I'm in my third and last season on the farm. It's a waking life dream; lettuce the size of the truck tire, beets growing like underground apples, elder Bodhisattvas at 73 harvesting and teaching compassion and wisdom with two knifes on her belt for 40 some years.
The zendo is my sweet cave, and I'm surrounded by friends and family, ancestors watching. My legs fold together like a well ironed handkerchief, no complaints. It's quiet during the meditation, but I don't remember much more than candle light and the sound of my teacher breathing. My full bows, knees and head on the old barn floor of our temple, are cascading like water for thirsty vows.
Our cabin is warm on the hill. Behind the grey bones of eucalyptus the ocean whispers, you are here, you are here, you live at the beach! My wife, my best friend, we drink tea and read well into the night. The wake up bell comes early, but the warmth of embrace is carried in our robes, from cuddling to being swaddled, we are Buddha's babies, cooing and ready for breakfast.