For safety during the Pandemic, my son is staying in “The Shed” some of the time, where I lived when I was building the house. He’s a good guest, offering help with odd jobs and playing with the dogs rough and tumble so that they will nap. He respects and understands what I’m doing here.
Seeing him mature, he’ll be 22 in a few months, has been a remarkable process. As he is now truly owning his decisions and their consequences, he’s become someone whom I admire and rally behind.
He made a snowman in the yard while exercising the dogs. It will be a fun reminder of him when he heads out again. One of the dogs helped apparently.
But, this post isn’t about him, it’s more about what the dynamic of hosting has on my routine.
Simply, it all goes to hell. Little interruptions meant as helpful pleasantries, added excitement among the animals, and also, no fault of his, the extra masks and sanitizing that needs to be maintained is all challenging to accommodate along with a monastic routine.
The peace of solitude is like a bird. It rests lightly and is an exquisite joy, but takes wing at the slightest rustle.
My son is off tonight to visit his sweetheart for a couple days. I’ll have the Winter Solstice to myself. Lots of meditations and ruminations to have (or avoid) about this past year, but mostly new hope for the future.