The queasiness in my stomach ebbs and flows like a cold tide, lashing the peppery sweetness of the steeped root right back in my mouth. Sweat stains my palms and my beads slip from my fingers. Om Tare. Lanying said it would get better soon, and I can only hope.
“Sickness is a chance to deepen our practice,” my grandmother used to say. “It’s a chance to take on the karma of the illness of others so that they are free from their suffering.”
At the time it seemed like a grand idea to me, taking illness as part of the Buddhist path to serve all sentient beings like a genuine Boddhisatva. Silly me—what did I know? I’ve never felt sick, not like this. I rest my head in my hands.
My body sighs. The stove murmurs. A bird flutters its chirrup from the windowsill. The timid sun fills the kitc
