A Minute, Like an Hour

I've been happily camping out alone in downtown Healdsburg since monday. And by camping I mean living in a moderately overly designed guest cottage with on-demand hot water and a programable skylight. By alone, I mean my mother showed up (typical!) on thursday evening because she has satsang weekend in Petaluma, which is about 45 minutes south of me, as we all know my mom wouldn't make a trip specifically for me mostly because I wouldn't invite her.

She asked if she could stay all weekend (just in the evenings, nights, and mornings as her days are occupied with satsang, so it wouldn't be all that much trouble for me.)

I said, No.

Because I like to walk around nude, or in short shorts and boots, smoking weed and trying on new lipsticks while dancing to Ella Fritzgerald. I like to go out for a quick cocktail at ten, just because I can. I like to sleep with the windows thrown open and listen to music in the morning as I ready myself for the day ahead.

Not against her, not really. Instead, the action was Pro-Chaya. I am cherishing moments alone, the solitude of the stars and the whisper of fresh sheets. It's been six years since I've had a house to myself and I am up for some overdue recalibration of how I operate when left to my own devices.

I have a plan to float me through summer and fall.