49 days.

7

in an hour, there will be a week.

and where do you wander and what wind is blowing you

now?

I sat in the Himalayan restaurant, Kathmandu, with my friends,

and something about me stayed familiar, but so much else

has changed.

Surrounded by thangkas and pictures of Mount Kailash; the Buddha and Shiva and Kali

and a lotus flower,

all inside me is held with a sense of welcome.

I am able to bear the weight.

and then, just as sudden as a Florida storm wears out all the wet heat with wild rain and dramatic lightning,

I am drenched in grief; holding their hands across the table and crying without apology.

Grief is a special kind of weather.

I spent this morning, home at last, reading 'The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying' and now I am setting the intention for these days you are journeying, blowing to and fro,

to love.

All force of thunder or earthquake or seismic rift is postponed the 49 days; I set my heart to love.

You are held with compassion, love and blessing.

I am a rooted tree with singing things flying to my branches.

I celebrate the sky and all the gifts of living.

May you be free and free from suffering; may you be happy and know the causes of happiness.

May you not be distracted, but held and guided and protected.

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I am all kinds of weather.

a still lake

reflecting the golden light of autumn.

the trees are giving up their leaves.

colors are spilling all around me.

the earth is loud with death.

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my hand is open and inside, if you look closely,

is a prayer.

it's written by memory and spoken like silver catches the sunlight.

it dances.

and from this shock of movement arises

answers.