Wednesday, November 14

all programmes minimised
the blue sky of my screen-saver
prompts me to look
out there

Tuesday, November 13

morning yoga: when I bend into triangle, a star slides into view

Monday, November 12

the pleasure of painting a narrow white line across the Buddha's eyelid

Sunday, November 11

the morning after all those conversations, I awake early with my head swirling. did I miss anything? did I do okay?

Saturday, November 10

at Sangharakshita's funeral
in a cavernous barn
with 1200 people who loved him:


Friday, November 9

a bowl of strawberry swedish glace & a sprinkling of failed-cake crumbs

Thursday, November 8

not a candle or a bulb
but a sharp burst of light
bouncing off the gold
halo-ing Mary on my shrine

Wednesday, November 7

my too-long nails scrape on the keyboard
the sound of neglect

Tuesday, November 6

four dead wasps in the shrine room this morning, and one alive
after a long season of slow dying and being stung
feeling more and more tenderness 

Monday, November 5

a day too full for small stones
(I missed thousands)

Sunday, November 4

around the rim of the circle of dark chicory in my mug, the colour fades to clear

Saturday, November 3

As we circumambulate the Buddha I see Khema taking Darrah around the garden, collecting leaves for the bunnies. His mum sings with us, has some time alone with the light.

Friday, November 2

morning shimmers on the red chiffon curtain, a matrix of tiny dots of light

Thursday, November 1

Roshi comes over to be stroked. His tail is wet with dew. His purr says he is happy to be seen.