It is the flight of the bumblebee. Staccato connections ranging from a disrespectful child seen at a school that day to a struggle of showing respect to upper management to our own children to our partners and to our bodies. Four lifetimes of words squeezed into the darkness.
The night air has grown cold, and three of us opt to take refuge in the inner sanctum. All but Angie. She chooses to do what I've been doing for the past three nights. She quietly walks into the dark, open space off the porch, toward the fountain where I can only assume she paces and prays, lays her troubles down and lets them go.
By the time she reenters the room we're camped out in front of a movie, but none of us are all that interested. Angie and Sherrie say their goodbyes and head north, while Kim decides to camp out on the couch. I make my way back to the bedroom fully spent from a day of testing the waters back in the real world.
I sleep well the last night and rise early the following morning. Kim has yet to wake so I tiptoe through my routine of making coffee and travelling back and forth from the porch to the kitchen for refills. About an hour later Kim awakes and gets ready for work. I insist she takes some leftovers, she finally accepts and heads off to a world of people in dire need.
I spend the majority of my last morning attempting to leave this place as I found it. I pack my things, take them to the car and go back in to leave Kay a type of thank you note in her guest register. Afterwards I set a book called The Power of Place on a table and look around the room in one last breath of gratitude.
I am grateful to know this place exists. In a world which can be dotted with conflict, mistrust, anger and misery there can be such peace, beauty, love and tranquility. I tell myself that I choose this. I choose this space. I choose to breathe this air. I choose to trust. I choose to allow. Everyday I walk in the knowledge that I have the choice so I choose this.