My Little Golden Book of Phobias

Tonight I went to the suicide support group meeting. I haven't been in a long time but I wanted to see how it would feel after a year, a year of mourning. It's different now. Last year, there was a wildness, a smoking crater where life used to be. One lady tonight said she can now imagine killing herself, not that she wants to but she can imagine it, it is another possibility, almost like choosing to eat chocolate or an orange, just another choice. I read obits and I can tell. "Sudden death" without some disclaimer like cancer or a heart attack is suicide. "Overdose", well, yeah.

I know I am better because I forgot a haircut appointment twice and I was pleading with my haircut person to puleeze make time for me. Like this is important. But I am going blind with bangs in my eyes...and everyone likes my hair right now, what the ???

In the village of Pharping we visited Padmasambhava's cave, a yogi who sat there for years chanting. It is all rock and his hand print in in the rock. Pilgrims place their hands into the print--in the rock like it was carved out. Then you go inside the cave and it is surprisingly warm, all the butter lamps keeping it heated and the ceiling blackened. A small altar and a monk sitting and chanting. A small courtyard with a monastery built around it. Two small buildings on either side with a nun in either one, also chanting. In the center of the courtyard is a stone altar and carvings of the yogi's feet where we put water bowls and candles for puja. I sit with my back to one of the small buildings half listening to the puja prayers but vibrating to the sounds of chanting, from the cave, from the nuns, soft, filling the space. An occasional monk looking over at us from the rooftop of the monastery. Today and every day, they are there, chanting, smell of butter lamps and incense in the air.

For the benefit of all beings. Even Geoffrey.