Sunday, September 22, 2019

My attention on the present is so fragile. Anything can crack it, and indeed I demolish it myself, roaming from my cushion into yesterday’s frustration and tomorrow’s calamity.

Where has my body gone? A moment ago, I felt it fully. Now I have left it, disembodied thought.

O dear Lord, let me feel my belly rise and fall, the breath slip coolly through my throat. Let me come back to my cushion pressing against my thighs, this notebook and pen solid in my hands.

Let not tomorrow visit me here.

(Letter #1,716)