There is a secret heart that breaks inside of me. Today is sunny and clear again, with the clink clink of construction down the road, a breeze still cool through the yellowing treetops. He has sent me special tea, and I drink it slow as I can. The sound of children's voices drifts down from the school nearby. Chocolate melting on the tongue. My heart breaking quietly, secretly. I try to catch my breath, to slow it down enough to follow, try to wrap my mind around it and nothing else, but he nudges softly the back of my neck. No use being anywhere but here when here is where I am. But the heart has already turned her head, her eyes are back on the horizon, longing. She dreams of mittens and barnyard steam, and of his eyes in the morning once again. A letter comes from Tassajara, and the bodhisattvas will keep hitting the high pretty notes, the bluegrass ones, the ones that make my bones turn to clear cold water, and this morning I sit half-lotus for the first time. The brakes whine on the bus grinding to a stop, and the lady in the hat getting off turns her face up to the sun sliding its way into winter, and for just one moment out of the full-day sitting on Saturday I was awake.