The morning started in Portland, homemade
biscotti snuck in before Guy could make
his way from bedroom to the breakfast table.
The toddler-consciousness of living with
a two-year-old gets into everything—
from when to sneak the sugar to the choice
of mealtime entertainment (this time it
was peck peck, peck peck, peck peck, peck peck goes
the woodpecker’s book). Bowls of porridge with
the home’s best homemade home-grown pear sauce that
was sweeter than you’d think with nothing but
pears in it. A rainy day—perfect for
a book, a cup of hot chocolate, or a
drive to the airport forgetting the bag
of cookies set aside for the journey.
Transition to airport mind: baggage, crowds,
Las Vegas-consciousness wafting like smoke
from seats just to the right in front of me.
Then home again, through shuttles, trains, and doorway.
A three o'clock what? Dinner, lunch or dunch?
Regardless, quesadilla, because the
ingredients were in the fridge, and also
because a two-year-old would like it and
yes, a chunk of my mind is still on Guy.
Then to the temple, flower-consciousness
pervading, altar preparations for
Good Friday coloring my meditation.
I finally begin to focus, in
time for our class. We meditate, and talk
of karma, lofty subjects, and not once (I think)
did I ask them what sound a kitty makes.
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