July 19, 20261 min read

Ringing in the year, quietly

One hundred and eight bells at midnight, a very cold temple courtyard, and the best bowl of soba any of us can remember.

At midnight the temple down the road rang its bell one hundred and eight times, and we stood in the cold courtyard and listened to every one.

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What began as a single raised bed became, over a strange quiet year, a small farm.

A small ceremony under the plum tree, forty guests, and rain that held off until exactly the right moment.

Eleven steps between the couch and the coffee table, then a triumphant collapse. We have too much video.