I had a place in Australia. It was beautiful , big and wide , and the clouds hung on every corner as you descended into Buchan, milky white through the valley. Every morning I would set out for prayer around 5am to the Gompa. There were no lions waiting for me on the hill overlooking the plains, instead five, six, seven or more kangaroos staring at me as if I was part of their spirit. If I had known a song of my Buddhist heart would the great monitors sing their prayer of me. Would the great snake that slithered over the land bow it’s head in front of me, I pray I left a mark however so small .Djore is my name given to me by Rinpoche , a damaged thunderbolt coming through the clouds.