It’s been raining all day and my ceiling’s been leaking for hours. First one spot, then two, and now three. There’s a long gash in the paint slowly bleeding out, and a pair of swollen breasts lactating drop drop dop into the waiting mouth of a red plastic basin. I’m finding the phenomenon at once beautiful and annoying, which I think speaks to my zen practice. I’m far enough down the road that I can hear the music of the drops randomly splattering and appreciate the artful stretch and bulge of the ceiling paint, but not so open that I can take pleasure in constantly wiping water from the floor. I’m not so charitable that I don’t find myself thinking ill thoughts about my neglectful landlord. So it goes.