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sable feu.


The fires above Los Angeles are making for gloriously apocalyptic sunsets. There is ash on my balcony; the skies are gorgeous; I love the way haze blurs the distance.


Over the past few months I have gone from meditating two hours a day to meditating an average of four or five. Sometimes I worry I am losing myself but what choice do I have? The more I do it, the easier it becomes to slip into this curious liminal state where my awareness exists as a field of emptiness and heartbeat and breath; where differentiating between the edges of that field and the rest of the world is uninteresting; where all of it feels like love.

More recently I’ve found myself more and more slipping into such spaces unintentionally, when I’m out walking, or around others. It’s an experience I struggle to put words to, but one I keep wanting to articulate, if only because I would love to more permanently inhabit a world where our language of self and identification assumed the sort of deeply embodied awareness that lies beneath anxiety and separation.

It is beautiful here. My balcony is open; the breeze is causing the dappled light from the palms outside to ripple like waves in the ocean; there are children laughing outside, and calling in a language I recognize but do not understand.