Sunday...

And the weather changes. From cool to hot. The four seasons allow those in the foothills to have a sense of Time passing. There is a stillness in the pre-summer, still springtime heat, and a quiet calm. Times passes, sometimes moving forward, sometimes lapsing back to the past. A day becomes a yesteryear, a moment becomes a lifetime. Sepia-toned memories become etched in air. Walking becomes an exercise in mindful prayer. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Across the road lie the remains of the original hospital, built in the 1950's. Now, the long rectangular footprint is overgrown in oleander and holly, and an occasional bouquet of jasmine. The oleander and holly grow wild, of course. But, I often wonder about the jasmine. "How did it come to get here? Who planted it?" But the ruins enjoy their secrets. Their silence only inspiring more questions. "How many lives were saved in that forgotten hospital, before it closed? How many died? Are their souls at peace?" I wonder as I wander, up the curved road.

The quiet is such a joy. I savor it. The Quiet is my friend. It comforts me. It heals me. In its loving embrace, I feel safe. The quiet led me slowly to the mercantile downtown. I purchased paper, with which to write, and lemon-lavender tea-light candles. The merchants greeted me with warm, heartfelt embraces. "Follow your Art!" They cried out as I walked back into the Sepia-Gold. "Follow your Art", echoing through all our souls. Can you hear their voices calling out after us, dear reader?

One of the drivers for the Whistle-stop helped a passenger with parcels. Neighbors leaned against posts in fellowship with one another. They smiled and laughed. I imagined them exchanging recipes. Dogs led their owners. Cats played on lawns, amongst the daisies. I looked for cows jumping over rainbows and a Cheshire-moon.

Now, I sit in the parlor, enveloped by the scent of lemon-lavender candles flickering in the late afternoon shade. And I write this Sunday epistle, dedicated to you, with love.