Instead of an evening meal, with the monks, which may well have consisted of bread and soup, or a salad, or some pasta creation, I had a roast dinner with my partner, using the Syrian potato recipe, from this morning’s meditation course.
Instead of quiet preparations for matins in the abbey I tried, unsuccessfully, to repair my cars rear light; I have though cleared the utility workshop work surfaces so that now they are pristine and ready.
The potatoes, home-grown and with lashings of butter are wonderful; present moment, wonderful moment.
Instead of writing, in the dimly lit and empty abbey, I am writing in our centrally heated lounge, while listening to peaceful, harmonious music on the stereo; yet soon I have to return to the sangha, for my last spot of meditation on this good Saturday, that is good except for the football results.
