It's Alive!

I haven't written anything here for months. It's gotten to the point where I think about deleting this blog altogether, because it vexes me that it sits idle. It's my Frankenstein's monster, a being I created, then abandoned. The reason I don't delete it is because I fear it will chase me around the globe and wreak revenge on me.  (Sorry. Lit nerd joke.)  In actuality, I don't delete it for the same reason people keep their dust-and-laundry-covered StairMaster in the living room. If it sits there long enough, surely I'll use it eventually out of shame, if for no other reason. But I wonder why I haven't been compelled to write for so long, and I've come up with a few theories.

Reason #1 - I have nothing to say.  I really don't. I don't have an angle, or voice, or obsession to draw on as a starting point. I'm not a mom or a wife or even a militant single. I have opinions about society and politics, but not well-developed enough to build a pundit platform. I don't stand out particularly as a teacher, and I refuse to devote a blog to the foibles and follies of my students (a petty thing to do, plus EXTREMELY detrimental to one's career.) I don't have any interests that burn within me so fiercely that I must, or can, write about them. I'm a self-centered, quirkyalone slacker/dilettante, but I'm not SO self-centered that I think people would be interested in reading my thoughts about me. So I stare at the blinking cursor, then give up.

Reason #2 - My job. As a teacher, I feel like if I have any downtime, I should be grading papers, and if I don't have any papers to grade, I need to think up some assignments to give out, so I'll have some papers to grade.  When I do have a window of legitimate free time, I devote it to reading or watching TV.  I have stacks of books I want to read and a DVR full of shows and specials to watch.  And then there's evil Netflix, which offers me even more time-wasting opportunities, right here on my laptop. It's a delicious luxury to be able to sit and turn off the teacher brain. Writing is active, and I need my passive time.

Reason #3 - Social media. Facebook has taken away my urge to write.  BFB (Before Facebook), if I had an observation or insight, I'd write about it and post it on my blog.  Now, I can jot it onto my status update and forget about it, rather than expanding on it. This is unfortunate, because there are some things I post on Facebook that have a story behind them, but there's not enough time or space to explain.
But I do often feel a burning need to be creative, and as I'm not artistic or crafty, writing is the most enjoyable option for me. So maybe Facebook can be my idea notebook.  The thought process that makes me want to share my garbled view of a fellow shopper or a cheesy story about my dogs may be parlayed into a spurt of creative writing beyond a few sentences, and will feed the blog beast and scratch my creative itch. I need to not worry about boring any readers I might have, and think of this as more of an intellectual exercise for myself.  I'll try to make a habit out of it, and set aside some time each week to string some sentences together in a cohesive form and post them here with more regularity.
But only after I watch eleven archived episodes of Doctor Who and read my September Harpers Magazine.

Breakfast

Today, I had loads of errands I needed to run, plus I wanted to take a walk around the community park. Before I got on the road to accomplish all this, I needed a hearty breakfast. I was in the mood for pancakes, so I went to a little diner off of the freeway.  It's a hole-in-the-wall place, with simple but delicious food, friendly waitresses who call everyone "Honey", vintage fruit crate labels on the wall, and a toy train the runs the perimeter of the dining room.  My favorite part is the weekday clientele.  It's a group of old men who totter in and greet each other warmly, probably every day of the week.  I'm not trying to be funny when I say that they seem deeply pleased that they've all woken up to see another day.
This morning, they were being interviewed by a freelance writer who appeared to be doing research for a book on World War II veterans.  I was stifling giggles, listening to the exchange.  The writer was trying to engage the men by complimenting them on their service to the country, and the men weren't having any of it.  Maybe they've heard it all before, or it's too painful to reminisce about, or they've jettisoned their past stories for more immediate concerns.  The writer kept addressing each one, like, "Bill, I know you were shot down over France, and Jack, I know you survived D-Day, and Joe, you were at Pearl Harbor, right?" and the old men just nodded and said, "Yeah, yeah" or started talking about something else.  At one point, the writer said "Lou, can you tell me about your recollections of the invasion of Italy?" and all Lou was interested in was the bill and who ordered cream cheese, because they owed 50 cents more.  I felt sorry for the writer. It's going to take a lot more breakfasts with these guys to get the stories he wants.  I hope he does, though.  It's a fascinating cross-section of history sitting at that diner table.

Sports (Yawn..)

