The priest's hands keep finding the same four shapes in the smoke — thumb to two fingers, flat to the chest, open toward the flame, and back again — a sequence that means something to him and nothing to the dozen of us sitting cross-legged…
There is a road above the town that I take sometimes before the light has fully decided what kind of morning it wants to be. The deodars on either side are still dark at that hour, their shapes more suggested than visible. The valley below…
There is a moment, in most working lives, that arrives without announcement and is not easily forgotten. Someone calls you into a room, or sends a message, or schedules a meeting with a subject line that gives nothing away, and in the next few minutes…