Somehow, I have slipped into religious training.
Or so it seems.
I am well on my way to becoming a hermit. Steve the Stylite. Up on his Monty Python pole.
I didn't plan it this way.
Anyone who knows me very well would not peg me for the reclusive type. Social Guy would be more like it. I love being around people. Being in the middle of things that people like to do.
But anyone who did a rewind of this past week would see a bit of discordance between the Steve I think I am and how he has spent his time.
On at least three days this past week (not counting my flu days), I did not leave the confines of my little monastery.
No one is in the upper level of my duplex. So, if I do not walk out my gate, I am on my own.
It is not as if I am in solitary confinement. In a certain sense, my little compound is the Garden of Eden -- without the temptation of forbidden fruit. I want for nothing.
A beautiful garden where I can sit and read. Or sit and eat. Or sit. Or, better yet, lie in the hammock and not even have the strain of sitting.
When I get hungry, I can whip up any type of food I like with some of my more exotic culinary purchases from this last month. And, if I run out of anything, I do not have to step into the world. I can have it all delivered. Just like a baby delivered to a nunnery. (I will confess, though. I have not sunk to the point of not doing my own shopping.)
With my Kindle, I will never run out of books. With the internet, I will not lose contact with the outside world -- including my morning doses of news from the slightly monotone Oregon Public Broadcasting.
But, as much as I enjoy the solitude, my hermetic days are not going to be the norm.
I too much enjoy the rhythm of my community.
Stretching my Spanish with Ivan, the young man who delivers my water, and with Dora, the bringer of maidly things. Learning new words from Hector, the waiter at La Rana. Not to mention my friends and acquaintances at my church -- and with a new community project that has caught my interest.
As soon as I get situation and as soon as we can get past Christmas, I am going to head out on the road again. This time, unfortunately, without a travel companion. Probably up and down the Pacific coast -- and up into the highlands.
There is a legend about a hermit by the name of Alypius. He was one of those hermits who stood on a pillar as part of his hermitage. He stood there for 53 years. Then his feet gave out. Instead of descending, he stayed up another 14 years lying on his side.
I am no Alpius. There is far too much to see in this country for me to spend time sequestered in my garden.
Even though Casa Nanaimo would make a practically perfect hermitage -- in every way.
Or so it seems.
I am well on my way to becoming a hermit. Steve the Stylite. Up on his Monty Python pole.
I didn't plan it this way.
Anyone who knows me very well would not peg me for the reclusive type. Social Guy would be more like it. I love being around people. Being in the middle of things that people like to do.
But anyone who did a rewind of this past week would see a bit of discordance between the Steve I think I am and how he has spent his time.
On at least three days this past week (not counting my flu days), I did not leave the confines of my little monastery.
No one is in the upper level of my duplex. So, if I do not walk out my gate, I am on my own.
It is not as if I am in solitary confinement. In a certain sense, my little compound is the Garden of Eden -- without the temptation of forbidden fruit. I want for nothing.
A beautiful garden where I can sit and read. Or sit and eat. Or sit. Or, better yet, lie in the hammock and not even have the strain of sitting.
When I get hungry, I can whip up any type of food I like with some of my more exotic culinary purchases from this last month. And, if I run out of anything, I do not have to step into the world. I can have it all delivered. Just like a baby delivered to a nunnery. (I will confess, though. I have not sunk to the point of not doing my own shopping.)
With my Kindle, I will never run out of books. With the internet, I will not lose contact with the outside world -- including my morning doses of news from the slightly monotone Oregon Public Broadcasting.
But, as much as I enjoy the solitude, my hermetic days are not going to be the norm.
I too much enjoy the rhythm of my community.
Stretching my Spanish with Ivan, the young man who delivers my water, and with Dora, the bringer of maidly things. Learning new words from Hector, the waiter at La Rana. Not to mention my friends and acquaintances at my church -- and with a new community project that has caught my interest.
As soon as I get situation and as soon as we can get past Christmas, I am going to head out on the road again. This time, unfortunately, without a travel companion. Probably up and down the Pacific coast -- and up into the highlands.
There is a legend about a hermit by the name of Alypius. He was one of those hermits who stood on a pillar as part of his hermitage. He stood there for 53 years. Then his feet gave out. Instead of descending, he stayed up another 14 years lying on his side.
I am no Alpius. There is far too much to see in this country for me to spend time sequestered in my garden.
Even though Casa Nanaimo would make a practically perfect hermitage -- in every way.
