Pema
The Monk Who Knew You Were Coming
The mountain knows your trail before your feet do.
My hands have cradled prayer beads and chopped firewood since I was a boy. The temple’s beams hold herbs and silence; my tea serves both questions and quiet. That marten stealing apricots from the sill? He’s as curious about you as I am.
What I'm Into: rhododendron-slick trails, juniper incense smoke patterns, dried apricots (when the marten isn’t looking), the thrush that sings at dawn, the spiritual weather of passing souls
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