~Mt. Morris, My Grandfather & The Abbey~

As I sit writing this in the compact space of my red truck a wave of memory and meloncholy sweeps over me. It is three days into the season of Spring and Winter has refused to depart. Snow covers the ground that has fallen into the past of last night. The whiteness of it gives all I view such vastness, and I feel rather small in the scheme of things, today.

The buildings I am parked in front of were used as a sanitarium to house patients who had contracted tuberculosis. This place, set high on a hill is where my Grandfather came to take the ~cure~. His room was situated in the white buildind to my left.

I am trying to imagine how he might have felt here among the tall, blue spruce pines. He remained here nine, long months - the time it takes for a new life to begin. It must have been a rebirth of sorts, both in body and soul.

I was a whole four years old at this time in family happenings. I remember waving to him from outside. It was Valentine's Day, but I don't remember the snow.

He wasn't a tall man, just under five foot, nine inches, slighty taller than myself. The sickness in his body took him to a mere eighty-six pounds. He carefully documented his stay through letters he wrote my mother, along with picture postcards.

From his diary of sorts, I learn he took long walks, there is a library full of old volumes, and each evening he is given a glass of ~blackberry` wine. Of-course he writes of missing everyone and apologises with each letter for becoming ill.

His humor stayed intact as he discusses the events of each day - and the ~rules~. There is no mention of current events, ( I like this ). His concentration, for once, is placed upon himself.

He managed to get special permission to bring books back from library to read in his room, those in charge allowed his personal quill pen and nibs he kept in a wooden box sent from home - along with a bottle of India ink. And last, but not least he was able to starch and iron his own white shirts. I don't think anyone in the family ever asked how he manipulated these ~permissions~.

I have come to the conclusion he went there with a purpose and with very little personal items. He managed to heal and used the time wisely with not more than bare essentials.

This could be compared to my own journey with in the walls of the Abbey. Although, I have no physical aliments to contend with I am here sorting out the spiritual side. I am taking the time to write what my heart longs to say through poetry and create small vignettes of art each day.

It an an extraordinary experience to be here each day and linger in my ~aloneness~ with only what I need and reside in one room. It has been a rather hard habit to put into practice. Resistance is always present. I too, am taking the ~cure~.

~Mount Morris~
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