Flowers that have come to bloom this week at the cabin—fire pink, phlox, wild geranium, crested iris, wood betony, horsemint (Monarda russelliana), and foxglove beard-tongue (Penstemon digitalis). Along the roadside, I saw a beautiful grancy graybeard/fringe tree (Chionanthus virg.) and red buckeye that seems past its prime. And oh yes, tradescantia. Didn’t see it up close, but seems to be Ohiensis. We’ll have to walk and see.It’s good to be here, a misty cool green day. We’ve just arrived. Steve’s made coffee, all windows and the glass door open, the waterfall emptying euphoniously over its lip of rock crowned in wildflowers. My soul rests, even if this is a day trip. A respite from the illness that won’t seem to leave us—my persisting sore throat, which Steve also now has, the persistent ear infection, the cough. It’s a hard time, one of feeling embattled on all sides. . . .
This morning, an encouraging email from someone with inside information about the diocese of Charlotte. And one from a former Belmont Abbey monk, with truly horrifying information re: Abbot O.’s rageaholic tendencies, corroborating much I had forgotten, adding to it: C.’s constant presence in the dorms, his bad-boy behavior always excused by the monks, the firing of A.W. because of her lesbianism.
To tell the reporter or not? At this point, what’s to lose?
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment