Heavy fog tumbled in through the open windowpane of my bedroom this early dawn and complimented the “Good sign” which hung in formation to my first waking thoughts.

Like many artist I often ‘see’ a thought before recognizing the ‘feelings’ constructing it. Having nowhere to go and nothing pressing to do, I decided to sit with this image and wait for the architect to arrive.

Good Sign

Hmmmmmm . . . white letter on green back ground . . .

waiting . . .waiting . . . waiting . . .

What is today anyway? . . .

waiting . . .waiting . . . waiting . . .

Oh . . . I know . . . its Uposatha Day . . .

waiting . . .waiting . . . waiting . . .

Pleasant feeling . . . hmmmmmmmmm . . .

“Now this IS a ‘Good Sign’; a pleasant feeling is coming up when thinking its Uposatha day . . . hmmmmm . . .

waiting . . .waiting . . . waiting . . .

And sometimes the thoughts that come up make me laugh:
“Since I’ll only be eating one meal today I’m likely to shed a pound or two. Maybe I’ll do a short run just to make sure.”

Searching for something deeper, I encouraged the “Good Sign” to hang in my consciousness while I got out of bed, closed the window and headed downstairs to make coffee.

So here I sit at my computer with this sign hanging just to the the upper left of my consciousness. With a whole lot of effort and persistence I just might keep this “Good Sign” around till it reveals itself. Which of course may be no more than saying “I am good”, and if so then just ‘who’ would the joke be on any way?

Ruth Dennison whirled through the Abhayagiri Monastery in good speed and with good deed. I was lucky to have traveled the 626 southerly miles a few days earlier and hence present for Ruth’s Dhamma. I was touched by her manners, her easy courage and natural strength. There she sat in the top corner of the darkened shrine room. Candlelight emphasized a sparkling mind and wrinkled body.

Growing up I hadn’t recognize a female role model to emulate. Understandably so as few could live up to the lofty standards scripted in the Catholic publications delivered weekly in our mailbox. There were so many amazing women, all of them strong, honest and dead. It was easy to project wisdom in their silence. At six years of age I could figure it out; my family wasn’t silent, so my family wasn’t wise . . .

Ruth didn’t care when she meandered or that she would sometimes fall asleep between pauses. It was all just part of her expression, part of her truth, part of her Dhamma.
At 53 I should be able to figure this out. I met up with a female I wanted to emulate, and she wasn’t silent, and she wasn’t dead.

Tempatures dip and the rains return to carpet autumn leaves underfoot. The Mosier Summer Hermitage comes to a close. In seven days we’ll pack up the tents, fold up the blankets and send the monks on their way. It’s been a valuable experiment, I’m pleased how many folks took advantage of these venerables presence over these past three months. Maybe, with luck and a lot of good work, we’ll have a monastic presence here year round.