I sit with those five syllables, entranced, waiting for light, even as I savor the dark.
My father died 46 years ago today. I was 19. He was 47. He was riding a motorcycle on a beautiful day. I was in Mexico City. The wound of his passing took years to heal, and really didn't close until my mother passed ten years ago this February. I felt them joined again.
This is always a quiet day for me, one of receptivity, as I honor with gratitude all my gifts, and the coming together of so much I don't need to understand.