Jo Ind

There is no solitude like that of being at home alone

It is deeper than the prayer of monastery or retreat

Softer than the quietude of chapels and libraries

Rarer than holidays

More silent than the night

More nourishing than the freshly baked bread that I devour

On my own

As an anal person, I never used to understand why some people lived in a mess. Because I’m someone who is never happier than when everything is in its place, I just didn’t get untidiness.

Now I can explain it.  It’s called living with a small goat toddler. (more…)