It is quiet at the Villa. The sun just set and I took it in for a few fleeting seconds.
What a life. Every day, I look forward to the next. It seems there is just enough work each day to occupy my time and not overwhelm it.
There’s a sense of accomplishment welling within me. Not for all the work I’ve done, but my ability to move past doing so much. To see clearer. To build simply.
Even with words, I feel challenged to articulate more with less.
The villa is filling up and I asked Angee if tomorrow I could have breakfast up at my room, rather than the communal kitchen area. She smiled, “Of course. And then you can do yoga outside by your room.” She totally got me.
A few years back, I wouldn’t have asked. I would have forced myself to sit awkwardly next to strangers and try to eat in solitude as I would if they weren’t there.
But this whole—do things because they make you uncomfortable mantra just doesn’t work for me. I do most things that would make other people uncomfortable—like selling all my stuff and moving to the other side of the world. But I get to temper the situations along the way and I think that’s the only way to make this sustainable long term.
It’s nice, being able to choose each moment independent of what everyone else is doing.
I fall more in love with the idea of writing each day. Somehow my mind saturates this open white space with a cadence I sense could go for awhile.
At least four people have encouraged me to write a book. Several years ago, I received an anonymous note on my seat at church that read, “I see you writing a book like C.S. Lewis and the Screwtape Letters, but instead of revealing the schemes of the enemy, you’ll reveal the schemes of Heaven.”
And those words resurface every so often. I always imagined it would be further down the timeline of life—you know, when I had more to speak to.
I find it reassuring no matter where I go or how I weather with age, I will always have my thoughts. They are with me always, for better or worse. Also nice that ink and paper are nearly free.
I don’t read nearly as much as I did when I was younger. Maybe I ought to, but I don’t feel particularly compelled to seek books out. They have a way of finding me.
I absorb everything, though. There is no off switch. Unless I find this flow I’m in now where a barrier forms around me to dull the distractions.
It feels a worthy endeavor — even if it’s only I that re-reads and reflects on these threads. It feels romantic in a way — and that scares me a bit because what if one day I have nothing to say? Or worse, I say things I don’t really mean but I think you want to hear?
We’re not there yet. But I sense the courage will come.
A little firefly just blinked on by. I think that’s my cue to say adieu.
Thanks for tuning in.