Hermitage time — crossing bridges

They wore long, blowing dresses (linen?) like Edwardian ladies and their picnic blanket was spread just so.

There were two baskets, large, brought full of good things like pies and wine. The grass was soft. There were other people, but they were secondary, no matter how I tried to make them equal.

They picnicked in their sunny meadow beside a small brook. The sparkling water traveled from there down to stream and river and finally to the sea, but in a leisurely manner.

Across the brook, a woods and a cabin. I have no idea why the door was red. The cabin, however, was my hermitage. Still and perfect and unmarred by the worldly though it was very much of the world in the woods.

I wore purple and carried my own basket to share, about to step onto the bridge of stones across the brook. Or not to. The plan was set, but the footstep had not yet been taken.

Hermitage time — belief

Now I believe.

Prayers and patience and practice
and talking in images
and words
and deeds
and heart and mind.

Keep preparing the ground with stories and good works
and music for singing
and music for dancing.

Let the storm come,
hold tight to the companions,
hold tight to Freedom.

And today, with every fiber of my being,
I believe.

She is alive.

Right there.

In the mirror.