Incense
The smoke rises in long, curling spirals upward,
filling the room with a familiar and pungent smell,
sharp yet soft,
spicy yet slightly sweet,
calming yet stimulating,
From where I sit I can see the embers burning down slowly
curling over like a flower when it withers and then dies from the cold
in the dark of night
up at the altar,
the soft light of the candle flickering and moving,
as if in a slow spinning dance,
partners twirling and moving around each other delicately,
careful not to step one one another’s toes
reminding me of the shrine room at my sangha
an offering,
reminding me of the street vendors in India
and monastery shrine rooms in Tibet
reminding me of ritual and tradition
of prayer and silence
of chanting in rhythm and harmony
of powerful teachings and the soft soothing sound of Rinpoche’s voice
the incense has its own sense of time
not dictated by humans but by its own self deterioration
slowly dwindling down into a small pile of ash
so neat and self-contained
in its own cycle of fiery living and slow dying
the orange glow burns inwardly from its central core
moving down, down, down
until all that is left is dust.
https://docs.google.com/document/d/16WPNEvKZBmsEj1Ycj4w_fgowNHWG_rGR7HyYoOW9CJo/edit
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