It would be difficult to describe my weekend at Easton Mountain and do it justice, but I must say something. The best part, of course, was the people I met. Most memorable was spending all of Saturday afternoon on a balcony overlooking the lake, knitting, and talking with Michael (author of Knitting With Balls), the other Van, and others who happened along.
One event I must record in detail, not because it was the only one that moved me profoundly, but because it was deeply personal, separate from the collective experience. Saturday morning I went for a professional massage. While the masseur was working on the side of my neck, thoughts about Mom came to me. Receiving an image of a black dove flying away, I started to sob. These were my first tears since Mom died on February 20. Thinking he was hurting me, the masseur stopped, but when I explained what was happening, he continued. The feelings subsided, but returned a few minutes later while he was working on my left forearm. Some smarmy song about love came on the CD player, and I seemed to recall a memory from early childhood of walking and holding Mom's hand. Then I got a lot of tears out.
There were birds everywhere, and they sang all day long. One highlight was a blue-winged warbler, singing bee-bzz, who dropped down in a tree close enough for Danny and me to see without binoculars handy.
It was refreshing to hang out for three days with a group of gay men who were intent mostly on knitting. Good food and the hospitable background vibe of the retreat centre contributed to an incredibly relaxing atmosphere. I started two new knitting projects.
Something has come up repeatedly in my Creating a Life Worth Living sessions with Sarah D.—that I might enjoy working at some kind of a retreat centre as a naturalist/teacher/facilitator/guide. But I had never seen anything like what I imagined, until this weekend. Easton Mountain was it. I must return soon.