The beauty is in the transport, the journey. But close the binding, shut the laptop, turn the bedside lamp off and it’s gone. The magic is gone. It evaporates, lifting the haze of enchantment. For you were just standing in the stone cloister, walking behind Hildegard and Richardis, peeking through your own veil, smelling the healing herbs in the garden or hearing the songs in candlelight…were you not?
What about the Desert Fathers last night? Were you not with them too, in the solitude and the silence, feet dusty from the powdered sand, sitting in a cave or lying under the stars, wearing simple robes and praying? How did you get to this drafty old house wearing sweatpants on a cold night?
Maybe that’s the wonderful problem. The heart is timeless, eternal. It can make the transport, the journey. Simultaneous liberation and confinement.
If only the body could keep up.