I am still a solitary traveler and I am still traveling, although only in my imagination. These past few days I found myself talking Bus 7 from Piazza San Marco to Fiesole, overlooking Florence. Visiting Fiesole has always satisfied my longing for solitude because of my final destination, the Monastery of San Francesco, a steep climb from the bus stop in the town square. I’ve probably made the trip at least fifteen times; I can close my eyes and be there, right now.
The monastery includes the little church and its adjoining cloisters, and a separate entrance to the monk’s quarters and the stairway to their cells. I imagine I am there, not visiting, but living in my cell, looking out my window, wandering in the cloisters, praying in the church. The time in history has no importance, nor does it matter if I am a nun or a monk.
Sorry for just a few pictures. I know they are somewhere in my iPhotos but I can’t find them and I want to post this.
The monastery includes the little church and its adjoining cloisters, and a separate entrance to the monk’s quarters and the stairway to their cells. I imagine I am there, not visiting, but living in my cell, looking out my window, wandering in the cloisters, praying in the church. The time in history has no importance, nor does it matter if I am a nun or a monk.
Sorry for just a few pictures. I know they are somewhere in my iPhotos but I can’t find them and I want to post this.
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