On an East corner shelf Durga waves her six arms conducting spirits gathered there, as she did temple-size, near Rishikesh, where Swamaj Chandrasekaranand blessed her mala bead necklace. The 200-year-old Peruvian peasant cross was a gift from
a shaman on Macha Pichu with hair streaked white from two lightning strikes.
Mementos. From spiritual tsunamis. Iceburg calfings of my psyche.

The snakeskin necklace shed 
on a retreat cabin threshold, 

where a lifelong “I’m-an-
almost-man” belief dissolved;
the Jesus Icon painted by a priest,
who taught Orthodox plainsong
for chanting the psalms; a black
Madonna from a Swiss church
near Carl Jung’s tower, where
he reported wrestling angels
in his Red Book—key to unlocking
his psychology. Twice a day
the Tibetan bowl sings. A beeswax
candle flickers. In a millennia long
story, inner and outer braids merge
their passion. Essence dissolves
the unforgivable. Light repairs rifts
stretched miles—years—thin.
What’s cleaved, melds.