Looking out my Backdoor: My ditzy-doodle retreat day

I’ve been called ditzy more than once over the years. I’m going to share something I ordinarily would keep to myself because it rather proves the point. Maybe I really am ditzy. I don’t mind.

If a thought lazes through my mind several times over a few days, weaving its way into consciousness, I’ve finally learned to pay attention. I’ve been sensing that a retreat would be good. I’d been feeling a little out of balance, especially since my knee was body-slammed near a month ago now and is healing too slowly for my wants.

That imbalance is physical but I believe the physical affects the whole system, body, mind and spirit. So I set Sunday for my day of retreat.

I’ve not been on a retreat, solitary or in a group, in many years. But, for me, time set aside for prayer and contemplation has immense value.

In the olden days, whether a retreat was a day, a weekend or a week, I’d set restrictions on myself. Not quite hair-shirt restrictions, but if the guidelines suggested minimal food, for example, I’d go without food at all. Like I wanted to be a little better, do it a little better. I wanted to show how good I am. (Forgive me.) I’m embarrassed to admit this trait. Talk about false pride. Fortunately that trait no longer lingers. Or maybe I recognize it sooner and pounce on it.

Sunday, I set aside the day for a kinder, gentler retreat. The only things I denied myself were telephone, computer, reading novels, and talking with people. I’ve not had television in decades or that would be top on the list. With that in mind, I let my neighbors know I was going to observe a day of silence.

I love going to sleep. I’m a dreamer. I know, more evidence of ditzy me. I dream vividly, intensely, wildly; dreams, I neither track nor analyze and seldom remember.

Sunday morning in my final dream of the night, two women, good friends, but as dreams go, nobody I know in waking life, joined me in an auditorium of some sort, somewhere. We sat on bleachers, talking about love.

We were not just making a list. We had a real dialogue with back-and forth comments, laughter, and easy input, free-flowing conversation about love in many of its manifestations.

We talked about affection and friendship, family love, especially mother-child love, romantic love and passion, respectful warmth, caretaking love, deep connections.

Soon another woman joined us. She talked about those times it is difficult to love but we love anyway, because we choose to love. I awoke thinking, how strange, my dream about love.

Outside my window, in the pre-dawn light, a songbird began a solo. It sang long and beautifully, a love song for me. Okay, so I’m still self-centered. See, ditzy. I own it. After three or four minutes, this bird’s mate joined in the chorus, followed by a long moment of silence as the sun rose. Then the whole multi-bird-community sounded off and I got out of bed.

That, my friends, set the tone for my whole day of retreat. I had a sweet, easy day, a time set aside for self-reflection. No visions. No voices from the clouds. No revelations.

Perhaps it was a day of self-love. I often found myself laughing at myself, especially before I got a chance to become too self-important. Or perhaps, just perhaps, it was a day of selfless love. Perhaps they are the same thing.

I don’t know and I don’t care. Who could not love to have an entire day full of ditzy-doodle love?

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Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at http://montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com/. Email [email protected].