I went to the beach this morning with my dogs.  While I was watching them frolic in the waves, I started chatting with a guy who was surf fishing. He was nice looking, friendly, complimented my dogs. A pleasant guy, all around.  I think he was flirting a little.  I can't be sure because it happens so rarely and I've always been embarrassingly dim in recognizing anyone's interest in me.  I didn't stay long enough to discover more, because I was hungry and my initial scan of him indicated that we had little in common, anyway. He had a Dodgers baseball cap, San Francisco 49ers t-shirt, and a Lakers duffle bag. He was a sports fan.  Deal-breaker.
I couldn't possibly care less about sports.  When people start talking about anything related to athletics, my eyes glaze over and a pleasant song starts playing in my head. I used to PRETEND I liked sports to make myself more desirable to men. It seemed important to them, and I was trying to adapt. I came to realize that I wasn't adapting, I was posturing, and it made me tired and resentful.  Why, oh why, I would wonder, couldn't he read my mind and know that even though I SAID I loved his sports team and would like nothing more than to spend a Sunday watching his favorite sports team play another sports team, what I REALLY wanted to be doing was walking through a museum, or eating lunch on a bistro patio.  It was a lovely, liberating moment when I decided that I would never again feign interest in a topic or activity, in order to be more romantically appealing. I'm too old and cranky.
I don't mind going to live sporting events, because it's a nice time with friends and there's always a great energy and sense of civic pride. Plus there's stadium food and beer in big cups.  I watch the sport being played, and I cheer for the home team, but I could take it or leave it as a regular activity.
The only sport I genuinely enjoy is bobsledding, and obviously, I don't get to see much of it, except during the Winter Olympics. I can't say why I like it, except that it's fast and exciting. But I don't have a favorite bobsledder, and it's not like I follow bobsledding on ESPN. And in case you're wondering, no, I don't care for luge, because (to paraphrase Jerry Seinfeld) it looks like the luger is participating against his will, that he was just strapped to a sled and sent screaming down an icy track. It also bothers me that they have to keep their head up like they do, in order to steer. It hurts my neck to watch the luge.
Don't even get me STARTED on NASCAR.
I also enjoy the World Cup, again not for the sport, but for the sense of global unity.  I'm an Anglophile, and I think it's adorable how worked up the Brits get over their game.  A nice thing about soccer is that I can turn on a match on TV, take a nap, wake up an hour later, and not have missed anything except sixty minutes of guys running around. I'm shocked to see if there's any kind of score. It's comforting in a way.
So, I chose not to waste any more of the fisherman's time today.  Let him move on a girl who will look cute in his oversize football jersey and who will coo and croon over bowls and balls and those stick-things that jocks use to hit stuff with.  I'm happy to be on my couch, watching Cary Grant movies.

Snail Tale

With the time change, it is now dark when I walk my dogs in the morning. Darkness makes me inordinately lethargic, and I tend to fixate on one thing to wake my brain up, until coffee takes over. This morning, I walked my dogs along our usual path, and they sniffed their usual spots. At one stop, as I stared down at the sidewalk, I noticed a snail slime path coming from the left. The snail had evidently slimed its way across the sidewalk until it was almost an inch from the right side, then did a U-turn, and returned to the grass on the left. It's a wide sidewalk, so the creature's round trip was about six feet. It must have taken all night. Why did it turn around? What goes on in a snail's brain? How far can they see? Maybe it got frustrated or nervous, and turned around. 

I know nothing about snails, except that I find them rather charming, in a Beatrix Potter, idealized sort of way. I find slugs repulsive, but slap a cute curly little shell on it, and I want to name it and keep it as a pet.

I probably wouldn't have even noticed this snail trail today except for the fact that yesterday, I noticed about six or seven snails in the same spot, all moving in the same direction, left to right. A herd of snails. A flock of snails. A stampede of snails, all headed doggedly (as if a snail can be any other way) towards the same place. It was actually kind of a funny sight, as if they were in a race. So this morning, I wondered if there was a connection between the two molluscan events? Maybe they were a pride of snails who migrated to the other side of the sidewalk, for reasons known only to them. Maybe the snail from today was a pariah, and was left behind on purpose. As it approached the new settlement, the other snails sent out a wave-off, or a warning shot over the bow.

Or maybe it was a devoted parent, who was unwilling to leave a snaillette? Maybe it forgot something, and had to return to retrieve it? Perhaps it suddenly and capriciously chose the life of a snail hermit? I'll never know.
These are the kind of things that skitter through my mind in the morning. I may need to up my caffeine intake.

