Lean into Discomfort and Listen

An interactive biopic on The Guardian’s website shows a running tally of all the people in the US who have been killed by police or who have died while in custody, and a breakdown by state, race, by total and per million. I spent about 10 minutes slowly looking through the faces of all those people who died, month by month. I didn’t finish the list, but I didn’t need to. If I cried more easily, I would have been sobbing.

A friend of mine, in a recent conversation about race, said “I don’t see race.” She’s white; I am also white. I looked at her skeptically: “What do you mean, you don’t see race? Come on.” She then said something like, it doesn’t matter to me, you can be white, black, brown–it’s just, it’s all love, man. (For privacy’s sake, I’m not using names.)

My thoughts were the opposite. “I deliberately see race,” I told her.


Race is something I don’t have to think about. If it’s dark out and I’m walking home, I’m not in danger of getting harassed by the police. If it’s daytime in my car, I’m in no danger of getting shot in the face during a traffic stop for not having a front license plate. I can go to bed right after writing about this, not having to worry about whether I’ll be given weird looks in the neighborhood where I go to grad school, or even leaving my house.Long story short–and I’m not breaking any new ground here–race doesn’t “exist” for me, cause I don’t have it thrust into my face. That’s white privilege. It’s not life or death for me. But it is for people of color.

So because I don’t have to deal with it, I feel an obligation to “see” race. To see what struggles my friends of color deal with. To truly look race in the face and examine it, take it apart, and see how all the parts fit together. In Zen Buddhist practice, there is a saying that “when mind looks at mind, mind disappears.” When you run away from it, it still exists, and actually becomes stronger and more sinister. But when you stop, turn around, and say, “okay, fine, let’s sit down and have tea and get to know each other,” you can start to understand it, and really deal with it.

As a White person, I have an obligation to see race. I am obligated to listen to my friends of color and empathize with their daily experiences. Now, empathy is not the same as sympathy. Sympathy comes from a place of fear: oh, you are in a terrible situation that I don’t want to think about or deal with, so I’m going to feel sorry for you. Empathy comes from a place of courage, and embracement: I see you are a human being like me, so I’m going to become fully empty, so I can listen and be filled to overflowing with your experiences.

But really, honestly? That’s hard to do.

Pema Chödron, an American Tibetan teacher, calls that “leaning into the sharp points.” Human beings are notorious for running away from the truth, especially if that truth is uncomfortable and full of suffering. We cannot even bear to handle our own suffering, so hearing someone else is suffering beyond comparison? Change the channel, turn the page, close your browser, hang up the phone. But the problem with this is that we become ourselves jumpy, distracted, fearful, and uneasy. We end up making more suffering for ourselves rather than less, and we also make suffering for those people we were running away from in the first place. But if we jump into the fire, keep our ear to the phone, keep listening to the difficult stories, keep reading about the news that’s hard to bear, and truly listen to our own reactions, then we can start to heal as one people and to truly grow.

Race isn’t going away any time soon. (I swear to God, I have heard “If we just stop talking about race, it will go away” so many times it makes me sick.) Repeat: race isn’t going away! So stop running from it. Don’t lean back, lean in. But–and white people, I’m talking to us–CLOSE YOUR MOUTH AND LISTEN. Listen with 100% attentiveness, clarity, and compassion. Because we need less White opinions and voices on what Black people should and shouldn’t do, or how they should or shouldn’t be, or that their struggles are real or unreal–we’ve been doing that since we learned Black people existed, so shut up and learn your place. And that’s in the outer circle, listening to real talk and asking educated, appropriate questions.

Saying “I don’t see race,” is a cop-out. Don’t do it.

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Tunafish Sandwiches

It often comes with no pretense. A flash, a memory, an impression of the way things used to be. A glimmer of the past seeping into the present moment, brought on by a taste, a smell, a sound, an action.

A tunafish sandwich.

My dad used to make them all the time. It was easy–open a can of solid tuna, mix in a little mayonnaise, maybe add some celery if he was feeling ambitious. A slice of lettuce, two slices of whole wheat bread–never white, he didn’t believe in it–and always cut in half. A glass of milk or orange juice to go alongside.

