Back now from retreat.
Return after a week away to find the city relaxed, moving step by step, unbound.
Recall the mist on the green morning hills outside my window before a first sitting. Night had been filled with fitful sleep. I drank it all, then turned to dress.
The entire week was like that: Deliciously bittersweet, arriving and moving on.
None of us will ever be there (or here) again.
Who’s asking?
the unbearable lightness of just being
seeing the same mist in the hills in the morning
through different eyes
driving in a car through the wide open landscape – hearing the zooming of the car and Mozarts pianoconcerto and voices talking about things
who are we?