Goodbye to Books

I cleaned off a bookshelf today. This is a big deal, because I don’t like to clean anything, but the shelves had a coat of dust that was depressing.  I have close to 3000 books, all told, shoved onto bookshelves, piled up on the floor.  There’s not a flat surface anywhere in my home outside of the kitchen and bathroom that doesn’t hold books.

It took me most of the day just to clean off this one bookcase, because as I dusted the books, I looked through each one. I’ve been thinking of purging my collection of books that hold no value, either sentimental, financial, or intellectual, but I find it hard to part with even a bad book. They seem so precious now. As I looked through each one, I became sad. I never thought it was possible that I would live in an age where bookstores are dying off, like haberdasheries or typewriter stores. But it’s a fact.  Independents and chain stores alike are closing shop. It’s a combination of people becoming more stupid and people becoming more techno-savvy.
 
The first question my students ask when we start a novel is, “Is there a movie of this?” They don’t even look at the cover and they whine when I start to tell them about the author and the historical context. They complain about having to read so much, even though we only read five to six books a year. They express genuine puzzlement when asked any question that can’t be answered with a direct quote in front of them.  It seems every year, I have fewer and fewer students who can envision beyond the page, who can analyze a character like Nick Carraway or Huck Finn or Scout Finch by their words, rather than being hit over the head with an explanation from me or the author. It’s not just my students; there’s evidence of this phenomena everywhere. As a race, we seem to be losing our inner eye. We’re becoming at once less imaginative and more demanding and jaded about visual wizardry. Look at the movies that are massive hits now.  Huge, over-the-top, 3-D effects with minimal stories and tepid characters. Lovely language doesn’t matter anymore.

I don’t know if this slide in intelligence is connected to the rise in our technological prowess.  Everything is available to us at our fingertips. If I admit in a class discussion that I don’t know a fact, a dozen students will reach for their phones to look it up. A few days ago, I asked my sophomores to look up ten words in the dictionary. In each class, at least three or four students admitted that they didn’t know how to find a word in a traditional book dictionary.  They rely on spell check and online dictionaries in which they type in the word, and the definition appears. But finding something in alphabetical order flummoxed them. It was so strange and unexpected, but then I remembered that these kids have never lived without computers around them everywhere.  They have never known a time when there weren’t cellphones and the internet in every household. I wonder if there’s even any point in explaining how to use a library to find information for a research paper, because libraries as brick and mortar entities are also dying out.  Through our smart phones, we can hold a library, museum, or instruction manual in our hand, 

Let me make one thing clear: I’m not casting the first stone, because I am certainly deeply entrenched in the grid. I’d lose a tooth before I’d give up my iPhone, and I switch on my laptop automatically when I get home from school. I’m sure I’ll cave one day and buy an e-reader, but I’m going to hold out as long as possible. Libraries and bookstores are dying and I don’t want to be a party to their demise until I have no choice. Nothing makes me happier than walking into a bookstore, and looking at each section, picking up books and skimming the first few pages, chatting with the store owner or clerk. Book people are like any group of fanatics: we have our own vernacular, our snobberies, our causes. We’ll champion long dead authors and wrestle to the floor over the meaning of a Shakespearean line. 

I used have a circuit of new and used bookstores that I would frequent on a Saturday. Acres of Books in Long Beach, Duttons in Brentwood, Borders in Sherman Oaks, Book Soup on Sunset, Iliad in North Hollywood. I’m sure the first three are closed now, and the other two are struggling. I worked at a bookstore during the summers, and would spend most of my paycheck taking advantage of my employee discount. When I visit a city or place I’ve never been before, the first thing I look for is a bookstore. The first section of a mall or thrift shop I go to is where the books are.  It was my dream for years to own a little bookstore, but I know that is a lost cause.  Yet, I will always have books around me, and I’ll continue to buy them, as long as I have money. It’s an illness and a compulsion, but I’m okay with it. As books become less important in society, I’ll make it my private mission to keep and care for them, like some little fairy tale troll under a bridge, mumbling over the shiny rocks she’s collected. It’s a worrying obsession, but it’s cheaper than Faberge eggs, and saner than teddy bears or pet cats.

