A poem by Mary Oliver has me trying to remember more physical aspects of the pilgrimage, set aside in my mind the murder mystery I’m reading and recall at least the presence of the earth itself over the thousand miles and more. Driving, there were flashes of trees past the window, corn fields browned and dead by the roadside, grey strips of highway stretching ahead and some, although not many, hills. There was beauty, of course, but there were few chances to connect w/ground as it were, bare foot toes in grass kind of stuff. On the road in the U.S. almost literally means "on a road" and in a car w/tires connecting in their quick momentary touching of pavement. And the stupas themselves did not give a sense of grounding either, rather a sense of lifting one above the ground, levitating the spirit if not actual human feet. I remember the pavement, the hotels, the swimming pools walked by unused, laughter inside the car from the silliness of old friends, and the consistent continuous moving. The other day I called Iris who picked up the phone with, "How many miles do we have to drive today?"

I could ramble on but probably shouldn't in this post after so many days of being too busy to write, a few days of unexpected illness, and so much time with the animals. Ching Hu just had his nightly catnip and proceeded to tear around the house, climbing furniture, walls, bookcase and leaping over the dog. It took over 15 minutes for him to finally land on the bed where he has promptly fallen asleep in the same posture as Sengay on the floor. They've been mirroring each other in that way lately. So there is movement and stillness, travels and home, concepts and non-conceptuality.

It is good to be home, on our own impermanent, perishable plot where we do connect with the earth and, consecrating sections of it at a time, hand it over to its own sacred presence, then adorn it with structures that bless beings. There is nothing like Dharma activity. 

LKC