Don't dwell on what will pass away, she tells me.
Dwell instead on what is eternal.
If you do not know what is eternal - or all too often forget - then set your attention solely to attaining this knowledge.
I walk in the forest before dawn.
Often, I walk there at noon as well.
There are voices in the wind, voices in the trees.
The stars are not gone during the day but cannot be seen.
The sacred texts are like that sometimes.
The ones sent to help us are like that, too.
Purple finches groom themselves on the back fence.
And certain fields go unhayed, and certain bells go unrung.
I tell her of my loves and she listens.
Often while we talk she studies her hands.
One time she folded and unfolded a small red cloth with yellow circles on it.
There are many teachers, each created to serve a certain student.
She seems to leave and come back.
Her letters are like a wind that is sometimes steady and sometimes only passing.
Evidence of it is everywhere.
I, too, seem to leave and come back.
The way a song remains long after you're finished singing it.
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