The Gypsy Becomes a Hermit (but only for awhile)

There were days that I spent no time alone.
My home was your home and our home was their home.
Dinner became their dinner and their children were the alarm clock.
We were all coworkers and the gardens were my delight.
Everyone was family.
Maybe I was the awkward cousin.
Coffee was brewed a double.
Wine and lager came after dinner.
And all was taken in restful silence or conversation.
At first it was all an adventure:

An unpredictable
traveling circus
of wonder and of learning.

Yes, but the status’ were worth it.

Drive, drive, drive. Ride, ride, ride.

No time for writing,
no time to ponder,
no time to sit by a piano alone.

6 years,
they finally forced me
to stop for a while
and begin at square one,
at least for three months.

And so here I am
in a town of Connecticut
Taking lessons of
Row, row, row
and little lamb on repeat.
Hoping that they’ll grow, they’ll progress into something worth this solitude.

I have my list,
I’m checking it daily,
putting myself in the place
to be ready for tomorrow.
For I’m only living one day at a time.

I just liked how the word hermit sounded. When I’m alone in a room
wondering what to do with myself,
some days I think of the monks whom I met at the monastery over 7 years ago: They spent half of their time listening to God and the other serving others.
Or I think of college students who spend every spare moment studying.
I think of all the things I’ve longed to or needed to do
for the past 6 years and I look at this all as a grand and difficult opportunity which I’m thankful for.

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