Waiting for the #7



A good weekend was had. That new grandbaby woke up for a few minutes and I got to see his eyes looking all around, trying to take in the world in all its glory. I got to go for a walk with the Number One grandchild on Sunday and we managed to go on a pony ride and then eat a big scoop of dark chocolate ice cream called “motor oil” and the whole time that boy carried his big book of Dinosaurs tucked under his arm.

I got the roof on the bathhouse without killing myself, much to the Woman’s surprise. And relief, I venture to say.

I got to eat a bowlful of her roasted veggies, kale, tempeh, and pickled onions for lunch.

We watched us some Deadwood. Goin’ through it a second time.




It is my great good fortune that she tolerates me as much as she does.




I have yet a great zeal for practice and so much gratitude that I’m able to give myself to it as much as I am doing. Always there is the urge for more, but I am fine with that. I think that’s nice, actually. I wouldn’t want to be sated in it. This morning I got to listen as the birds woke up, the ring-necked doves first, then the wild turkeys somewhere up the hill behind my neighbor’s place, then the sparrows and the jays. A handful of others I couldn’t tell by their calls. And imperceptibly, or nearly so, the darkness gave way to daybreak. A shivery breeze animated the branches of the bushes that arc over the stone Buddha and set loose a shower of tiny white blossoms, like snowfall. The smoke from the incense drifted up in loose, playful loops before dissipating into the silvery air. And I began my day with prayers and meditation. Devotion, gratitude, and longing. A love for this world announced and dedicated, a pledge to give myself, body, speech, and mind, to the benefit of all sentient beings.

A wish for happiness and an end to suffering for all.




It seems a nice way to begin things.