I spent a weekend at a women’s retreat and ended up sleeping under the stairs. (That’s the short version.)
It was love at first sight, that little cubby hidden behind the steps. You could have missed it. You could have dismissed it as a closet.
But the door stood open wide, light shining out in welcome, and tucked underneath the diagonal slash of stairwell was a comfy twin bed made up of old quilts and soft mismatched pillows.
I felt pulled into its spell even as I ducked my head to look at the rest. Space enough for a chair and dresser, not to mention a bedside table to hold the day’s pocketful of healing and peace.
Enough, and more. I knew I had to sleep there, under the soft footfalls of a great group of women practicing their nightly bedtime rituals.
I didn’t notice my roommate until the dark came, when hallway beams shone in through a timber teepee cut above my head. There he was, perched between reality and dreams, the long wisdom of his earlobes comforting me into quiet reflection.
I can’t help thinking Harry would have been a lot happier if an enlightened being shared his cupboard.
Resting safe in the knowledge that Buddha got your back.