Strung a number of years ago between trees outside my bedroom window, the Tibetan prayer flag is now threading away into the foliage. Today in the icy drizzle, it seems at once destitute, diminished, alone, lost in the tangle of leaf and branch, its colors now faded from their once-brilliant glory, and unflappably resilient, an unwavering strand rising and falling in the wind, at home in the weave of its surroundings, present with whatever arises.
Humbly, I bow.