Castle living

one time I lived in a castle. No, seriously. And I vacuumed and scrubbed and worked in a cafe that served milkshakes and tiny French presses. Since I didn't know anyone else on staff and I didn't stay long, I did whatever I wanted. I wore skirts everyday. I stuck daisies in my hair. I wandered the castle grounds with a guitar in one hand and an ice-cream cone in the other.
I was desperately broken hearted. I have never since managed to feel that free and that loved by God and that calm in my being. Why? Why on days like today when bills tap their foot and forms sigh at me impatiently from the kitchen table and there's a car to be towed and a demolitioned backyard ticking off the neighbors ... Why can't I find a way to live in that kind of abandoned peace?

I did blast classical music for Mary Lou while we drove to trader joes. That was pretty zen. But I think driving anywhere prevents the kind of holy silence that exists in those beautiful far away places we go to escape life. To actually live. I want to live. I feel choked by grownupness. By the so called luxuries in my life.

Castle life wasn't about pleasing other people. And it wasn't complicated. And it entailed very little technology. And lots of tea and flowers and walks and books.

Surely I can carry some of that into my life now.