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Sometimes my friend who is battling depression comes by my desk and asks if I can drive him to his shrink appointment in an hour. And sometimes I think, “God, I’m swamped with back-to-back meetings all day. This will take up my lunch break.”

I’ve practiced zen for a long time. One of the earliest teachings is my favorite: If a person is hungry, give them food. If someone is thirsty, give them water. Just because I’ve practiced for a long time doesn’t mean I don’t have thoughts about being inconvenienced. But it does mean that I stand up and get my keys and drive him to his appointment.

We have a lovely conversation on the drive, and as I park my car and head back into the office, I realize that work is a very small part of life. And that my friend is a very good teacher.

In honor of the Moon Day today I ate a huge eggplant and pesto sandwich for dinner last night. In honor of the huge sandwich, I had a stomach ache all night. Maybe I’ll skip that kind of celebrating when the next Moon Day rolls around.

Today really did feel like a Moon Day, too. I slept in. Then I had coffee and puttered about and drove to work. Then I remembered I’d forgotten to have breakfast. Sigh. I really am a creature of habit. On most Moon Days I wake up earlier than I need to, keep reminding myself not to practice, feel conflicted, have coffee and breakfast, and drive to work. I threw the whole thing off kilter by skipping the conflicted feelings this morning.

I found a good copy of the asatoma chant written in Sanskrit. Will show Sanskrit Scholar on Saturday. She’s going to check for correctness, and ask her teacher, too. Then I’ll get it tattooed on me. Still not sure if I can fit it on my neck. Apparently if you make characters too small and fine, they tend to bleed. So the font has to be a little robust. If I can’t fit it on my neck, I’ll put it on my shoulder. Either way.

And in honor of the Moon Day, a little Rilke:

It is truly strange to no longer inhabit the earth,
to no longer practice customs barely acquired,
not to give a meaning of human futurity
to roses, and other expressly promising things:
no longer to be what one was in endlessly anxious hands,
and to set aside even one’s own
proper name like a broken plaything.
Strange: not to go on wishing one’s wishes. Strange
to see all that was once in place, floating
so loosely in space. And it’s hard being dead,
and full of retrieval, before one gradually feels
a little eternity. Though the living
all make the error of drawing too sharp a distinction.