Thursday, June 30


sometimes we need to slow down and let the tiny accreted sadnesses leave through our pores

Wednesday, June 29


Am-i-tab-ha. Am-i-tab-ha. She arrives as we're walking around the Buddha, chanting. Am-i-tab-ha. Am-i-tab-ha. Joins the circle. Am-i-tab-ha. The sheep on the hill outside join us too, the people who wanted to be there but couldn't be. Am-i-tab-ha. The man walking his dog outside. My old teacher. My horrible boss. They all join us. Am-i-tab-ha.

Tuesday, June 28

a blown-off dandelion wig lies prone in the grass

Monday, June 27

fat virgin candle, the colour of butterscotch, waits patiently to burn

Sunday, June 26

the rose-buds are smothered in ugly aphids. we lament the loss of the blossoms. then kaspa says maybe there's another way of looking at it. the buds are the perfect home for the aphids.

Saturday, June 25

the front door key
breaks off
in the lock

Friday, June 24

plain green leaves
hanging hearts with three curves
and when the sun comes on:
ah -
intricate lead-work of veins,
luminous emerald stained glass

Thursday, June 23

earlier, snail crunched underfoot
then Jelly catching a bird and making it suffer, letting it free and catching it over and over
we run through the gardens, trying to change the world-as-it-is

Wednesday, June 22

sipping red fruit tea from a tangerine cup
my husband in his straw hat reading about a playwright
the flowers mostly over

Tuesday, June 21

walking in slow motion through a garden of paradise
namo omito fo namo omito fo
deep draughts of pink rose scent
namo omito fo
a white spider, legs wide, taking in sun
namo omito fo namo omito fo
the wind rushing through the tips of the trees

Monday, June 20

the garden after rain

diamond fragments glisten on alchemilla


I lean over to see the petals better and a blossom kisses my front wet


stroking lamb's ears with sodden fur


dipping my nose deep into a damp rose, everything around me washed and fragrant

Sunday, June 19

Post-wedding breakfast

Dharmavidya puts bread into the toast machine for my Nana, who 'can't work it all out'. I remember the waiter flirting with her last night, her indignant correction - 'eighty nine and a HALF years old...'

Saturday, June 18

We're getting married today...

We're hoping to get lots of small stones for our wedding present, including one from you.
Do write us a small stone and send it to us here. Thank you!

Friday, June 17

wedding eve

it is an ordinary day, with work and rain. I drink redbush tea, slowly, and feel on-the-brink

Thursday, June 16

Wednesday, June 15

evening service

as I speak about feeling at home in the sangha, resting backwards, being held, the tears rise and brim

Tuesday, June 14

light on variously tilted surfaces of the silver hologram gift bag magicks flowers in circles, circles in flowers, pinks, blacks, an endless number of greys...

Monday, June 13

lawns are being cut in the distance. grass aroma floats into the air, grass tips begin their slow melt into earth.

Sunday, June 12


F I'm a bit peckish.
K Me too.
F I might have a banana, and something else.
K Yes, sounds nice.

Saturday, June 11

Walking meditation

There's a row of cards alongside the fireplace. I knock them all down with the swoosh of my skirt as I walk past. I think 'I'll put them back up again when we stop'. I forget.

Friday, June 10

Thursday, June 9

telephone counselling

at the end of the phone-call I want to reach out and stroke her very gently on the cheek

Wednesday, June 8

unidentified plant

multifarious lime-green stalks, each topped with a yellow knob, generally inducing cheerfulness

Tuesday, June 7

two pigeons fly at each other repeatedly on the roof, pausing to bob their heads ('come on then!') and show off their curved silhouettes against the pale blue sky.

Monday, June 6

tree. field.

a sphere of leaves floating in a lake of buttercups

Sunday, June 5

antique shop

two storeys crowded with stuff: pots, medals, jackets, books, bedspreads, ornaments, jewellery, bowls, rugs... each object junk or jewel depending on who's looking.

Saturday, June 4

Friday, June 3

wind in the bamboo and sun dripping through call me outside for ice-cream

Thursday, June 2

dipping a fingertip at the pool of liquid dripping from the car...

Wednesday, June 1

At Euston station

He's young - fifteen, maybe less, but his eyes are old. His body is too thin for his clothes. He walks back and forth, keeps reappearing, has nowhere to go. His eyes slip from person to person. I know he's selling something, and I fear I know what.