It’s hard to write “used to”. To write my father into the past tense, as if he was a ghost. As if he were dead. Because he’s not. He’s in between life and death; his body is very much alive, although beset with problems; his mind has been so far from the way it used to be that it’s hard to remember what it was like. Alzheimer’s Disease has taken the charming english professor and sometimes infuriatingly quirky dad away and replaced him with a still charming, albeit helpless dementia patient who can’t get through a whole sentence without spouting gibberish. His brain, once filled with Chaucer and Bronte, Conrad and Shakespeare, is now caked with Beta Amyloid, shriveling its gray matter and riddling it with holes. Some kind of poetic justice from a literary devil.

My babysitter, Mavis, also would make tunafish sandwiches. Now she makes them for my dad, for whom she is now a caretaker. Tonight I made one and remembered how he used to make them, and sit down with me at the dining room table. How we’d read the newspaper together, sometimes reading stories aloud to each other and discussing everything from politics to science to education. All now as distant as if they were a dream.

He still tries to read the newspaper. He still eats tunafish sandwiches. But the days of whipping up sandwiches and pouring two glasses of milk (he’d insist on it, no matter what we were eating, because it was good for our bones), sometimes bringing them out with a fake french accent in his characteristically slow, dramatic way (“votre sahndweech, monsieur!”), are long over. Now he sits and attempts to read the New York Times aloud to our caretaker, who listens with kind, patient compassion to what is all but comprehensible. For a moment, the professor is still there, as he proudly reaches the end of the sentence he struggles to read, and exclaims dramatically to Mavis, “now, you see, that’s what it’s alllll about!”

Like a dream, like a bubble, like dew on a blade of grass at dawn, like a flash of lightning in a distant storm you can’t hear; that’s all my father’s life is now. And yet he is still here. He is in this liminal state, in between here and not-here, between alive and dead. The man that was the academic, the goofball, the absent-minded professor, is gone. Now he teaches me to love unconditionally, as the parent becomes the child and the children grow up to be caregivers.

Where did all of that past life I used to know go?

Don’t know. Let’s make another tuna sandwich.

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Authors of Color

Originally posted as a comment on Buzzfeed in response to the article “My Reading List for 2015 Includes Nothing Written by White Men” by Alexis Nedd. Actually, it was really in response to many of the knee-jerk, ignorant, and downright racist comments posted by at least 200-300 people as of posting time.

To all the white people (and non-white people too) on here posting comments full of ignorance, such as “buzzfeed has hit a new low”, or “this is the dumbest post ever,” or even “this is why racism exists”, listen to a White Male for a hot second:

Ms. Nedd is right on. We need this list of extraordinary Authors of Color for the same reason that we need Black, Latino, and Women’s history months: because the history and culture we celebrate and teach in our schools is overwhelmingly dominated by the story of white people, especially white men. Because every other month in the year is by default “white history month”. Because although there are amazing white male authors out there, we aren’t exposed to enough books written by people who aren’t male and white.

Ignorance cannot see ignorance, delusion cannot see delusion. That is the very nature of White (and Male) privilege: those who hold it are unaware that they hold it, and unaware of the powers, privileges, and handouts that they have and receive because of it (myself included). Sure, there are many wonderful white, male authors out there. But they are overrepresented, overplayed, over-celebrated. And they are never asked when they publish, “what does this mean to you as a white man?” Whereas, most (read: all) people of color are asked to speak for their race when they do anything significant. Whereas, men and women of color don’t make as much money or get as much acclaim for literature, art, and music as white people, especially white men. Whereas, anytime any celebrities and politicians of color, especially women, do anything significant (or insignificant), they are instantly dissected, and judged, and labeled, and forced to defend and justify themselves in ways that white people (again, especially white men) are not.

Ms. Nedd is not saying that white men don’t write great books, she’s saying that people and women of color ALSO write great books, but are largely ignored. So why not pay attention to them? In fact, even when people of color, especially black people, invent something culturally significant, it is quickly taken over by white people, especially music (think Blues, Jazz, Rock and Roll [yea, take that Elvis], Funk, and Hip Hop, to name a few).

