Back home upstate. My pale blue wrist mala – Joe will be familiar with it since I wore it all across and around the country on our Odyssey, and it left a pale ring on my wrist where the sun caught me between glove and shirt (burning a big ring of sunburn that became an asteroid shower of blisters – the same recurred on my ankles) – broke: the string snapped, and the beads, all 21 of them, fell – I’ve only been able to find 19 of the 21. Eventually I proceeded to the Zen monastery on the mountain above us, and located an amethyst wrist mala – my birthstone and that of the young man who sold it to me – along with two spares made of jasper, one for the car where I do most of my praying (!), and one to take to college in case of an accident to my purple one, which looks well. Right, a glimpse into the courtyard, with the temple in the late autumn light. Years ago when some of my graduate students were visiting, I took them to see the temple, and two of them were thrown out of the precinct – for making out; necking, as we used to call it. Sacred spaces inspire surprising reactions.
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