I’ve been out to dinner with a friend, a good friend. One of those friends who was there for me through the worst of times, is here for me now as I continue to work towards healing. Who understands that sometimes it’s good, and sometimes it’s shit, and sometimes I don’t know what adjective to use and just need to laugh at tasteless comments that are only funny because she’s said them and that I probably shouldn’t publish on the internet.
It’s been a difficult day, just because it has, and because of nightmares and flashbacks. And it’s been a nice, simple, golden evening, the type of evenings I was never allowed to have and that I now can’t bring myself to take for granted. But wine happened and so I’m doing my usual post-wine thing of allowing a mind greater than my own to speak for me.
Ryokan was a Zen poet and hermit who roamed Japan in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. This, in its entirety, is one of his poems:
What luck! I found a coin in my bag!
Now I can call on my friend nicknamed the Sleeping Dragon.
I’ve wanted to drink with him for ages
But lacked the means until now.
I like the idea that in another time and another place, a Zen hermit master had a night quite a lot like mine. And probably enjoyed it quite as much as I did.