Separations Wane

How petty my sorrows sometime seem. It's like I'm tethered to a kite string in the hands of a feckless child refusing to let go. All I want is to soar unobstructed, but here I stand unable to break free.

Aloof, aloft, my mind falls to the technical, the collar of my robe, the proper position of my zafu, adequate bowing space, while others prepare for a service. Catching myself I return to the breath.

Ino announces the service with a name, and a loss. "Did I hear her right?" A feeling, a sorrow, almost a pain grips the pit of my existence, my gut, my hara, their oneness apparent. I try not to react, I let it fill me, I tell myself, "avoid picking and choosing, just breathe, and let it be."

Incense is offered for our beloved friend, Sensei's Poem, his wail. Things seem blurry, my face feels wet. Chanting begins. Awkwardly at first, a dharani new to most of us, but it builds. Louder, deeper, united, it fills the room, maybe it "is" the room. Separations wane, all together, right here, right now.

The bell, the bows, Zazen begins.