(In the fall of 1973 I received a postcard on the front of which was a Buddha image composed of the sharp shadow and white light reminiscent of a statue in full-moon light. -- Hūm)
I'm back in Boulder, but not yet in Bouldest: where is it? As the French say, Bould est.
The aspen are turning: the hills are green and gold and gorgeous: sometimes I think autumn is even better than spring.
Tonight: the smell of snow in the air. Tomorrow: the last plums and apples on the trees will freeze and wither -- winter pickings for the birds.
I ride my bike down trails to places where only the wind follows me and spend weekends in a tent.
I trust Ñānavīra's words have arrived and that he still has one or two left to say to you. I have one or two myself, which may be arriving there soon, or may not. Depends on how ambitious I get, depends on the whether.