What's short and warm and utterly clockless?
Short Mountain!
(Shameless, I admit.)
Today, I was looking over my available vacation time and it made me think of Beltaine/Spring Gathering at Short Mountain this year.
The winter has been bearable, but I am now thinking that nothing could be better than saying goodbye to it at the Mountain. Nothing could be better than
A week outside, in the woods. Lolling about on the knoll, on blankets or in the hammocks, surrounded by stressless men (AND women) in mohawks and skirts. Not a watch on the wrist, not a clock on a the wall. Smoking and gabbing at the tents (our little Memphis), in the main house (buzzin' with cooking and impromptu dancin'), or around the nightly bonfire (drumming and lit faces, talking their way back to -- or away from -- more-sober). Short stints to the falls, or the bottoms, or the Memory Garden. The meltdown and subsequent re-solidifying of self. A truly dark night. The smells. The utter lack of job-thought. All the faces at different degrees of waking. And mine right there, on the same general page.
Ha! The good thing about time, I think, is that always moves, closer to something new.
(Shameless, I admit.)
Today, I was looking over my available vacation time and it made me think of Beltaine/Spring Gathering at Short Mountain this year.
The winter has been bearable, but I am now thinking that nothing could be better than saying goodbye to it at the Mountain. Nothing could be better than
A week outside, in the woods. Lolling about on the knoll, on blankets or in the hammocks, surrounded by stressless men (AND women) in mohawks and skirts. Not a watch on the wrist, not a clock on a the wall. Smoking and gabbing at the tents (our little Memphis), in the main house (buzzin' with cooking and impromptu dancin'), or around the nightly bonfire (drumming and lit faces, talking their way back to -- or away from -- more-sober). Short stints to the falls, or the bottoms, or the Memory Garden. The meltdown and subsequent re-solidifying of self. A truly dark night. The smells. The utter lack of job-thought. All the faces at different degrees of waking. And mine right there, on the same general page.
Ha! The good thing about time, I think, is that always moves, closer to something new.