I sit in an adirondack chair after supper underneath a massive maple tree, taking in the gardens all around me. To my left is a huge hydrangea bush with both pink and blue blooms. There are varieties of perennials , but the only one I can name is a foxglove, easily four feet tall, one extra tall stalk towering over all the other stalks. Its bell-like flowers are pinkish, purplish, the stalk is a pale green. Lovely.
I bring my horse story out to work on, reading through the last few pages I've written, recopying the last page. It was wet, now dry, after soaking up water from my orchid on my hutch in the living room at home. Part of that page became plastered to the surface of the furniture, leaving an imprint of my words there. I told Terry "maybe it's a sign my words leave a lasting impression."
After visiting with Joan I am extremely surprised to see my friends Elizabeth and Judy from my retreat in March. Elizabeth and I sit together at supper and catch up. It was an eventful spring for both of us. Judy and I hope to connect tomorrow.
Joan also introduces me to two other new people, Robert and Ann, both here for her retreat. Robert is a colleague and professor of philosophy at St. John's University, where Joan teaches. He returns to share with me an interesting encounter he had with a ghost back in 2006. I like to watch that show Ghost Adventures, so I find the story interesting and bizarre, also scary. Definitely don't want to find out what it's like to be attacked and choked by an evil ghost!
Everyone has stories to tell; so many, so varied, so unique.
Rather than continue with my story the urge to observe, again, hits me. So I start writing what I see, what I feel. Why not?
I am here to observe, to write.
My favorite TV show is Fringe. On it is this group of beings known as "the observers." They wear black suits with white shirts, black ties and hats (think blues brothers, but definitely not funny.) They can move through different timelines to observe, showing up where and when they choose, but are not supposed to intervene with the events they witness.
When I spend time here I feel like I've switched timelines, entering into a new realm where I sense things I don't at home. Brother Andrew, one of the monks in residence here, shared that these grounds were once considered sacred by Native Americans-in other words, a thin place. I believe it.
It is my third visit.
It is now dusk. I feel drawn to a small statue, white, in an alcove within a white cement wall, about 25 yards from where I am sitting. It's of St. Francis of Assisi. Each room here is designated by the name of a saint. Tonight I am in the St. Timothy room. In March I was in the St. Francis room, on the third floor.
He's holding birds in either hand.... One in his right, at his breast. the other in his left palm, at his waist. A third bird sits on his left shoulder. Three birds....Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.
My third visit, that mystical number three. Jonah, three days in the belly of the whale. Christ, three days in the tomb.
The next thought I have is not at all spiritual, not exactly, though it is a definite leading. I'm hungry for something sweet. I go to a local convenience store, salivate at the Hershey bar with almonds, but choose the dairy free Oreo cookies instead. Much more agreeable with my tummy.
I am sitting here now typing this by myself, beginning to yawn,in the quiet little library here- the only spot with wifi. Time to read up a bit about St. Timothy, pray, and call it a night.
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