Except, or course, when I do. There is something about contemplation that just gets to me. Why on earth would this be something I could do: sit. In silence. Still. (somewhat) focused. For thirty minutes. Yes. Me.
|Sparse, but comfortable|
On my trip down, a friend invited me to stay over. It wasn't that far along my way, only about 30 miles, but it was a start, and a chance to visit, have supper, etc. We had a great time. Lots of etc., too. That's another thing about me that seems strange. I so very enjoyed the etc., and I'm so very much enjoying my time in silence. I suppose it could be a sign of some sort of a maturity that the sacred and sexual parts of my life seem to blend, to meld, to work together, and not at odds. It just seems like the most natural thing.
I'm odd that way. Maybe, not so odd.