Yes, you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, or by its author. And I can understand all the folks on here that argue that you should just read books that are, well, good books. But here’s the kicker: when the books that you select, or that are handed to you are mostly by male, white authors, is it really that bad to make a pointed effort to seek out other writers? It is diversity in action when you already have read all those books by white men, and want to balance it out by solely seeking out non-white-male authors for a change. Think about it. I honestly can’t remember the last time I read a book that wasn’t by a white man. Actually, I can: it was “To Kill A Mockingbird” (fuck yea, Harper Lee!). But I really had think about it. And that makes me sad.

The reason we get shocked and offended when someone suggests that (gasp!) people of color don’t get enough recognition, is that we know it to be true and we don’t want to admit it to ourselves. We literally ignore it. That is why it is called ignorance. It does not make us bad people. But waking up to truth is an uncomfortable process. If you don’t want to participate, no harm done. Stay comfortable, and stick to your own process of choosing authors and books. But if you would like to be challenged, to open your eyes, and see the world through a vastly different perspective, join me and Ms. Nedd and countless others on this journey. So, go to a bookstore and pick up a book by any person of color. Why not? Chances are, you will be stretched by a new experience. And as Supreme Court Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes (a white man) once wrote, “A mind that is stretched by a new experience can never go back to its old dimensions.”

Oh yea, one more book: “Things Fall Apart,” By Chinua Achebe.

White man out. Peace.

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Sunday Street Counseling

Last night I was doing laundry at the corner Wash & Dry. On my way home after folding my whites, I crossed to my side of the street. Nearby where I stepped onto the sidewalk, there was a guy standing, leaning on a gate. I did the typical NY quick-glance-and-glance-back-down, but before I could walk away, he asked,

“Hey man, can I ask you a question?”

Suddenly he came along side and started walking with me. I said sure, so he said, “What would you do if someone robbed you of 25 dollars?”

I had to think about this. Of course, I considered whether this was his way of warning me that he was about to do this to me and my response would determine how he acted. Still, I thought, this could be a genuine question, but I wasn’t sure, so I asked, “Could you please repeat the question?”

He told me that he was just with a friend of his, who said he needed $25 for something (I can’t remember what), and said that he’d go and get this item and be right back. So he waited for a while–like, a half-hour–, and when his friend didn’t show, he was really frustrated and upset.

So, I thought, what would I do if I was in his situation?
“Well, I would be frustrated, and upset, which I imagine you are.”
“Yea, I am, I waited a long time.”
“Yea, I feel that. Well first off, I wouldn’t go and attack this person. I would give him the benefit of a doubt. You want to give him the chance to work with you. So if you can get in touch with him, ask what happened. Say, ‘Hey man, where did you go? What happened to the $25?’ Give him the chance to redeem himself.”

This guy seemed alright with that. He didn’t have his friend’s number, but he was Facebook friends with him.

As for the rest, I said, I didn’t have any money or else I would gladly give him 25 bucks. As he walked away, he seemed really disappointed with his situation, but he turned and said, “Thanks anyway for listening.”
“Sorry man, hope it works out.”

When I got up to my apartment, I sat down at the kitchen table and thought about this. Why did he ask me about this? Was he just looking for any stranger? Was there something about me–my demeanor, my energy–that made him ask me for counsel?

Whatever it is, I hope that I helped him out. I wonder if “Licensed Street Counselor” is a thing?

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From Boston To Brooklyn

Finally, I’ve come home to Brooklyn. It’s taken me about 7 years, but now I’m studying Massage Therapy at the prestigious Swedish Institute for Health Sciences.

I’m sure it will only last a little while, but NYC has the shiny and new feeling that comes from being a tourist. Which is what I am, for now–except now I live here again. I’m in Bushwick, and the view from my roof has a building framed by the World Trade Center on the left and the Empire State Building on the right.

Ah, that view

Manhattan, viewed from Bushwick



I can’t help but feel a little crazy still. I moved out of the Cambridge Zen Center, where I had been living and practicing meditation for over 3 years. I’d been in Boston/Cambridge for over 7 years. So, considering the old adage and scientific wisdom that most of your body’s cells are completely refreshed and new every seven years, I’m a completely different person, at least physically, from when I first left for college. And if we apply that logic to the Big Apple, all of the people who live here are different from how they were when I left. Everything is always changing, changing, changing–especially the city that never sleeps.

