When I meditate, it would appear I’m in a living room, shades drawn, dryer rumbling, needy dog pawing at my leg. But no. I am living with monks on a mountain, sunlight steady through windows of the monastery, where every morning we gather and sit cross-legged, facing each other.

They smile beautifically as I struggle to breath, amused that I see myself as anything other than worthy of every kindness. So they show me. Figs, fruits and soup. A soft bed. Silence. And they smile with understanding when the tears come, though I myself do not know why I cry.

Is it resistance? Fighting the idea that I am anything other than a permanently broken being?

Is it acceptance? A final understanding that I have been believing a lie.

I’d like to believe it’s gratitude. For finally allowing that sunlight to touch my skin, letting it rejoin the light which has always been within.