I know there is a full moon tonight but I search the horizon from my bedroom window to no avail. There are more trees than sky around here. Full moon, full day of writing. This evening, I took a break to make dinner. A pleasure to concoct surrounded by these friends, I improvised a meal of whole wheat pasta with a medley of vegetables — onions, an abundance of smashed garlic, mushrooms, grated carrot, zucchini, summer squash with olive oil, topped with a poached egg, fresh basil and parmesan. It is not as gorgeous to look at as to taste, but here it is.
Smooshed up, the poached egg blends together scrumptiously with the vegetables and pasta.
I wrote outside under an apple tree this morning. A few feet away but out of sight, Laura had set up her pastels in the flower garden of hollyhocks and bee balm. On the porch, Diane was also drawing. Later, someone played the piano.
There is a dreamlike quality to these days — immersed in our art, our dreams, our books, the river. We ask each other what day it is and exclaim at how quickly time is passing. We speak with longing and love about our loved ones at home but are absorbed in these precious moments to just – be. We read each other well, knowing when to engage or leave each other alone. We recognize in each other, the thrall of inspiration.
By evening, we are ready to connect, so gather around the kitchen. Someone slices, simmers and serves delicious dinner. Somehow, easily – the dinners get made, the dishes washed, the lights go out, the day ends. We disappear to our rooms for sleep to the constant river sounds, anticipating another day to do — whatever we want.