Lekshe's Mistake

Yes, yes, yes

I left Bradley Airport a little late...3 PM, and was in Chicago at O'Hare until almost 11 PM. This meant I got home around 2:30 AM this morning. Imagine how glad I was to be able to sleep in till 9:30. Phew. I stumbled around this morning and finally decided the only productive thing to do was get a pedicure.

I never feel entirely good about something as frivilous as a pedicure, but I must admit it felt good to sit and have someone massage my legs and feet for twenty minutes.

It's pouring rain here at home and the roses are opening as big as grapefruits. I picked several for the dining room. You will come to see, won't you?

Now to confess:  other than vaccuuming up the twice-weekly accumulation of pug hair, I did not one productive thing all day.

Yes, yes, yes

I left Bradley Airport a little late...3 PM, and was in Chicago at O'Hare until almost 11 PM. This meant I got home around 2:30 AM this morning. Imagine how glad I was to be able to sleep in till 9:30. Phew. I stumbled around this morning and finally decided the only productive thing to do was get a pedicure.

I never feel entirely good about something as frivilous as a pedicure, but I must admit it felt good to sit and have someone massage my legs and feet for twenty minutes.

It's pouring rain here at home and the roses are opening as big as grapefruits. I picked several for the dining room. You will come to see, won't you?

Now to confess:  other than vaccuuming up the twice-weekly accumulation of pug hair, I did not one productive thing all day.

Bye-Bye Bradely

Bye Bye Bradley Airport, Lekshe is Chicago bound, on the way to you-know-where. Yipeeeeee.

Gate 23 seems to be my karma this trip. Two of em. And who was wandering down the hall? Peter, Ginko, and Mole. Golly. What good company. Seems like things are turning around.

On Monday, I leave for a much-needed week's retreat at the monastery. On the first day, the monastery is closed, so I could be decliciously close to alone. All that space in the zendo. Except for the spirits and ancestors and dragons, of course. Anyone who says Zen doesn't have magic must sit with their eyes shut.

Anthenum in Hartford

Nice museum. Walking distance from my work today.

Of course.

Of course, dangling your feet in the pool, listening to the crickets is not considered productive work by most people. But you and I know differently, and this is one of the things I like about you. And me.

Of course I will come to see the cabin at the top of the hill, and see for myself how the morning mist does or does not rise up from the warm forest floor, between the veined, flat surfaces of the leaves, without a sound. And I will sit outside and listen to the sounds of the forest before the sun has quite made its way over the horizon.

Of course, you will already be up, because this is how it has always been. The zipper of your jacket is my alarm clock and the soft footsteps of you leaving your room wake me from my sleep and even if you do not ring the meditation bell, I will know what time it is, because I have done it a thousand times just like that, in this body and in the last.

Of course.

Hey, what happened?

Hey, what happened to my blog roll? Darn.

Later

My computer says one time and my watch says another. The clock in my room says something altogether different. Does anyone know where I am? It's the time of year I realize the only way I know is by pulling out an itinerary and checking dates and cities. Oh yeah, Hartford. But only one more day. Thank god I am going on retreat this week. I forget where. Place doesn't matter on retreat--I can sit anywhere. For this, I am thankful. I can sleep most places. For this, I am thankful. So far, I have been able to breathe everywhere except in your presence.

Hartford

I have been to Phoenix and Denver and today I am in Hartford, where the ciy folds around the blocks like a cloak worn too tightly for spring. There are no flowers here, only thunder and lightening and this hotel room with 20 foot ceilings that hover above my desk in a way that makes me feel small.

You have gone to work. You said so. I am going to bed. I will wake up and you will be sleeping, dreaming of green bowls filled with strawberries cut in half, wide open and slippery.

I am too tired to say anything worth reading. They took it all today, and more. I miss my friends, but I do not want to fly across the country again this week. I want to be home. I want to hear your knock on the door, and to know you will come in, key in hand, ready for tea. You choose this time, all right? As long as it's hot, I'll drink it. You know that.

Will you forgive me for not writing for so long? I have been lost and I am trying to find my way back. To you, to the pen, to the silence that best described the way I long for you.

om ka ka kabi san ma eh sowa ka