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  • Writer's pictureLama Jigme Gyatso

Whining about the Rain

It approaches!

A storm has come

to my corner

of Southern California

and from within

our deliciously heated apartment

I gaze out our double-paned window

and see the palm tree’s fronds

dancing in the wind…

My inner child is pouting;

mourning the prospect

of not being able to sit outside

for four hours of daily meditation.

For little Lord Fauntleroy, over here,

is made of sugar

and will most assuredly melt

if he sits his tushy down

in a quarter inch

of rainwater.

I image I am Obi-Wan Kenobi

visiting the water world of Kamino

even though the storm should pass

in eight days.

My tantric partner endured decades

in the pacific northwest

where sunny days are the exception,

not the norm.

Oh how I shall miss visiting

with my neighbor dogs

while they’re out walking

their pet humans.

And how I will pine for the fresh air

against my face,

and within my lungs.

I shall have to content myself

with meditating upon the floor

of the front room,

the door open,

the screen closed,

and the space heater

cooking my lower back.

I interrupt my one-man-pity-party

and remind myself

of the cave-dwelling Tibetan yogis

snowed-in for months at a time,

clearly an inspiration for ice planet Hoth,

and I blush at my silly petulance.

Let us conclude

with a simple

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