This was one really good thing that happened last weekend at the little reunion. I got to drive this golf cart up a rolling pasture and through the woods on a steep, rocky path. And have a touching conversation, interesting conversation while doing it. 

We were all heading toward a small meditation building on the top of a hill, or perhaps a low mountain. I am normally quite cranky when confronted with evidence of privilege. I take this to be a flaw because it leaves me without charity, but that's the problem -- if I knew just how much money a wealthy person was giving away for useful purposes, I'd be a lot nicer, or more charitable. But that's usually not information I have, so I'm just cranky.

I should have, given who I am, been cranky about all this -- the rolling meadow dotted with cows that Helen's friend calls outdoor art, the golf cart, and, most of all, the small building that was on top of that mountain, the exterior of which had been recently sealed by visiting sherpas. (Give me a break.)

But I  mellowed the instant I walked into the building, realizing that I might be able to sit there, to think, to write, wasn't it quite amazing? It wasn't the scene, mountains in the distance, that I wasn't interested in. (I'm biased against mountains, also.) Or the music. Or the carefully chosen books and objects. But some intangible sense of peace. I could almost ignore that a monied person owned it. 

And then, of course, there was the golf cart ride down.