Being solitary is being alone well: being alone luxuriously immersed in doings of your own choice, aware of the fullness of your won presence rather than of the absence of others. Because solitude is an achievement.
—Alice Koller
Grateful
It’s Sunday morning
outside
the first rain of Autumn soaks into a dry, brown earth
the celebration of harvest time is shadowed with fear
inside
candles flicker
plants send out their arms to greet me
an unfilled robe hangs in waiting on the bathroom door
a hot kettle sends battalions of steam into the invisible
bluesy, melodic jazz permeates the room
“Someday, you’ll be sorry,”
she sings in a non-forgiving voice
sorrows, yes, a few, but no regrets
no tension of opposites exists here
emotion simultaneously embraces both sorrow and joy
It’s Sunday morning
outside
the sun seeps through now emptying clouds
the liquid amber bursts into flames
Mission bells chime the start of early Mass
inside
I feel safe and warm, I am at home
and grateful for this blessing of a still life.