By about this time tomorrow, d.v., I will be on my way back from London. I will be coming back without the friend with whom I will have gone there, the one who has, in some manners of speaking though very much not in others, been here all along. I will find myself all but alone where my little community so recently was.

Today, nearly seven miles of walking: to Grantchester, to Trumpington, to Byron's Pool, through field and fen. He spouted poetry; I took pictures. It was as it has been, since the very beginning.

The more I try not to think about it, the worse it feels. In yoga, the more you try, the more difficult it is. I am in the process of trying to incorporate this wisdom into my daily practice. Let it happen. Let it happen; work through with it. Let it happen, and let it go.