I have made a religion of writing. And this, I suspect, is not a good practice. Editors, publishers, the book industry is not a refuge.
Or, not a wise refuge. And neither is the world of technology.
Take refuge in the things that have lasted, and will continue to last. The pith instructions of the great religions, love, surrender, be kind and compassionate and find, build and maintain communities dedicated to true peace and true wisdom.
This spot in Maine where I have vacationed with my family for 50 years has been both a refuge and a hell. I have had my most mystical moments here, and my most violent.
I have treated every summer here in the last few years as my last, knowing that when I leave, I say goodbye to an intimate, healing relationship with the sea, the sky, the falling stars. But I also say goodbye to what still feels like a hopeless cycle of emotional discord.
This summer has been better than most. I've been less reactive and have been able, for the most part, to protect myself better than I ever have, which means that I've made progress in my emotional stability.
And I leave with a beautiful picture of the dawn.
But I now prepare to grieve this place. Because nothing lasts. Nothing. Not beach houses, or books. Not bodies, not the people we love most, or the people who love us most.
What I learned from the place though, the space, the grandeur, the smell that I will never forget. That will last deep in me to my last breath. Because that is the awareness that is no different with breath. I am one with tis place until I am gone, and after.
