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10:18 a.m. - 2008-05-23
Poustinia
It is raining outside my "poustinia". A poustinia is Russian for a very sacred, secluded, secret place. A hermitage. Preferably in some wooden glen. Enchanted. Lush with fairies and gnomes. A poustinia is where you pray. Where you dream. Where you sleep, while God tenderly watches. A poustinia is simple, perhaps a precious shell for adornment. A daddy-long-legs for company. A poustinia is where you are deliciously anonymous. Hidden. No mirrors - no age. Young as your next fragrant rose. Fresh as the rain on the roof. No clocks - no expectations. Staring out the window forever. Blue jay way. Sleeping by starlight. Midnight lovesongs flung heavenward. A poustinia has it's own rhythm. Spring unfolds and is gone. Memories surface and release. I am free. The thread of a song haunts into gentle denouement. I am lulled awake. Who am I here that lives no where else? That thrives on a solitary spark? Is this my soul? The part that lasts when spring is gone? The part that travels like a pilgrim homeward bound? These days, I grab my poustinia where I may. Lunch alone in my car, watching clouds. Late mornings in a locked room, family off to their respective tasks. Lost in a beckoning book. This journal, my poustinia. Throwing thoughts and emotions to a stranger's breeze! Sprouting a unity of vagabonds! Whispering, "Shhhhhh!". Do not reveal my whereabouts to those who know me best! Leave me here, just you and me and God!
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