I didn’t deserve for the day to end the way it did.

I skipped my morning meditation and yoga and run.

I lost my patience and my temper and all hope.

I broke a couple of things.

Finally, with the sun hugging the horizon, I slouched out to our front deck and slumped myself in a chair across from the statue of the Buddha, who sits with his back to the ocean. As the day’s light faded, his chiseled surface softened into flesh. His chin lowered ever so slightly. His eyelids fluttered and the curve of his smile deepened. All the sorrows I’d been hoarding like heavy stones in the sling of my heart sprouted wings and took flight.

I glanced down the hillside that stretches out beyond the deck. In the early spring, I had scattered poppy seeds everywhere, yet the entire slope was now blanketed with nasturtium.

Then the Buddha’s lips began to quiver.

I gazed intently.

I listened.

I couldn’t quite make out what he was saying. But I think I have a pretty good guess.