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Souls Tingle Intently we’d open small palms and close eyes in a mustard-yellow meditation chair. It was tall above our smallness and, though we did not know Buddha stories of cobra shadows, it was an awning of a chair, yawning us into the cup palm cushion and letting us pretend to be peaceful. I would warm up my soul like a heated winter back side, scooting up close to the fire, and then hold the hot cloth against cool skin to form the exciting scorch. Souls tingle when they press next to peace. Flush with serenity, we interrupted each other, impatient for our turn at stillness. Dad gave my brother the words to mutter and allowed him a deeper shuddering shot at hot centered oneness. I was too young to know the secret but there is a hole in my wholeness where it would still fit. |
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