Sitting on the bench,
meditation hall held in fog.
The path winding down,
down past the dining hall
stretching out towards the world.

Sitting in remedial fear of the world
kicked out of solitude,
the madness of my own life.

How can the sensitivity to be translated?
How do these sweaty palms
find a home?

Breathing; touching my own hand,
knowing somewhere deep down
touch is always available.

Not out there, in here,
stepping out into a world;
so consumed by itself.

standing ;feeling body;
small shiver
as the becoming and
the fear rises together.

Can you ever be ready?
Stepping back into the
like you have so carefully
crafted out of all
the old wounds and successes.

Is it possible to stand
in the center.
Unmoved by the tides of change.
awake, collected,
heart listening to all the subtle
clues?

Why not today?
Awake, at ease
remembering,
remembering the monastery bell

How it rang, yet left
no trace.

Ready?

Yes, ready