Please Do Not Disturb

I have been so solitary, so zen, so long.  It has been a wonderful place.  Content with my own company.  Happy with the morning coffee, writing, making pictures. . . the evening meal.  Books.  Movies.  Bed.

I've worried about myself, I will admit.  How can being alone bring so much pleasure, so much peace and joy?  Surely it is a mental illness, a surrendering, a giving over.  A final lethargy.

But I was never truly alone.  Nights in the studio, days at the factory.  Mornings here.  The morning email, the evening call, and dinners with mother.  It was enough stimulation and interaction, really.

Weekends in the house with music and sunlight and paintings and rugs and whatever foods I wished.  At night there was whiskey, the Little Brown Friend who is always ready to play.  And again, books and movies and. . . .

In an instant, it can all be shaken and stirred, can't it?  There is nothing you can do, nothing you can tell yourself.  Maybe there is nothing you want to tell yourself.

But those things never end well, do they?  And once the solitude is disturbed. . . then what?  Do you think it is possible to go back to that and be content?

There are reasons they keep young monks in monasteries.  There is a reason good monks live alone on mountain tops.

On another note, the U.S. plays soccer today.  I may watch the game.  It seems fun.  I hope they score a lot of runs.