My Hermit Weekend

A while back, I read this quote by Mark Twain: “Twenty years from now, you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines, sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover."  This struck a chord with me, and my first instinct was to hurl myself into insurmountable credit card debt by booking trips and enrolling in classes.  I talked myself out of it, because in twenty years, I’ll regret that I didn’t show more financial prudence and restraint. Mark Twain probably didn’t have car payments to make when he wrote that. But it did make me think about doing smaller things that I usually hesitate to try due to some rationalization, valid or not.
One thing I’ve thought about doing was a silent retreat. I liked the idea of being completely alone in silence, but I has afraid that I’d be instantly bored or go crazy and develop alternate personalities, just for the company. As a three-day weekend approached, I decided to sail away from the safe harbor and give the retreat a try.  I found the New Camaldoli Hermitage online, after having read a little blurb about it in Sunset magazine.  The hermitage is in Big Sur (one of the most beautiful areas I’ve ever seen,) and the price was right: $80 a night for my own little silent cell, with a view of the ocean and three meals a day. Sounded heavenly. I live alone, so I could do a silent retreat here, but there are my dogs to tend to, and my MacBook, and WiFi, and a thousand distractions.  I wanted to be completely cut off from everything. I’m also a total freak about silence, especially at night. I’ve moved out of perfectly good apartments because of noisy nocturnal neighbors.  It’s one big reason I won’t buy a house, because I’m afraid I’ll move in and find out that I have clog dancers living upstairs or heavy metal enthusiasts next door, and I’ll have to put the house back on the market before I’ve unpacked.
The route to the monastery is up Highway 1, which runs along the coastline. Several times, I pulled over to admire and photograph a view.  I stopped for about an hour at the San Simeon Elephant Seal sanctuary and watched elephant seals sleep, swim, and sun themselves.  They went on their elephant seal way, completely oblivious to the line of people behind them taking photos and videos.
The Pacific Coast Highway through Monterey is a white knuckle ride.  Its windy, blind turns and distracting views are at once relaxing and nerve-wracking. I would be nervous about driving it at night or after a rainstorm.  Still, there’s nothing like California coastline to remind me why I love this state.
The hermitage is in Lucia, up a windy, narrow driveway which is two way, although there are long stretches where my car took up the entire lane. I prayed that there were no oncoming cars, and immediately started to stress about leaving on Sunday because of the drop offs and soft shoulders. I put it out of mind, and went into the bookshop to check in. I was greeted warmly by a friendly monk who told me about meals and nice walks around the site. I try to access my Catholic school etiquette to recall if he was to be addressed as Father or Brother. I couldn’t recall, so just resorted to repeating “Great. Sounds good.” He told me I’d be staying in a “cozy” hermitage called Kairos.
No kidding. Kairos was a small trailer with a kitchen and bathroom and single bed. I was wary as I pulled up to it, but as soon as I settled in, I did appreciate its coziness. It was surrounded by trees and bushes, with a view of the ocean from the porch. 
There was no cell phone service, which had seemed appealing to me when I made the reservation, but now made me edgy.  I’m always a little nervous when I’m off the grid. I always assume someone is trying to reach me for some catastrophic reason.
The silence was very profound.  I kept whispering to myself in a distracted way, and wondered if that was the first sign of schizophrenia. I became keenly aware of how I always have some kind of noise on in my house, whether it’s music, the TV, or just a fan.  The only sound I heard as I sat on my porch was chirping birds and slight rustling in the foliage.
I walked around the grounds and took some photos.  I headed down the long drive towards the PCH.  There are some beautiful vistas, so I kept walking, almost to the end. I then realized that I now had to walk over a mile back uphill. Curses. I huffed and puffed my way up, stopping frequently to catch my breath under the guise of taking more photos.  Maybe one thing God wants me to learn from this is that I need to exercise more.
Other retreatants walked by, and it was very difficult not to smile and say hello. I had to clamp my lips together. Some people ignored me completely, others smiled and nodded. 
