A soft rainfall. I settle on the zafu in our bedroom. Pale light from the cloud-covered sky bathes my back from the window. I breathe. Sit. Breathe.

Center.

As each thought seizes my attention, I return to my awareness of my breath. Return to my original intention, to be present to the Presence. To bear witness to the action of the Presence. To be, instead of all of that incessant becoming.

The ants-walking-on-skin-tingling sensations. Breathe. The earworm soundtracks. Breathe. The subtle and unsubtle aches and pains of a Rheumatoid-arthritic body. Breathe.

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