I sat outside early this morning in our jungle before the steam of the day rolled in around mid-morning, at which point I retreated to the atelier, where I now sit. Haven’t sat here for a week, as I’ve been away, and while I love away, I still haven’t found my go-to spot for my morning retreat when I’m away. This mini-retreat I take every morning is something I have come to need as a non-negotiable self-care (so overused that word is, BUT…it works) tool. However, while EVERY morning is the goal, it is not always the case, and that goes for when I’m home as well as when I’m away. I sometimes wonder how I can tweak it to make it more probable that it can happen consistently every day, but I haven’t yet figured that piece out yet. Of course, the other thing I struggle with is when I get to that headspace in my mini-retreat, I realize how much I love it in that place and never want the time to end. I think this is how some mystics are born. They don’t know they’re mystics. We don’t KNOW they’re mystics, sometimes until long after they’re gone. Then we may call them ancestors. These folks, they finally just plain decide to take a seat, whether on the front porch, under a plum tree, along a dusty road, or on a sidewalk bench; they sit, and watch the world go, with its drifting clouds, the wind rustling leaves with a quiet hush, birdsong nearby, a grasshopper jamboree in the distance, and scurrying people. People who pass by every day and eventually slow down a little because they’re drawn in to this character they see, but don’t see — whenever they walk by. A glance, a few glances, a shy smile, or perhaps a Cheshire-cat smile, or a tentative smile. Slowly whatever barrier between them begins to dissolve as they become curious — about a story. Each other’s story. And so something begins…and we get to fill in the ending…someday…if there is one…because isn’t that the beauty of story? The Never-ending part of it?