At 5:30, I went up to the kitchen with my dinner pails to get dinner. It’s left out in the retreat house kitchen, for the retreatants to come pick up at their leisure.   Bread, soup, and breakfast items are available 24 hours a day. Lunch, the main meal, is served between 12:30 and 1:00, and all meals taken back to your hermitage, to be eaten in solitude. As I walked in to get dinner, a man was there, getting his meal, and again I struggled with not making chit-chat to fill the silence. I looked at the books on the shelf of the small lending library as he finished up.  He left, and I dished out my own salad and soup. I almost spilled the tureen of soup as I pulled it out of the fridge. I stood in frozen horror for a moment, wondering how I could rectify that if I had actually done it. Could I go find a monk and offer to make more? Could I just leave it and run? Luckily, I wrangled it back into the fridge, and headed back to my hermitage. I left my meal there, grabbed my camera, and ran up to the main drive again to watch the sunset. It was spectacular.  The colors against the wide expanse of water were sublime and constantly changing.
In the dusk, I headed back and ate dinner on my porch, slurping my soup because no one was around, and I like doing it. After dinner, I washed all of my dishes and made my bed up. It was 7:15 and I wonder if it’s too early to go to bed, despite the fact that I wasn’t the tiniest bit sleepy.  I fought the urge to clean out my purse or play Angry Birds on my iPhone. I thought about eating all of the snacks I brought, despite being full from the delicious soup and salad. Recalling that I have iTunes on my computer, I started to cue it up when I stop myself. I came here to revel in silence, and at least for the first night, I was going to try.
I went outside on my little patio to look at the stars. The night was clear and there was almost no light pollution, yet it was unnerving how dark and quiet it was. I heard rustling in the bushes nearby, and instantly my Woody Allen instincts kicked in. I was sure it’s a machete-wielding lunatic.  I grabbed a flashlight and shone it towards what I’m sure was my oncoming violent end. It’s a squirrel, scared out of its little wits by my beam of light.
I went back inside. I wondered how my dogs are doing. I broke down and watch a clip from “The Ricky Gervais Show” that I have stored on iTunes, and that made me less lonely.
I read until I got sleepy and I was proud that I lasted until 9:30.  Once I turned off my light, it was pitch black.  It’s discombobulating to sleep in utter darkness and silence.  I slept well, but my dreams were very vivid and it was hard to shake them when I woke up. The dreams weren’t particularly insightful. In one dream, I showed Leonardo DiCaprio my new purse. Without a word, he took it and walked around with it for a few minutes, then threw it in a trash can and walked away.  I don’t think there was any kind of message in that, and I laid awake, thinking about my new purse. I drifted off, but was woken up suddenly by an owl hooting outside of my door.  The sound was sad, then comforting, then annoying, then comforting again. When I was on the verge of throwing a shoe at the door, the owl flew off.
In the morning, I woke up right before dawn, and looked out my window. The ocean is beautiful, lavender and azure, and dead still.  I thought about getting up and taking pictures, but my bed was warm and comfy.  I decided to shoot for the next morning.
I got up a couple hours later, took a quick walk, snapped some pictures of some birds, and then went to grab a yogurt and some sugar from the retreat house kitchen. I brought my own tea and some zucchini bread, so I headed back to my hermitage and made breakfast.  On the way back, I ran smack into a herd of deer, grazing by my door.  I watched them and waited for them to amble on, but they were in no hurry. Clearly they’re used to humans, but I was hungry, so I walked straight up between them.  I made breakfast and ate it on my patio.  I washed the dishes and made my bed. It was 8:15.
I tried to go on the internet. My AirPort picked up WiFi signals called MonksEast and Monks South, but they were password protected. Those rascals. Just as well. I reminded myself again that I came here for the cloister experience.
I decided to take another walk. The room instructions request that retreatants don’t walk along dirt roads, because of poison oak and “to maintain the cloister of the monks”. But I had already explored all of the approved routes, so I pledged to avert my eyes from any monks I encounter and watch where I step, and I set off down the dirt road that ran past my place. I was rewarded with another spectacular view of the ocean and the Monterey coast.  I found a bench and sat for a long time, soaking in the sun and silence.
I came back, read for a little bit, then decided to go up to the gift shop and look around. The cloistered monks spend their day in prayer and reflection, but clearly they have some free time as well, because the gift shop stocks some of their art, along with books, jewelry, and religious knic-knacs.  The only people in the shop were a monk and a woman who must have been their secretary. She was prattling on about a coworker, and it was such a sharp contrast to the silence of the past day. The monk was listening intently, occasionally trying to interject but was ignored by the woman. It reminded me of the Seinfeld episode, when Kramer takes a vow of silence until Kathy Griffin’s character makes him cave.  “You got to shut up!” he bursts out. “You talk too much.” I wonder if the monk was thinking the same thing, or if he enjoyed hearing conversation, no matter what the subject.
