When you meditate, you said, pretend your body is a cave. Your body is a cave on the coast.
Your breath is a Western wind coming in strong from Japan, from Thailand, swooshing past the islands. It fills the cave. It reaches into the tunnels and hideouts.
And then the West pulls your breath back back back to sea.
When you meditate, you polish. Is your cave made of limestone or salt? The wind doesn’t care.
It won’t all feel like glass, but there will be gems.
This is what you said.
I won’t pretend I know what you’re talking about. I won’t pretend I know how to meditate. I’m just a fella looking for a fix. I like that our bodies are caves. It makes me think of chowder and bread. It makes me think of dragons. It makes me think of you.