The Patient Gazebo

My workplace sits atop a steep hill, bounded on two sides by lush forest and gorgeous hiking trails. Deer, gophers, field mice, squirrels, chipmunks, bunnies and all sorts of birds are regular visitors. On midday sanity walkabouts, it's easy to forget that this complex is comprised of over a dozen buildings spanning three city blocks on two sides of a busy highway.
Twice a week I cross the highway to do some facilitation with a group I've been affiliated with on a six month assignment. They are stationed in a quaint, brick house The Workplace has rented on a 10 year lease while it's experiencing its growth without space phase. I frequently hear bullshit about maximizing human and material resources..... but I digress.
On my twice weekly treks I walk through the grounds of the Chronic Care Hospital. I always pass a statue of St. Francis placidly feeding birds. The real birds must sense a kindred spirit because there's bird shit splattered everywhere, but Francis and his feathered friends are pristine. The hospital's residents and staff walk and wheel the pathways, or sit and take in the sun, or the breeze, or the simple pleasure of being out. I nod and smile at the regulars, slowing to give them the right of way. Francis seems to approve: I have not been shat upon in any of my wanderings.
Last week I noticed a small, bronze plaque on the edge of the path opposite the good saint, the words " Patient Gazebo" proclaiming the identity of the structure behind it. I stop moving and gaze at the gazebo, at its pointed roof, its latticed woodwork, its polished benches and twinkling shade. Of course it's patient, I snort to myself, what other options does it have? And in one of those rare flashes of clarity, when two thoughts inhabit the same space, place, time and insight, I realize it's a gazebo for the patients at the hospital, and I laugh at myself, the laughing itself a simultaneous third thought.
I am delightfully aware of all of this as it is happening. It's a sweet and uncanny moment.

I keep walking, yet I am caught by the simple act of being alone with my own thoughts, and I feel a cascade of warm realizings, the inner ripplings of the four or five times I've been absolutely present with my own thoughtfulness
the moments that broke and rebuilt me
the lines I crossed, willingly
the ways I died to be reborn
the things I will never let go of, again

I arrive at Quaint House, deftly dodging the slow, noisy bees. As I enter through the rusty screen doors, I hear Greetings. Time to work.
I'll keep the saint's secrets to myself, for now.