I bought a St. Francis of Assisi statue and a coffee mug. I wanted to look through the books, but I couldn’t listen to the woman any longer. As I get older, I have less and less patience with idle chatter. It bores me and grates on my nerves.  The monk seemed a little relieved to come ring me up and escape the barrage of nattering.
The lunch bell rang at 12:30. I grabbed my dinner pail and walked up to the kitchen.  Lunch is all vegetarian and served buffet style. There were two men in the kitchen when I walk in, whispering to each other. They look guilty when they spotted me, like they’d broken the silence rule and I was there to bust them.  I smiled, said nothing, and started to load up my plates. Lunch was delicious; rice and veggies, artichokes in a cream sauce, roasted potatoes, vegetable lasagna. I took a little of everything, and headed back to Kairos.
I looked up the word Kairos and learned that it’s a Greek word that means an opportunity, a propitious moment for decision or action. It would be a perfect place to do some serious thinking. I don’t know if I’m here seeking any insight. I’m open to God nudging me in the right direction, if I’m messing up. I don’t think I am, though. Is that supreme arrogance? Maybe. I sometimes wonder if I should be a teacher. It tires me. But I think work tires me in general, because I’m lazy. Well, not lazy, just unindustrious. When I have a day off, I do get out and do leisure things, but they’re things that I enjoy doing, not that I have to do. If I could get paid for going out to lunch, going to museums, reading, napping, playing on the internet, and sitting in the park with my dogs, I’d be delighted to go to work every day. I feel like I’ve made the right life choices. If God disagrees, I’m open for discussion. But it’s going to take more than some psalms to get me into the negotiations.
After lunch, I slipped into the church to look around. It’s beautiful and simple. It reminds me of a Quaker meetinghouse, with rows of chairs facing each other and no decoration. There’s a simple altar and a small crucifix suspended from the ceiling.  I like that. I get squeamish about churches with a huge, bleeding Jesus staring tragically down at the churchgoers.  I get what He went through and I’m sorry He had to do it; I don’t need to be distracted by a bloody, torn corpse. I sat for a few minutes, but as what always happens when I’m in a church, I get antsy to get outside. I said a quick prayer and left.
I got my evening meal, more artfully this time. No near spills, and I don’t forget anything. After stowing my meal in my kitchen, I went to watch the sunset.  Again, beautiful.  I began to stress about the ride home the next day. Windy roads; Sunday traffic. There’s no way around going home, so I put it out of mind and went back to eat dinner. The meal was carrot and rice soup, and salad. I really, really LIKE soup and salad, and I wondered why I don’t eat more like this at home.
Decided to give looking at the stars another try.  Once more, it was awe-inspiring, then that freakin’ owl started up again, and suddenly I felt very sad. I started thinking about physicist Brian Greene on the Colbert Report, explaining how our universe might just be one of many, and Stephen bellowing, “This has to stop! I can’t feel any more insignificant than I already do!” I get that. It’s times like these that I understand that I’m a tiny person on a tiny planet in a tiny galaxy of what might be a tiny universe. I crawled into bed and read until I got sleepy.
I’m jarred awake in the middle of the night by something walking on the roof. It sounded big. I mean, human big.  How could someone get up there, and more importantly, why? My heart pounded and I fished my pepper spray out of my purse,  Whatever it was leapt off (or FLEW off, maybe? My mind filled with swirling, supernatural images) and I drifted back into an uneasy sleep. That blasted curvy driveway wheedled into my thoughts again.  Let it go, let it go. What will be, will be.
Woke up to another beautiful dawn.  Packed up, cleaned up the hermitage (per the request of the monks. I didn’t mind. They kept me, fed me and left me alone for 48 hours. It was the least I could do.)
Packed up the car, and headed down the drive, praying and watching with one eye for any oncoming vehicles and the other on where I could pull off if need be.  I met no one, and heaved a sigh of relief until I remembered the 20 plus miles of twisting highway that I still had in front of me. I’m not a nervous driver unless I let my imagination run wild. I squelched it and plowed on. 
It was an uneventful ride home, with the scenery that I love best in the world.  I enjoyed my time at the hermitage very much, and I can see the allure of such a simple life. On the drive, I thought that I could live a cloistered life very easily. If I had my dogs.  And my books. And my computer and digital cable and my camera and my car, because you HAVE to have a car, right? Ok, so maybe the monastic life isn’t for me, except the occasional weekend.  But I may be able to inject a more simple aesthetics into my everyday life, and be my own brand of monk.