Van and I sit in a sunny corner, blessed by the morning light. We’ve stretched in a salutation to the sun; my sternum has clunked in a way which neither of us think is positive.
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On Tuesday night, there was the death of a monk. He was older and suffering from lung cancer. I am not clear if everyone in the village really comprehends the effects of such a disease. I think that some might simply believe it to be some form of voodoo or black magic that rots away at the core of the soul.
“Did you sleep well? Were there any creatures?” asked a student as we meet on our way home from market on our first morning back in the village.
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