for those interested in simplifying. This kind of food prep and eating is adaptable to many situations, especially for anyone living alone in a small space. Also it is a very portable way to eat, though maybe not as Spartan as this: Cooking Without a Kitchen: The Coffeemaker Cookbook

By not unnecessarily frequenting restaurants and supermarkets, it is possible to simplify quite a lot. Some foods are becoming scarce and I like to think I am leaving it on the shelves for someone else. 

I think the complexity of our civilization has a lot of inflicted suffering to live down. A social safety net is the sign that there is a commons of the heart.  🙏

If you only have wild grasses with which to make a broth, do not disdain them ... Where there is no attachment, there can be no aversion. -- Dogen

Another meditation on Hongzhi's Acupuncture Needle of Zazen

A meditation on Hongzhi's Acupuncture Needle of Zazen

Hongzhi likes untouched function.
Action said to be action of Buddhas
past and present is to see all

in the ten directions without
reaching for the pry bar.
Without reaching for the pry bar,

just appreciate. See, appreciate,
settle in, sip tea. Fearlessly sipping tea
is a tiger's roar. The squirrel

out there watches a jay bury acorns.
He relentlessly digs and eats them.
The jay returns with more acorns.

The squirrel returns and digs.
I set down my cup, chuckling.
 

Hongzhi taught at the Tiantong Monastery for 30 years. He then emerged from the gates to thank his supporters, and returned inside and died. This reminds me a little of Huiyuan, Tao Yuanming and Lu Xiujing laughing together when they realized they had crossed the bridge over Tiger Creek, the boundary of Huiyuan's temple's grounds, which he had vowed never to leave. [image: wikiart]

Acupuncture Needle of Zazen

The essential function of all buddhas,
the functional essence of all ancestors,
is to know without touching things
and illuminate without encountering objects.
Knowing without touching things,
this knowledge is innately subtle.
Illuminating without encountering objects,
this illumination is innately miraculous.
The knowledge innately subtle
has never engaged in discriminative thinking.
The illumination innately miraculous
has never displayed the slightest identification.
Never engaging in discriminating thinking,
this knowledge is rare without match.
Never displaying the most minute identification,
this illumination is complete without grasping.
The water is clear right down to the bottom,
fish lazily swim on.
The sky is vast without end,
birds fly far into the distance.

— Tr. Leighton and Wu

 

Dogen re-wrote Hongzhi's poem a couple of generations or so later:

The Needle of Seated Meditation

The important function for Buddha after Buddha
And the pivotal moment for ancestor after ancestor
Is to let it manifest without deliberately thinking about anything
And to realize it without creating complications.
 When one lets it manifest without thinking about anything,
Such a manifestation is naturally close to us:
When one realizes it without creating complications,
Such a realization is naturally a direct experience.
When that manifestation is naturally close to us,
There is not the least bit of defilement:
When that realization is naturally a direct experience
There is not the least difference between host and guest.
When the closeness is without the least bit of defilement,
That closeness is put aside and falls away:
When one directly experiences that there is not the least
distinction between host and guest,
Out of that experience come no set plans, as we diligently continue to train.
The water is so clear you can see down to the bottom,
 As fish swim by, just as fish do:
The sky is now boundless, penetrating the heavens,
As birds fly off, just as birds do.


— Tr. Nearman

Reality gives me cold toes.

 

Chiyono’s No Water, No Moon. Hidden Lamp, p. 37. Chiyono was a servant in a Zen convent who wanted to practice zazen. One day she approached an elderly nun and asked, “I’m of humble birth. I can’t read or write and must work all the time. Is there any possibility that I could attain the way of Buddha even though I have no skills?”

The nun answered her, “This is wonderful, my dear. In Buddhism there are no distinctions between people. There is only this – each person must hold fast to the desire to awaken and cultivate a heart of great compassion. People are complete as they are. If you don’t fall into delusive thoughts, there is no Buddha and no sentient being; there is only one complete nature. If you want to know your true nature you need to turn toward the source of your delusive thoughts. This is called zazen.”

