Monk Hill stands smiling in the morning sun. Early Spring, well-tracked
snow still covers frozen ground.
Coffee-stained observations through my kitchen window.
Tom moved me here to heal, to figure out who I need to be and how. I don’t
think he was so much scared as awed by my profound collapse
into frenzied inertia. He had helped to organize this place, this
art-based enclave, to enjoy as occasional recreational refuge as well as
to give free range to special friends that he might be blessed in their
blooming. He seems quiet and controlled, a useful cover for his
beauty obsessed soul. So fortunate that he has all that inherited wealth
to indulge with. I mean that sincerely. So many highborn brats
indulge in nasty, even cruel, habits because they can. Or then there are
those obsessed with out-earning daddy or expanding their
empire no matter the cost to collateral lives. See, I can record a logical
progression of thought, sitting calmly, drinking coffee for the
luxurious warmth, smiling at the hill, the valley, the stone and brick
buildings, the tracks in crusty snow, maybe a human or critter
intent on their own projects. This is comfort. This is breathing deeply,
stretching gently, opening slowly toward the warmth of
activity, to explore in search of empowering questions.
Sounds like Eat Yer Pudding is open below. Guess I’ll take this party
public, check out the scene over breakfast bread pudding.
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