Author’s Note: We have two Porch Talks left before this first season gently closes its circle. Episode 6 will mark the final visit (for now), and then we’ll celebrate our 100th day and 100th essay with a standalone reflection. Season Two will return sometime before Essay 200, with new guests, deeper conversations, and maybe even a few familiar voices returning to the porch.
I stepped outside with a glass of Evan Williams—the budget bourbon of saints and sinners. The air was thick. Still buzzing with leftover sunlight. I didn’t remember pouring the drink. I often don’t.
And there he wass. Trungpa. Sunglasses on. At night.
“Trungpa,” you say, more like a sigh than a greeting.
“You look tired,” he says. “That’s good. Means you’re not pretending.”
You tell him you used to work at Naropa. Assistant Dean of Admissions. He smirks. “Admissions? Did anyone ever get in?” You shake your head. “Not the part that needed to.”
He approves. Drinks. Tells you presence is the one thing institutions can’t package. You talk about why you left—how the school was scrubbing its edges. Getting sober. Profitable.
“They tried that when I was alive too,” he says. “I pissed in a fireplace once to remind a room what presence felt like.”
He holds up a mirror. “What do you see?”
“Myself.”
“Wrong. That’s the mask you wear to avoid being eaten by the moment.” He tosses the mirror into the grass.
You tell him about the vintage store. How selling old things feels more honest than selling enlightenment.
“You traded legacy for alchemy,” he says. “Good.”
He reminds you that dharma isn’t a committee. Laughs like thunder wrapped in silk. Admits he drank too much. Then grins: “But not enough to forget what it means to wake someone up with a joke.”
He points at the stars. “You see that?”
“What?”
“Exactly.”
He stands, bows slightly, and fades into the dark like the last note of a song you weren’t sure was over.