Robins, sparrows, and cardinal songs through an open window. Bacon sizzling from the kitchen. The flickering tongue of an indifferent Senhora da Fatima Candle in a drape-rustling breeze.
Seated on the zafu, legs folded on the zabuton. A tenuous hold of intention through a frail vessel of awareness. Breathing.
Presence. Calm reassurance resonating from the gut. Still there.
Always, “I am.”
sound of birdsongs and wind
more by FRANK J. TASSONEHire An Editor