Together, our breath, fingers work foreign soil coaxing fuzzy mountain roots into an unlikely home on a side street in Brooklyn.

Concrete courtyard, silent, bars on windows, doors locked, gates chained, we fight to gain entrance to that place.

Sangha’s face at the door, no longer a barrier, our dirty hands can finally be washed.

Morning zazen, a quiet room, incense, a candle, ceaseless mind, knowing you’re somewhere gives me strength. 

Saturday night sit, Zendo all but empty, intimate, complete.

Sunday crowd, knees touching, toe dippers sit wide-eyed; curious, others attempt focus, we stumble gently along the path.