I write this for you, mother, because your heart is tender. And because there is little that any of us can do to ease another’s longing. We plan our days and feel we know what will come next. But some days go their own way and surprise us. Some are cruel and stunning as the stroke that canceled all our plans. You have learned to walk again and your arm and your hand have grown strong. You are across the country where the summer days are sultry. And I am standing on a rocky shore with the wind blowing and a seal pup in my arms.

First I will tell you about this morning. It is slow and peaceful. I am moving away in a few days and my car is already packed. All the last chores have been done. I wander down the road along the sea and stop to weed in John Brown’s garden. His wife died last summer and the garden is in need of care. He’s away and I’ve always wanted to work in this garden. I move among the bright oriental poppies and pull up grasses and wayward dandelions. The garden is across the road from the sea. I work and watch the fishermen getting their boats readied for opening day. Friends stop by to chat. Someone tells me there is a seal pup on the beach. And so the weeding never does get finished.

I find a small group of people are gathered around the seal. This is what I learn. It was found four days ago and part of its umbilical cord was still attached. Some girls have tried feeding it with a baby bottle but the seal couldn’t suck on the nipple. Yesterday someone saw it struggle to the water and swim out of sight. But it is back now and it is hungry. Its eyes are luminous and gentle and its fur is soft…

September 4

I turn away from the foggy coast and head inland to the camp. It is a minimum security prison about seventeen miles up a winding mountain road. I will be teaching a class there in creative writing. Another instructor who teaches there, Karen, has prepared me somewhat. She has assured me the men are all right. Their crimes are non-violent, mostly connected with drugs. “Be open with them,” she tells me. I have wanted to teach at this camp for a long time but tonight as I approach I wonder why I am here. A logging truck in front of me slows as it climbs a long hill. I am glad of the delay. I find myself hoping he won’t pull over to let me by. It is only a few moments later that I come to a sign for the camp and I pull off the road and turn my engine off. I sit there quietly. And then I drive in…

The sea here has the colors of the Caribbean, a soft turquoise and uncountable blues. Behind the port where most of the tourists stay is a lively little village filled with children. They are dark-skinned and have a wild gypsy look.

* * *

The nights enchant me. I sleep by a deep-set open window. I hear the scops owl calling its high plaintive note. The cicadas sing and now and then a donkey emits a startling bray. The town clock chimes the hours. At first light the roosters begin crowing. And soon a chorus of children’s voices sings out like a flock of small birds greeting the dawn.

* * *

The village spills down the mountainside with beautiful old houses and ancient churches and dusty lanes. I climb to a monastery high above and look out to sea. Stretched out below are green mountainous islands in a sea of mist.

Antiparos, everyone says, there is nothing there. It is too quiet. There is no life. Antiparos, go there for an hour or two. It will be enough. I take the small boat that crosses the narrow channel between Paros and Antiparos and arrive at the small port. I find a room in a pension that overlooks the harbor where fishing boats are swaying in the breeze. The edge of the water is lined with small cafés shaded by trees. They thrive on the water from the sea, a Greek woman tells me. They are called the salt trees, she says…

Day 10

Shoes are lined up in pairs outside the door of the meditation hall. One pair is as small as a child’s. It belongs to a young Japanese woman. I have watched her creating lovely intricate flower arrangements. She places them on the altar and in each room where we gather.

The monk talks about a period in which he felt as if he were in a gray box. He was puzzled at his own discontent until he realized it was the I that imprisoned him. Who is meditating and who am I were the questions that allowed the spaciousness to return.

Buddha says the greatest happiness is letting go of the concept of I am.

Conceit in Buddhism is believing I am whether you believe yourself to be wonderful or terrible or mediocre.