Chiyono said, with happiness, “With this practice as my companion I have only to go about my daily life, practicing day and night.”

There are varied stories of Chiyono's life. Richard Bryan McDaniel, in Zen Masters of Japan, says: "One of Bukko’s students was the first Japanese woman to receive a certificate of inka. Her Buddhist name was Mugai Nyodai, but she is remembered by her personal name, Chiyono. She was a member of the Hojo family by marriage and a well-educated woman who long had an interest in the Dharma. After her husband died and her family responsibilities had been fulfilled, she went to study with the Chinese master."

He goes on to recount a longer version of the story told in Hidden Lamp, after warning us it is apocryphal, as Chiyono was of the lower samurai class, rather than of the Hisabetsu-buraku (discriminated hamlet class) as implied in both the story and in Hakuin's illustration above. 

Was she perhaps in a servant-like role as many new students are, in a training-monastery setting? Whether as a servant or a somewhat respectable widow, there is the implication that Chiyono must seek enlightenment with the handicap of actual or temporary (for training purposes) low status to be overcome.

There is also a story that when Chiyono was ready to begin her koan study with the master, her presence in the zendo was at first objected to by the monks, on the grounds that her beauty would distract them. And that to overcome this she burned her face with a hot iron rod. Some have noted an apparent sag in her face as depicted in her lifelike portrait sculpture as evidence of the truth of this story.

 

These two stories are related. But to continue.

Zen is grounded in work, both on and off the cushion. Work off the cushion is called samu. Monks and nuns are famous for their samu: sweeping, chopping wood and carrying water. Chiyono is known to have carried water.

After months of wholehearted practice, she went out on a full moon night to draw some water from the well. The bottom of her old bucket, held together by bamboo strips, suddenly gave way, and the reflection of the moon vanished with the water. When she saw this she attained great realization.

She wrote a realization poem.

With this and that I tried to keep the bucket together,
And then the bottom fell out.
Where water does not collect,
The moon does not dwell.

I have been asked three questions in the presence of this koan.

1. What are you trying to keep together at this time of your life?
2. Where does the moon go when its reflection disappears?
3. Where do we go when we let go completely?

1. What I am trying to keep together at this time of my life is my body, with its diminishing capacity for activity/work, awareness, compassion, and kindness, largely because I feel I still have some responsibilities to family and community, including the sangha. My life has been greatly simplified due to bodily conditions: I don't drive or shop or handle finances, and am praised for shuffling around the block with my two sticks. "Got your phone? Okay, have fun."

I have grief and regret. There's not much to do about that but carry a few tiny blossoms to a cairn nearby. Some self-indulgence in this, I think, may be excused.

It's easy to vanish into an easy chair. Letting go, now, would be as simple as the decision not to try to stand up. But also I'm still capable of spouting verbal abuse, which originates right here in the body, a part of nature. Channeling my speech (and facial cues) away from such may be my final exercise in letting go.

2. I reflect on the moon's beauty in its path across the sky, and then I don't. The moment a thought is over, it's nowhere, especially as near-term memory paths erode in one's cortex.  In resting from even reflection we come to ground truth -- not by seeking to rest, but by the simple expedient of absent-mindedness. This could be called the practice of not practicing, for which, for our purposes, we may use the model of a pet rock.

3. We don't go anywhere at all.

The bucket's bamboo strap unwinds and its moldy bottom falls out. Icy well water sluices down mossy stone steps. My feet are wet. Reality gives me cold toes.

Hermiting

The heat having abated somewhat (may reach 80F next 2 days -- in Eugene OR in Oct!! -- but to continue) I'm spending a lot more time in the hut. It's a tool shed dating back to the 50s, rebuilt for zazen practice and teleconferencing with the sangha (we mostly only meet online). I grow vegetables close at hand, pick "weeds" for tea, and use the tiny kitchen quite a lot. The leukemia seems to be in stasis for now. I greet crows outside my window.

