Bram Levinson


It’s 5 am. I’m buried under the blankets in bed trying to build all the warmth possible in this cold room. It’s a wall of blackness outside, a wall that engulfs the rolling lawn behind the house. The lawn ends in a line of a variety of trees stripped of their foliage, all but the massive conifer that is being pummeled by the roaring wind that started whipping around minutes ago. The dividing line of trees separates the property line from the church graveyard behind it. Lichen-strewn headstones teetering in a state of angular, fragile suspension serve as the funnel system for the wind, building the gales into a low howl. I’m home again. Back in England. My being is literally alive with the vibration of all that is, and that vibration is stronger than ever. This is union. This is home. This is Om.

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