Nine hundred and sixty two miles from home,
a monk's touch reverberated, instantly taking root
in the spirit of one alone in a sea of alien ideas.

4:30 a.m.
A gong signals it's time to rise in silence,
prepare for morning zazen with the rest of the rookies,
file into the meditation hall,
settle awkwardly onto cushions.
No words are spoken; just watch and do.
Then, suddenly, hidden behind the silence,
he reaches down, gently takes my fingers,
rearranges them just so,
teaching only through touch.
    Electrifying!

Thirteen years later, I can recall that moment
in detail--all thirty seconds of it--
when a monk's touch transferred compassion
and knowledge from him to me, a stranger,
and I was transformed somehow,
never to be exactly the same again.