Friends,
Late May. The year has lost its early novelty, and the practice is no longer new either. This is the week it asks whether we meant it.
Eight minutes tonight. 8 PM your local time. Not because it is special, but because it is ours. Staying is its own kind of devotion, quieter than starting, harder than it looks.
Because the practice moves with the hour, it is always eight o'clock somewhere. A rolling wave, once around the Earth, every week.
Come as you are. Even ordinary. Even uncertain. Even staying.
See you later, in the silence.
Dedication: May we stay a little longer than the moment asks of us.
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