 

Makeshift interior walls, makeshift altar, makeshift nun. At 75 and newly fragile health-wise, I sit here at the computer and commingle with my peers in the form of streams of electrons.

The altar table behind me was my grandmother's telephone table. The veneer secretary at left once belonged to the neighborhood landlord in my grandmother's time; don't know how she ended up with it! Picture frames, left to right: Prajnaparamita, Dogen and Keizan, Manjushri, an Enso, and Mugai Nyodai.

The kitchen is just a rice cooker, micro sized microwave, electric kettle, and a few jars and cans and utensils, most of them in a little hand-me-down butcher block table. I do most of my cooking in my eating bowl set inside the rice cooker liner in an inch or so of water. Works great. Table in the left foreground was my grandmother's from the 1930s. I ran my forehead into it on my scooter when I was three and just about knocked myself out. 

I'm told I got up and tried again and again. Whirr, wham! Whirr, wham! There's a lesson in that somewhere.

Stepping outside. The han is a plaque a friend made for me. I don't use it very often as there is no one to call with it and it's too near the neighbors. But I like having it. The mallet is a leatherworker's mallet that I retrieved from a dumpster somewhere.

Manzoku-an (Hermitage of Enough) is a former tool shed at the end of what was once a long carport. It's nine by thirteen feet. I've built a little courtyard for it using framed reed mats. I have used this hut for part-time hermiting off and on for nine years, overlapping with the previous hut, Gogo-an (10X10'), which I used for about the same span, or for a combined total of eleven years.

 What have I learned from this activity? Not so very much; the skills for living simply -- even somewhat starkly -- were acquired in childhood, as my parents encouraged me in running wild in the woods. At thirteen I camped for a week on an island in a swamp in subzero weather, building a kind of beaver lodge for myself of sticks and leaves. I kept a fire going at the entrance, and chopped ice for water from the frozen creek with a hatchet.

As a young adult, I lived in a succession of yurts, vehicles and small travel trailers, moving from place to place for forestry contracting, and did not return to "civilization" until I was thirty-six. I then worked at a university for twenty-two years and retired, at fifty-nine, to farm an acre. Hand tools were the order of the day -- a return to simplicity.

When I began to study Zen with a teacher, I looked around the farm for a place to sit quietly out of the way, and the children's abandoned playhouse filled the bill. It did not take me long to move in a few items and begin cooking and even sometimes sleeping there as well as sitting zazen. This sort of thing just felt natural to me, and the family supported my efforts.

When I discovered an online sangha to sit with, I brought a laptop out to Gogo-an and practiced with them, even participating in an online ango and rohatsu. This was a change from hermiting -- or was it? Our routine was much like that of the Discalced Carmelite sisters, each in her own hut but gathering with the others for ritual. 

Along came the pandemic and my local sangha moved online as well, where it has stayed ever since. These groups have a bit of a Carmelite flavor. Many of the people with whom I sit zazen or sesshin live alone. Many others practice with the assent of family members, but most do sit alone in their choice of room (or sometimes outdoors), as teleconferencing tends to place each person in a box, containing mostly a face, with perhaps an altar and bookcase in frame.

This mode of being isolated in company is not unfamiliar to monks and nuns in a monastery or local sangha. Benedictines gather, but each is alone with God in the company of others, perhaps to the extent of wearing a hooded cowl, or in the case of nuns, a coif, wimple and veil. Muslims have the sajada, or prayer rug, again alone with God amid the multitude. Zen practitioners tend to sit in a row, all facing the same direction, each alone with Dharma. Every religious person is already a hermit.

Religion, as we tend to define it, may not be the whole Venn diagram here.

