Lamma Island, 8:55AM – Cold.

Entry 143

I wash my heart in Kyoto by slamming a wooden pole against a copper dome. This is what the paper tied to the bell tower says, wash your heart with one hit. 

We do not have bells like that in Hong Kong. Nor do we have hits, at least not those that wash hearts.

I come home to find my landlord has felled my favorite Wong Pei because she does not want to sweep its leaves nor its fallen fruit. Its heart was rotting, she says. And very dangerous. 

The morning begins with some thoughts about grief and attachment and 30ml of American cough syrup the color of sunrise. I toast the tree.