Two nights ago, well past midnight and restless, I got out of bed and single-handedly lugged a sectional sofa and a big wooden table from one room to another. Once that space was cleared, broom and mop went to work until the dark floorboards sat in quiet symmetry. Next, twelve meditation cushions and three chairs fell into place, then a small statue and a bowl with a year’s worth of incense ashes. Voilá! Last night 12 people entered my home to sit with just three seats to spare. How wonderful to look up and down the two rows of sitters as I rang the bell.
Afterwards, about to pass around the chant sheets, I noticed that I hadn’t made extra copies and said something about being a “bad monk.” Self-deprecating humour, a subtle putdown that obscured my humble delight. Take note!
There is a way of breathing
that’s a shame and a suffocation
and there’s another way of expiring
a love breath,
that lets you open indefinitely.