Today, I was missing Guri. I've seen her for a few minutes over the last several weeks. Techincally, I think, missing your wife is illegal at a monastery but shhhh, I don't think anyone noticed. :)

My first thought was, "Hey, who am I really missing?" Who is Guri, after all? Am I missing giving her a high-five, am I missing watching the majestic mountains with her, am I missing sharing a joke with her, am I missing smelling the mildew on the leaves with her, am I missing hearing her insights about life? Sort of, but not exactly. Then, what am I really missing? I couldn't figure it out.

So I sat there asking that same question, again and again. I mean, we all know that one day everyone dies. Guri will die too. If I'm still alive, what will I do about my "missing Guri" syndrome then? It's an unavoidable question, especially when you've been meditating a lot.

As I sat quietly with my discomforting question, I traced it down to a "feeling" in the center of my chest. I track it down further and I notice a throbbing sensation in the same place. Like one is trained in meditation, you watch it and watch it with ultimate patience. So I did. And the sensation eventually went away.

I no longer missed Guri. Now, I was simply thinking of her. It's a subtle yet significant difference that becomes obvious with the unexpected smile on your face.

Like all things aggregate, Guri and Nipun will surely decompose but we have a shared quest that is so magnetically intertwined that it cannot be pulled apart. Deep down at our core, ours is a quest to experience the dynamic reality of each moment with such clarity that we don't take ignorant actions, to live life with such fearlessness that we don't remember could-have's or should-have's on our deathbeds, to love with such reckless abandon that even the heavens start raining.

Today, I unexpectedly smile for all that and more, which improperly gets labeled with one Proper noun: Guri.

Keep walking, Guri. We're going all the way!