People who live alone generally, or find themselves alone with or among others (there are many single beds in apartments, houses and ship cabins), or even who find themselves walking to the waterfront to commune with gulls and the stench of the wharf, are also hermits. Never make the mistake of supposing that someone who stops only briefly to admire a daffodil has no important business there.

Some may think they do not have hermiting skills, but I think we all do. What we may lack is the expectation that we'll have to live simply for an extended period of time, which can take some planning and prioritization. And in fact, though I have done that, it's not really what I'm doing right now; the hut is fifty feet from a shared modern kitchen. 

But I like to practice living simply in the hut, to keep the skills up (y'know "just in case," or in case someone else needs to know the little that I know) and to support my Buddhist practice. I'm doing a lot of sits. I find they're good for me; I need centering. It's cheaper than psychotherapy.

As we find ourselves more and more constrained by our unwieldy modernity, with the likelihood of catastrophic weather events, pandemics and crop failures, we may make some effort, as is always commendable, to ease the burdens of those around us but cannot hope, as individuals, to remedy all. 

What we can hope to do on our small scale (along with whatever else we're up to) is recognize that much of the time, what we might call down time or at least our in-between times, is what Buddhists call practice, which I will provisionally term as hermiting. Prayer, recollection, meditation, sittin' at the dock o' th' bay, admiring a daffodil, these are things that most anyone can do as they come to them, but I think we also, many of us, recognize that there are skilled ways of going about solitude. We know skilled loners when we see them, whether in films, videos, or sidewalk encounters.

Your bedroom, your kitchen, your study (if you have one), your creekside path, your hut attached to the family home or in its back yard (see under hermitary) -- your brief alone time "amid the noise and the haste" is your practice place. Whatever practice you do there, may it flow as a spring of water of life for you, and may you, in your short time here, find whatever you may recognize as blessing.

Many are

Mixed signs abound; after the storm, leaves shredded
by hail loll about on the street and
are investigated by crows. Where have the

birds been, all these baked-earth and baked-sky
days? And now they vanish again, as heat
resumes, as gardens wilt, as humans scurry

into delicious air inside sly merchants' shade.
I choose, as viruses have not, despite assurances,
abated, to limit myself, in straw Asian hat,

to observing this stuttering start to autumn
at first hand in the yard, at second hand
while putting away bought things the family's

acquired for me, before retiring once again
to the hermitary, converted tool shed
behind the house at the end of the drive

to zoom into the ether and sit
zazen with a few, who know
where to find me, some quiet, and themselves.

Many are hermits in just this way, though they
might not see it in these terms. A daily
routine within walls, or gardens, or

property lines: boundaries we create
of imagined air clean enough to inhale
without becoming a burden to our loves.

It's not much of a poem but shows what I've been thinking about. Autumn is trying hard to come in, with a strong system off the Pacific having filled our dried-up rain barrels, and awakened all the animals that seemed to be hiding somewhere after the heat waves, one of them topping 100°(f) for five days. We have another heat wave coming in September that looks to go over 90 for five days, with one more day pushing 100. But, yeah, plants have started putting on their fall plumage and the nights are cool.

I notice these things from the yard and while sitting in the "veranda" (basically a deck roof but no deck, just grass growing out of sand), or working in the garden. I have leukemia (slow, the CLL kind) and old age and what not, and a basic shyness with added cognitive decline, so I'm no longer a driver and now no longer a walker of the neighborhood sidewalks, unless someone is with me.

I'm also careful to breathe clean air. Weak lungs and all that, and I don't think much of the current official advice on viruses: Covid has surged hard this summer, and has been proven to have a long tail for many even when not initially presenting with symptoms. Even though my immune system is probably not very compromised, I see no reason to court disaster just because the CDC wants to avoid angering the nation's rentier class.

This adds a burden to the family; they mask up to go get groceries and feel a little self-conscious about it. But they agree that we, as a nuclear family with only one remaining driver, are exposed to too many potential unforeseen circumstances, so a few relatively easily achieved precautions are rational for us.

