Belly of the Whale

Well, perhaps I have come to a minor sort of realization, or possibly a test, but after recieving a passionately well written email about the imporatnce of fully immersing myself in my joural, I may try something different. It is not even that I haven't been immersed in it, I have; but I have been aware and controled; I have been more occupied with the style than the rhetoric.

My experience here has slowly turned. The sensual features of Bouda have become my air. This is my home. I am comfortable and seated in routine. I have taken on the habit of the monks. I don' leave. I read; I write, I eat and drink; I do yoga; I teach, and I learn. And I sleep. This is all and it pleases me to no bounds.

But what does that leave me to write about? My experiences are not now of mountains or trails, or the sights and smells of a new and vivacious city. I am through with those days. I love Bouda. When I do go out to Thamel to go to the book store I am so pleased to arrive back at the stupa. Things are right and proper here. The flow is as I need it now for my work and my passions. My experience has become internal, philosophic, and spiritual.

I have till now refrained from writing about it. It seems to me more crude, more subjective. Will you believe that this is what I would truly write to myself, that I am not intentionally being pedantic? That I am writing for me, not you? Now I suppose I will take the chance.

So, I may start by taking short essays that I wrote for myself on various issues of the mind and putting them in occationally. I will resist for a time proselytizing. But if I run out of sensory experiences and short essays I may give that a shot too. So long as any reader believes and understands that this is how I write to myself - however strange.

With all this said - I almost feel ridiculous. I am qualifying my own journal. So I am sensitive. You try being naked for the worlkd to read.