I admit, I’m scared. It’s the unknown. But life is about being comfortable with uncertainty. A friend gave me a book of Pema Chodron’s teachings entitled “Being Comfortable with Uncertainty” before I left and wrote me a long, very sweet note in the front (if you’re reading, thanks, Claire 🙂 ). I don’t know what is ahead, except, perhaps, two years of training to be a Licensed Massage Therapist in the State of New York.

My peers in my program are cool, and my teachers are very approachable and extremely intelligent. Some of my peers are a little too eager to second-guess the teachers (as one woman, back from a leave of absence, said, “oh man, there are too many teachers here and not enough students”), but I think this comes from genuine curiosity and an eagerness to learn. I whispered to one guy: “Dude, sometimes you just need to trust the teacher is showing you the best way she knows how. Hold the questions until the end and just absorb the knowledge.”

This is clearly a much longer post than many of my other ones. But I’m back after a long period of blog/radio silence. And I think one way I’m going to cope and adjust to living back in Brooklyn is by making a habit of finding things to write about.

Stay tuned for more, hopefully more interesting and less longwinded, posts.


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“Proselytism is…

“Proselytism is solemn nonsense, it makes no sense. We need to get to know each other, listen to each other and improve our knowledge of the world around us. Sometimes after a meeting I want to arrange another one because new ideas are born and I discover new needs. This is important: to get to know people, listen, expand the circle of ideas. The world is crisscrossed by roads that come closer together and move apart, but the important thing is that they lead towards the Good.” – Pope Francis

La Repubblica, How the Church will change (2013)

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What the World Needs Now

Yesterday was the Boston Marathon. About 3 hours after the leaders crossed the finish line, at about 2:50 PM, two bombs exploded about 10 seconds apart from each other on Boylston street, one in front of a restaurant right near the finish line and one a couple blocks west, also on Boylston (if you want a map, the New York Times has a pretty good plot of it here). Suddenly, what was supposed to be Bean Town’s crowning glory, a collective roar of pride and joy, turned into a scene of war, destruction, and devastation. A nightmare unlike anything many people have ever seen here in the United States, with the exception of those who were at the World Trade Center attacks in 2001.

I’m sitting at home reading story after story of people who were hurt, people who made it home safe, and those who went into the fray to see what they could do to help. I’m both horrified and still reeling at the reality of it all, but also awed and inspired by the humanity of those in the area who immediately sprang into action. Even the outpouring of calls, tweets, texts, and facebook messages I got from people in far away places (as well as here in Boston) were heartening to me because in times of peril we really show we care. When people are hurt, we don’t shake our fist; we run to help the fallen.

Even New York City of all places, which is supposed to be the devil in sports to this Red Sox Nation town, had this to say:

Projected onto the side of the Brooklyn Academy of Music in Fort Greene. "Brooklyn loves Boston." is the other message, with a placard below reading "PEACE"

Projected onto the side of the Brooklyn Academy of Music in Fort Greene. “Brooklyn loves Boston.” is the other message, with a placard below reading “PEACE”

New York loves Boston. Brooklyn loves Boston. And with all the love pouring in from all over the world, it’s clear that love is the primary mode of humanity. And it’s what we need now.

Having lived through the chaos of September 11th, 2001 in New York City (I was in 7th grade), I can say that all this feels familiar. The familiar pit in our stomachs, the aching, burning question, “WHY?” The disbelief. The anger, the fear. So let me say this now, while it’s fresh: let’s not get wrapped up in anger. It’s natural to feel some, but we don’t know who is responsible, and we can’t jump to conclusions.

Only love conquers hate.

Let me say that again in all caps: ONLY LOVE CONQUERS HATE. We must not give way to anger. We must be harmonious. We must vow with all our hearts not to go down the path of anger, fear and destruction. This is darkness. Darkness is swallowed by more darkness. Only light can dissipate the dark. (By the way, that quotation projected onto BAM is from the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.)

