We landed in Goa and it feels so good.
The monsoon rain. The fresh air. The spaciousness. The silent breeze. Prayerful. Absolutely Prayerful.
Such a different culture and feel. Being near the Ocean makes me feel like a fisherman again. The wisdom of the sea. I remember my father as a child, being the old man on the sea. The old man of the sea. And then later, the old man and the sea.
It seems like a new life, despite it not being. When I considered that my cousin died this week I at first just felt much love, then more love and more tears, and then when I realized I would never lose him, I felt a bit sad that others may never understood this. And may certainly never understand this.
I hear my son play in the kitchen. Because for me, love is the realm of eternity. And I suppose with that comes simplicity.
The monsoon had arrived fifteen years late. And for that, I was grateful. Irrationally grateful. But this was a poem, so it did not need to make sense. It just had to be complete within itself. And for the sake of Zen and 'crazy wisdom', contain poignancy and paradox.
Hari Om Tat Sat
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