12.12.2012 - 12.12.2012
I am sitting on a bench outside our room watching two black piglets rooting in the clover. In the distance, Volcán Concepción's massive bulk is finally reappearing after days of obscurement. The faraway lake, whipped at the edges into a white froth, has turned a slatish blue. I can see a breeze but do not feel it. Nothing cools me.
On the bench I read Alice Munro and then Roberto Bolaño. Then I took a nap, woke up, and read more Bolaño. Chris apologized earlier for being sick and robbing us of a day of activities (he's napping now), but I am glad to be sitting here among the rustling leaves and nodding flowers and tinkling bells and tiptoeing chickens. All the pressure to get up and "do" gone. If I didn't sit here at least once amidst this glut of scenery, wouldn't that, too, have been a waste? Our favorite places are rarely our favorite places because we climbed a mountain or saw a waterfall but because of these rare moments of tranquility.