The 9th precept in Zen Buddhism is: I vow not to give way to anger, and to be harmonious. Anger is discord. Harmony is love. Love is harmony. Here are more words from Dr. King:

“I am convinced that love is the most durable power in the world. It is not an expression of impractical idealism; but of practical realism. Far from being the pious injunction of a Utopian dreamer, love is an absolute necessity for the survival of our civilization. To return hate for hate does nothing but intensify the existence of evil in the universe. Someone must have sense enough and religion enough to cut off the chain of hate and evil, and this can only be done through love. Moreover, love is creative and redemptive. Love builds up and unites; hate tears down and destroys.” (Source: “Advice for Living, Nov. 1957″¹)

It’s not some hippie-dippie feeling that goes away after we’ve forgotten the fear and the pain. Love is THE way. The only way there can be. Love conquers hate, always.

Take it away, Jackie:


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My dad’s brain is full of holes. Especially, perhaps, his brain sections that have to do with memory and language. So, mostly left-brain functions. But as Dr. Jill Bolte Taylor expresses in her book and TED Talk, the left brain is the half that is a serial processor: it deals with past, present and future; takes the details of our surroundings and categorizes them; it thinks in language and labels everything; it’s the side that says, “I am,” that gives us a sense of being an individual being separate from everything and everyone else. The right brain, on the other hand, is a parallel processor: it takes in all the information from all our senses and leaves them just as they are; it’s the consciousness that gives us the sense that we are connected to everyone and everything around us; it’s the consciousness that is wide open and expansive, in which everything is perfect and complete, just as it is.

My father’s right brain works fine. Most of the time, when he’s not daydreaming about something, he’s right here, right now. He’s not checking or judging, because he’s lost most of his thinking processes from his left brain. So when I am home, I have to shift myself to the right side of my mind so I can just be with him, as he is. Because that’s how he is with me, and everyone around him.

I’ve come to appreciate Alzheimer’s Disease in a way that is respectful of its terrifying powers of destruction–anything that has the power to eat away someone’s mind must be feared and respected–, but also in a way that recognizes its potential for transformation in others. I have gone from anger, to defeat, hopelessness and despair, to curiosity and wonder. What a wonderful opportunity for those of us who are thrust into the role of caretaker for someone with Alzheimer’s to really grow as human beings! What an opportunity to exercise our compassion muscle, and care for another; to develop a mode of taking life moment-by-moment! Because that is the only way that you can work with an Alzheimer’s patient: moment, by moment, by moment.

My father’s brain is full of holes. Which means, it’s returning to becoming mostly empty space. But really it was always full of empty space, because we are mostly empty space. Matter seems solid, but it’s mostly empty space. We are simply energy beings vibrating with one another, arranged in a certain density to seem like form. But what that means is that we are all made of the same substance, we were originally nothing, became something, and one day will return to nothing again. My father reminds me that every single day.

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28 Days Later


It’s the Housemaster, standing, looking out the window, and points to a spot down the hill below the monastery. A fox, its bright orange and red fur stark against the white snow still on the ground, was happily wrestling the carcass of some small furry animal it had found, periodically checking around to make sure no intruders could steal its prize, smacking and licking its teeth.

This was Thursday, my 26th day of Kyol Che, at the Diamond Hill Zen Monastery in Cumberland, RI. Behind the fox was the pond, frozen over and dusted with snow, in drifts due to wind flow. Further away, the Providence Zen Center, looking like a New England farm house, in light yellow. There is something really idyllic and yet quite contemporary about it. Something quintessentially American about it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a fox with my own eyes before. There is a line in the temple rules about a man who spoke incorrectly and was reborn a fox for 500 generations. As I looked at this fire-colored creature, I wondered what it might have done in a previous life, if anything.

28 days. 430 wake up, 945 to bed. Intensive week, which for me was Week #4, midnight practice from 12 to 2 am. So, 945 sleep, 12 to 2 practice, sleep until 430, then wake up and do practice again.  There was a flow to it, and intensity to it, and yet also this great normalcy to it. After Day 10 it really started to just become everyday life. And it was wonderfully clear, and wonderfully simple.

