incense

Every morning I light two sticks of incense in the house, one in the kitchen in a bowl on top of the fridge

and one in the front room in a bowl in front of a Kuan Yin representation. Who knows why I do it -- it has been too many years to remember "why" and even if I could, I probably wouldn't believe it. It is, however, what I do. It is good incense, nothing chintzy, and I like it.

This morning, I was late in lighting it. First, I went downtown to get bagels for a houseful of children ... a dozen that will be gone in no time with a little cream cheese laced with onions and chives. Second, there was a rewrite of a piece written by a former Vietnam Special Forces medic who is trying, even after so many years, to come to terms with ... with ... with all of it. It was perhaps the third or fourth time I have read the latest incarnation of the piece and each time it calls me out, makes me ouch, inspires me to make some remark.

Bagels and Vietnam took precedence over the incense. And bit by bit, the house filled up with chatter and laughter as people got out of bed. But finally I got around to lighting the incense.

Good incense.

An old friend.

Conforming without remark to the laughter and chatter and Vietnam and bagels with cream cheese and onions.

Easy-going.

Easy.

Incense.

Is anything any different?