Nearly halfway between my house and The White House–there’s a Buddhist Monastery. From either direction –it’s really just down the street.  The monks walk every morning.

Their walk has a quiet feel to it.  Like a whisper.

I had this dream (twice) that I was a monk–living in a monastery.  There was this island place we’d go to–but only in our minds.  We used sound to get there.  I can still see the flickering candles on the island from up above.  I will never forget that night sky–so lovely–a squid inky black.

The monks at the monastery–the one just down the street– are usually silent while walking. Occasionally one or two of them will beat a drum.

This morning–one of the monks was sitting on the monastery steps–with a Tibetan Singing Bowl.

The  sound was transporting.