Refuge

Such beautiful feet, and silver rings on the second toes. All evening I was aware of them. Not obsessively; just pleased. They accorded so well with the bejeweled yidams on the thangkas. Once my mind glided into a dream of stroking them, holding the sole of one foot to my cheek, and then tracing the Sen lines, working the points of the kidney meridian, around the ankle-bone, wandering comfortably between Eros and whoever the the God of Massage may be. All soft, lightly held, like a bird come to rest on my palm. A little tickle of claws, and then gone again. Who is she? I've never learned what name goes with her.

Relative emptiness, said Michael, is not to be confused with absolute emptiness. Sure. If you say so.

And you were there, in red. Dark eyes, deep-sea eyes. Hints of pressures that would kill shallow-water creatures. Glints from sunlight that has travelled much farther than sunlight has ever travelled to me. You reached inside your blouse, once, unconsciously, tomboy-like, and my heart stopped. Such foolishness.

The taste of salt as I opened peanut-shells with my teeth. A cup of hot water from the urns. The restless hiss of one of the candles. The rightmost one was troubled. It flickered and fretted, while the others were still. She of the ringed toes was restless too, while we sat.

I was not a good omze. I started off the refuge prayer in too low a tone, and lost my voice a couple times. Then I must have mis-set the timer, because it never flashed, and when I looked down at my watch we had gone ten minutes overtime. I was too warm, sweating at the brow and the neck, feeling a little murky and awkward and embarassed. It's okay. Just watch it. Watch it rise and fall. This is the Buddha, dreaming that he is sweating with self-consciousness.

We are such stuff as dreams are made on,
And our little life is rounded with a sleep.