Psychs can't find a label for the "North Pond Hermit” "

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27 years alone in the woods: How the “North Pond Hermit” survived

There was another guy who lived alone by choice in the wilderness for over 30 years. This guy in no way came off as having a screw loose. But could've had autism I suppose.
https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richard_Proenneke

A friend of mine, who worked in mental health, actually holds the unexpected opinion (for a mental health professional!) that too many labels are put on people. She feels that most of them are unnecessary and the person is just being. . .who they are.

Why can't this guy just be a guy who was fed up of society -- which, lets face it, can suck in multiple ways -- and just wanted to live off the grid, autonomously, independently, and left alone instead of pestered.

I feel pestered in my life in a city, in a nosy building, with pestering landlords and neighbors. I hate the noise of constant traffic. I hate bills. Tax returns. I get fed up of a lot of the stuff involved in modern life.

If it wasn't for the fact that, sadly, I'm too addicted to a lot of the other stuff of modern life, I'd do what that guy did too.

Modern life certainly has its pros and cons. I always used to love going on hikes to the wilderness but they were always just a few days. I often thought how I'd love to stay behind!

I'd like to take one very special person with me so we can be hermits together.

Can't find a label for someone, then it's time to make up a new diagnoses. They just discovered a new disorder.

"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived."

https://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quot ... 07665.html

His label is introversion, but that doesn't mean he has a disorder.

The Lake Isle of Innisfree
W. B. Yeats, 1865 - 1939

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee;
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping
slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket
sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

The Peace of Wild Things
Wendell Berry

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives might be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

As an artist, I can't find a label either ... but a picture, or photo, is worth a thousand words.
Here are some of my fine art photos of my favorite woodland retreats, all taken from visits I made to the Hocking Hills of Ohio:







...

/\Beautiful!


Good-Bye
BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON
Good-bye, proud world! I'm going home:
Thou art not my friend, and I'm not thine.
Long through thy weary crowds I roam;
A river-ark on the ocean brine,
Long I've been tossed like the driven foam;
But now, proud world! I'm going home.

Good-bye to Flattery's fawning face;
To Grandeur with his wise grimace;
To upstart Wealth's averted eye;
To supple Office, low and high;
To crowded halls, to court and street;
To frozen hearts and hasting feet;
To those who go, and those who come;
Good-bye, proud world! I'm going home.

I am going to my own hearth-stone,
Bosomed in yon green hills alone, —
A secret nook in a pleasant land,
Whose groves the frolic fairies planned;
Where arches green, the livelong day,
Echo the blackbird's roundelay,
And vulgar feet have never trod
A spot that is sacred to thought and God.

O, when I am safe in my sylvan home,
I tread on the pride of Greece and Rome;
And when I am stretched beneath the pines,
Where the evening star so holy shines,
I laugh at the lore and the pride of man,
At the sophist schools, and the learned clan;
For what are they all, in their high conceit,
When man in the bush with God may meet?