Each of her words resonate with more intelligence and wisdom than countless strings of mine. Even the simple statements are marvelous for their arrangements, for their effortless escape from such a burdened being. Nothing illuminates the miraculousness of her existence better than these; in them, I see her full life in relief from death.

More important things to do than this.

Last night after going to Urasenke, I stopped by Angela’s house to wish her well on the marathon this weekend. We haven’t talked in weeks, so I ended up staying an hour when she should’ve been going to bed. Other people had the same idea about wishing her luck and called while we talked, but they weren’t in the room with her and didn’t get the goods ... but they probably already knew the stuff I didn’t.

I don’t know why Angela and I haven’t seen much of each other since her return from Guatemala. My hunch is it has something to do with my being in a relationship. I think that I spend a lot time with Andrew and when I’m not with him I want to be alone. That’s partly true, but it doesn’t explain the difference between the amount of time I spend with other friends and the time I spend with Angela. That difference, I think, has more to do with what’s going on with her and how that fits between us—how I react to it. And I don’t know what that’s about.

Anyway, I learned that her car was stolen a few weeks ago. It’s big news and I wondered why I just learned about it now. She’d gone to Fred Meyer to buy supplies for work. When she came out of the store, the car was gone. I laughed when she told me, saying that the thief must’ve been disappointed. Her car is this old beater Subaru—Soob, she calls it— that barely goes 40 mph and stinks bad from engine excretions burning off. The radio doesn’t work either. But it got her everywhere again and again. And when I didn’t have a car, it took me many places, too.

I’m working enough now that daily life is starting to feel more under control. Throughout the fall and winter, living had this chaotic quality to it.

I’m going to Urasenke again, although I’m more ambivalent about studying chanoyu than before. I’ve less patience for some of the other students’ obsequious fervor for things Japanese. There’s a kind of hubris in the study of tea—whether Chinese or Japanese tea methods. The art is obscure enough that it’s easy to sound like an authority while having relatively little knowledge. Out in the world it’s easy to impress people, but among students it’s childish competition.

I don’t romanticize Japanese (or any Asian) culture and I don’t like to be around people doing it. All the beauty in the tea room is remarkable for its imbalance.

Nevertheless, the aesthetic is familiar and the corporeal experience of the ritual is, apparently, something I need. And the sensai are incredible people who don’t take tea too seriously. Amazingly, they add a slapstick element to the whole thing, which prevents it from being an overly rigid deal.