Thin Skin

like the see-through shell of a tiny snail. later still, something uncoiled inside--i'm splayed. not like a small bird hiding in long grass--can't find the edges. i'm making eggs. the peach grows golden, unnoticed by me.

And it is raining. And it is pouring. It is cool in the forest. Sometimes the rain drips. And finally I dream...Waves of wind through the trees. Khenpo says we have all lost our minds a long time ago...Who will eat the meat off my bone? It's an overcast day...and my overcast mind. I stared at his teeth in the moonlight. Oh the mind drizzle.

The Countdown Is Definitely On!

Only three more days until Keith and I leave for retreat!!!!

What To Do

When your summer is the darkest it's been since 1903--the average temperature 59.8 degrees ...this, the fourth coldest June since 1885. In fact, it hailed during lunch today. And a few days ago, on my birthday, Keith and I debated having a picnic in front of the fireplace.

It's dreary. It's cold. And I long for hot soymilk.

Each morning in Bangkok, I'd head out to the sidewalk, to a small metal cart holding a sunken vat of steaming soymilk. Ladled into a bag, sucked through a straw, belly full. I loved it.

And so these days, when the raw has seeped into my bones and I'm wearing wool socks to the movies with my cousin, I long for it. And I don't even like soymilk. In America, anyway.

So last night I soaked the beans. This morning I performed the tedious task of taking the skin off the beans, then pureeing them with water, pouring into cheesecloth, letting the milk drip out, boiling the milk, removing the skin that forms--and eating it's deliciousness. Yes, the skin is delicious.

My dad helped jimmyrig the paper towel holder to hang the dripping cheesecloth from, with his go-to helper for anything--the ever useful elastic. But the drip was bitter and my dad, lately being a glass-is-half-empty kind of guy, swore the milk would come out awful...

But it didn't. And now I have sweet soymilk.