It was hard work, in that it can be difficult to keep your practice pure. By that I mean, it is really easy to sit there and want something out of the experience. Or to imagine, “when I get out, I’m going to do this and this and this.” Or even to think, this is a good sitting period, this is a bad sitting period. That’s all checking mind, and of course, a lot of that appeared for me on the cushion. But somehow I found the courage to keep coming back to the practice. Just do it. (Nike, I don’t owe you any copyright money ’cause Zen Master Seung Sahn came up with that shit first.) Seriously–only do it, because the result is not what matters.  What matters is just doing your technique, moment, by moment, by moment.

And yet, periodically throughout the experience, there were some moments that were pleasantly surprising. Like the huge blizzard at the end of my 2nd week, blanketing everything in more than 2 ft of snow and overwhelming the pickup truck the Zen Center had for heavy-duty ploughing. I have shoveled snow in Brooklyn, but never this much snow, untouched and pure. It’s heavy. I shoveled the steps up to the big bell outside on a hill right across the access road from the monastery. At first I couldn’t see what I was doing, but I had some sense of how the path flowed, so I just dug. And dug. And dug. Eventually I felt the path going up hill, and found the first step. And then the second. In my excitement over this task I had forgotten to tell the Head Dharma Teacher of my plans, and was so engrossed in it that I did not hear the moktak for the afternoon sitting. I took a break, and as I walked back I heard some geese honking as they flew over head. I looked up to see them in V formation, flying over the blue-tiled roof of the monastery.  Once I got back, seeing I was 15-minutes late, I went back into my room to change, and fell asleep on my bed. I woke up, groggy but rested, two sitting periods later. That evening, Kwang Haeng Sunim (the HDT) pulled me aside and said, “You know you have to tell me when you take off like that.” I sheepishly apologized for my error, and after dinner, went back out to finish shoveling the rest of the steps, which I completed with plenty of time to come back before the evening chants. If no one had done it, it would have made it quite difficult to ring the bell in the evening!

Coming back into this world, this dream world, has been interesting too. It’s been a little over a week now, but still the insights linger. Everyone is very busy, busy, busy all the time. Talking, walking, on the move. Cell phones, coffee, gym clothes, sweatpants. Business atire, and everything else in between. The T is constantly moving back and forth on Commonwealth Avenue. People complain about it. The world doesn’t stop moving for anyone, ever.

But there is a serenity that comes from being able to be in the world, but not of it. To become, as the Zen expression goes, “a cow with no nostrils.” A cow with nostrils can have a ring pierced through its nose and be led every which way. A cow with no nostrils means independence and freedom from life and death. Then, clear compassionate energy appears, we can function correctly and help the suffering in this world.

The the evening bell chant in the Kwan Um School, translated into english reads:

Hearing the sound of the bell, all thinking is cut off;
Wisdom grows; enlightenment appears; hell is left behind.

The three worlds are transcended.
Vowing to become Buddha and save all people.
The mantra of shattering hell:

Om Ga Ra Ji Ya Sa Ba Ha . . .

Cut off thinking, make your mind clear like space, and wisdom appears.  Enlightenment appears. All on their own. Then, no past, no present, no future, but moment by moment by moment, what’s your function? How is it, just now?

Our inside job is to become clear. Our outside job is to be of service. How simple is that? There doesn’t have to be any lofty ideas, only in this moment, and this moment, and this moment, just DO it!

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4 Weeks

In order to expand our universe, we need to limit our focus. In order to have panoramic awareness, we need to limit our actions and our thinking. We must cut through our Small I to reach our Big I. The petty gives way to the expansive, and universal. Grasping and clinging gives way to compassion and giving.

28 days later, I’ll be coming out of a month-long section of Winter Kyol Che 2013, which is a 3-month intensive retreat held at the Diamond Hill Zen Monastery at the Providence Zen Center. The sun may or may not be shining, the clouds may be there or the sky may be clear and blue. But there will be clarity. And that will be enough.

We’ll see how it goes. It’s a radical re-orientation away from the common notion in the western world that we need to be working, working, thinking, thinking–just turned on and going all the time. What have you done in your life? What have you made for yourself? Instead, retreat is about returning to the way things are, not getting caught up in how we think they are, or how they were, or might be, or could be. Just, how is it just now? Who is sitting here, who is typing these words, who is reading these words? Only that. Breathe in, breathe out. Don’t know.

See y’all in a month.

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