The monastic life. At one point, I imagined, if I ever found myself without a wife and the kids were grown, that this might be an option. Retire to a monastery and live the contemplative life. Pray. Work the fields. Think. Write. But now here I am, and who needs a monastery. I have my very own. A home with a field and time to think and pray and write. I do believe if I ever put more of a routine to it, I’d be hard pressed to tell the two apart.

I think I’d need to work on my wardrobe. Simplify it, much as I’m doing with my eating utensils. I can’t really wear a robe, although it might be comfortable. I might just have to go with a hoodie and jeans. But I’m not real sure I see the point of the hood or cowl, it’s official name. I’m not even sure if monks wear them anymore. Nuns stopped dressing like the nuns of my youth long ago. And when I get down to it, my apparel choices are already simple. Jeans and a tee-shirt. I might be good on the clothing front.

I’m probably lacking on the spiritual side. That’s the one thing about living a long while. You’ve had a chance to sin and no one really likes to talk about that. And this isn’t a tell all, so everyone is out of luck if that’s what you’re expecting. Just imagine a sin you’ve committed, and I’ve probably done it, too, although there is a segment on the fringes where I’ve never tread. I think it’s called being human. This is where I could probably use an advisor, because being truly righteous is hard and thinking that you already are is probably a sign, you’re not.