Practice, for me, began on the Dunlavy Bridge that spans eight lanes of traffic on US-59 in Houston, Texas. Several stories above eighteen-wheelers and commuter Saabs, I grabbed the railing and considered jumping, suspended in the late-afternoon light that sifted through chemical fumes and flashed off of windshields below. At the thought of free fall, the ache I’d been carrying in my chest and in my gut for months weakened.
Entries in Journeys (3)
By Patrick Brady
As I sit in my cell in the Corcoran Security Housing Unit, I see with unwelcome clarity that I will most likely never leave these confines, these fortressed walls of time.
When my teacher, Karma Yeshe Wangpo, told me that he would be happy to teach a weekend retreat if I organized it, I was thrilled. At this point in my life, I had been medi- tating for just over two years. I would finally be attending my first retreat.