The Retreat (a confession)

I am sitting up in the night’s smallest hour, a near right angle on this camping cot. Ears stretched open. Did I hear someone coming? Please?

Quiet! Too quiet. Quieter outside of me than in please someone make some noise!

I know (and will admit) that I am home in the noisiest places. My internal zero centers when everything bounces and people scream. Fighting neighbors, drunks making love. In the center of this turbine I float like a little sage totter on sandals, offer pocket wisdom, have medicines up my sleeves!

For free! Have it all for free!

But here! Here! In this bunk house. This monastery. Away from it all. A gate clacks against its post now and then. A dog howls on the other side of an empty valley. I am awake waiting for the return of two brothers who passed some moments before exchanging muffled whispers.

Oh what were they talking about? Is there something wrong?

I am a shout trapped in skin. An explosion looking for a place to express myself. Please stand back. I am doing the best I can to self-actualize in a beneficial way.

Source

What preempted these toxic thoughts and words? A tincture that flowed inside us, seeped into bones, traveled unnoticed in dark, wet silence? Were we stained by it? Infused? Poisoned?

Is there more to say? Haven't we talked enough?

Just this:

That habits, feelings, ideas, and actions have a beginning. From the dampness, this stuff pulled its tint, sugar, shape. We can't deny that we made this juice together, made it sensual, palpable, gave it a presence that remained because we wouldn't release it.

As I present myself to you on this Sunday morning, I offer myself as changed, declare that I am able to see who and how you are, I can't name what shifted or when. An unclenching occurred and sweetness rose - to my mouth in this request that you and I reconsider our thoughts - that we try a different form of union.