I spend time on federated social media and am seeing a lot of posts with this kind of thinking; it's like there is an emerging hermit class.

It's, for many, a privileged class, supported by the shipping phenomenon and an underclass (that's, alas, what it is) of front-line warehouse workers, store clerks and delivery people, many drawn from marginalized populations, who are getting sick repeatedly, and many of whom end up horizontal on couches, joining the ranks of those who must be maintained at cost to their tiny social safety nets or overworked social services.

This is like treading water after a ship sank. Many who thought themselves well-to-do are in the water with the people who brought them groceries or rotated their tires. I think there will be more of this and perhaps much more.

Against this slow-motion dystopian background, I think about what my role can or even "should" be. I have some intellect remaining, so I spend most of my days (and nights) doomscrolling for what I think might be the best policies and advice concerning climate, health, extreme weather resilience, and domestic and international relations, including resource wars, to share with whomever wishes to hear all this.

Buddhism came to me in the guise of how one might best behave on a sinking ship (or in the water afterwards); a kind of hospice manual:

"There are four kinds of wisdom that benefit living beings: giving, kind speech, beneficial deeds, and cooperation. These are the practices of the vow of the bodhisattva" -- Dogen.

Clearly the instructions are intended for face-to-face interaction, yet here I am hanging out mostly in my homemade hermitary, a repurposed tool shed. Right; well, my excuses, with the admission of privilege, are as stated above, and my practice (when not raising vegetables) is an online practice. It is twofold: curate links to sensible adaptive choices in a deteriorating system ("secular") and offer opportunities for zazen practice and discussion of anattā and its implications ("religious").

Of course, sometime soon I (we) might not have Internet access. What then? Well, much of the time, when I have my nose out of the computer, I sit in the veranda and watch. There's not much to watch: the clothesline, the power poles that run along our alley instead of our street, some fruit trees, and houses belonging mostly to absentee Airbnb owners. It's a restful spot.

 

Birds sit the wires in seasonal rotation. Swallows and purple finches have moved off, and currently starlings are passing through. Starlings were permanent residents at the farm in the last decade; before that, they migrated past us as they do here in spring and fall. And we're no longer under the flyway; I miss the honking of vees of geese while I worked the farm garden.

The distance between these two locations is fourteen miles. This variability of population is interesting; I can speculate about it for hours. What's not to entertain?

Or I just ... sit. Right there, every blade of grass continually establishes the temple of the whole universe. What's not to contemplate?

I think the phenomenon of "hermit" life goes vastly unremarked and underappreciated. In this neighborhood alone, many work among their flowers, vegetables and apple trees alone, contemplatively plying trowel and clippers. Kitchen work, too, is often undertaken alone yet not lonely, chopping, folding in, turning from counterspace to sink with a bowl, mind gathered to a single point.

My maternal grandmother had a huge extended family, but as they passed one by one, she accepted a small apartment near us and established a routine of bible study and housekeeping that lasted until she breathed her last. My paternal grandmother outlived all but one son and accepted a small single-wide trailer in his back yard, sitting out front and shelling beans as the geese passed over.

Who's to say they were not practiced eremitic meditators? They both, by the way, faced pancreatic cancer at the end and both dealt with it by no longer eating, with a silent yet not sad patience I admired.

There must be millions of these "hermits," widows, widowers, the divorced, or separated, or abandoned to end-of-life care facilities, or, among those younger, simply content to rise, go forth to stamp books behind a library desk, go home and sit by a window watching people with umbrellas scurry along rain-swept streets, or, or ...

... and not necessarily unhappy about it. Even many who strongly enjoy being social also enjoy solitude.

The worldwide assumption of a religious or even secular requirement that to do well one must do for others does not come with a meter. A quiet life has this to recommend it: those living contented with little typically do not generate much of this world's distress. As such they can serve as models for a life not dependent upon material culture for "happiness."

That in itself benefits living beings.