It is hard to get back into the rhythm of writing, of life. I'll be moving to the city in a weekish, which thought conjures remarkably little emotion in me: a buzz of excitement for work, a thrum of big-city-last-time-it-almost-killed-me fear, a wash of relief that at least I can say I am going somewhere when people ask.

In the meantime, I am gardening for my parents, walking the farmer's market slowly on Tuesdays and Thursdays, promising myself I'll go to the Monterey Zen Center and not going, drinking excessive amounts of espresso and eating excessive amounts of sushi. I am getting used to mirrors again, and pavement, and the day-consuming power of The Internet. I am not spending enough time at the beach.

At Tassajara, people said that once you start practicing for real, you shouldn't go back home for a year at least; or if you have to, you shouldn't go for more than three or four days. Family karma is stiff stuff, big energy, hard to escape. Most everyone turns back into an adolescent in their mother's kitchen. Most everyone doesn't want to be an adolescent anymore. Myself included.

But: The neighbor's doves are cooing and pecking on the roof next door, whiter than the fog. The fog is wrapped tighter than a terry robe and twice as soft. There are tomatoes and apples side-by-side at the farmer's market, which I still cannot walk down without running into everyone I know. It will be time and time for leaving by the time I go, but it is nonetheless good to be home.