Morning at New Camaldoli at the chapel.
Golden hour at New Camaldoli.
I wrote, I slept and I read All the Light We Cannot See in it's entirety. A good 5 days of nature and words and s'mores.
I don't remember ever going to Big Sur before, ever going further south than Point Lobos, and it was so beautiful and vaguely nerve wracking to be so high up, so close to all the edges. It was a funny little place. I thought the people there seemed so young. Which was weird. I think I expected men with long white beards and ladies in long crinkle skirts? All in all, it had a good vibe. But one that felt kind of exclusive? Or maybe just protected? It made me want to read some Kerouac and remember what it was all about then. Something is definitely still in the air, there.
I felt lucky, thinking about California and loving this place and living in this place. It was peculiar, driving home I was remembering my childhood here and how the landscape, the random bridges, the weather, the font on the roadsigns, all of it feels like part of my own self.