a meditation

My prayer beads are strung on my life span.

I am not allowed to skip a single bead:

Sometimes the bead is a seed .

Or a bone. Or jade. Or dry blood. Or semen.   Or crystal.   Or rotted wood.  Or a sages relic.  Or gold.  Or glass. Or a prism.  Or iron. Or clay.  Or an eye.  Or an egg.  Or dung.  Or a ball. Or a stone.  Or a peach,  Or a bullet.  Or a bubble.  Or lead.  Or pure light.

No matter what the next bead is, I must count it,

Perform my daily austerities,

Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

Until repetition becomes endurance.

Deng Ming-Dao