If I ever got up every morning so regularly over such a period of time, I wasn't paying attention. This summer, the wake-up bell came by at 5:30 sharp every morning, and every morning I stumbled out of bed and up the path to the zendo, where we congregated like silent ghosts around the coffee machine until the han hit the first rolldown. In early May, when I arrived, there was light enough to clearly identify your mug by the masking-tape name written on it. At our solstice ceremony, at six-thirty the sun had cleared the hills and was busy heating up the valley. By August, the wake-up bell ran with a flashlight and the stars were brighter than I'd ever seen. Sometimes the moon shining over the pre-dawn darkness was bright enough to see by.

I watched the sunrise from the roof last weekend: it didn't get through the fogbank until seven thirty or so. This morning the light ran liquid orange down the sides of the buildings as we swept the sidewalk out front. The air was cold and smelled like rain, even though now there is nothing but blue sky and haze. A passing man smirked strangely and said, "What does Buddha do? Buddha sweeps!" Of course Buddha sweeps, I wanted to tell him, but he had already turned the corner. If Buddha's got anything to do in this world, it's clean up.