I will stay away for the summer,
just one month—
that much is settled:
a borrowed place,
not one I claim.

I think of the Thai monks
walking north from Texas
toward Washington, D.C.,
mile by mile—
more than two thousand—
through a winter that does not soften.
They walk for months,
sleep in tents,
with one dog, Aloka,
keeping pace.

Each night
they stop where the day runs out.
That place becomes home
for as long as rest requires.

They receive peace while they sleep,
gain kindness while they walk,
and practice compassion as they rest—
things the world easily loses.

Others join them, drawn by what is precious:
Buddhists, seekers,
and those who recognize the value of these things.

Around them gather
those who watch and those who help—
police, medics, strangers—
and that temporary dwelling, too,
becomes a refuge.

Somewhere along the road,
their quiet steps meet
the larger crowds of the cities,
nameless people walking together for a while.
For a moment,
the two movements share the same ground,
and another dwelling of the heart appears—
brief,
necessary,
gone by evening.

So do not stay.
Do not cling.
Let yourself flow.

A temporary dwelling
is not an empty place.
It is a lake of love and justice
where all may wade,
a small and humble lake
into which these things seep quietly—
only for a while.

A still refuge.

A temporary place forms
as water does—
where it is needed,
resting in low ground,
then moving on again.

Breath passes.
Footprints fade.
What was shelter
becomes sound,
becomes wind,
becomes lifting mist.

It gathers into a crowd,
swells into a roar,
and at last opens into a rainbow.

And what remains
finally overflows—
finding balance where it was scattered—
a quiet peace in every household.

Into the lake of humility
peace falls without a sound,
soft as tears.

From Texas to Washington, D.C., and from here to far away.

our dwellings are everywhere—temporary places.

— Yoon Tae-Hun