But then again, one is never alone when one is aware of one's solitariness. Being and non-being dissolve like fizzy tablet in glass of water. What remains is sipping.
People who practice the Way should not seek externally. The essence of mind has no defilement; it is originally complete and perfect of itself. Just detach from illusory objects and it is enlightened to suchness as is.
- Master Chinul (1158-1210)
Fire lighted in cabin chapel/zendo at 6:05am. Feeders filled. Dog out. cat out. Both in. Feet very cold as logs and kindling are coaxed in hibernating black firebox. Crunching footsteps, door opens, woman in rust-colored coat bows, sits on cushion, remains still and silent. Fire catches.
Practice rekindles morning presence. Posted times and mere commitment rise like white smoke just as morning prayer rises from odd spiritual gassho of assent and dissent.
In Praise of Imperfect Love
Courtesans of tenth century Japan knew
the keening of the caged copper pheasant,
solo double-note aria for a missing mate,
could be silenced with a mirror
The ideal of a love that completes
masks a yearning for homeostasis,
a second umbilical, island fever,
harmony tighter than unison —
dull as a solved equation;
like the ex-lover who said,
"Being with you is like being alone."
He meant it as a compliment.
(Poem: "In Praise of Imperfect Love" by Jessica Goodfellow, from A Pilgrim's Guide to Chaos in the Heartland. Concrete Wolf Chapbook Series.)
In stillness and silence we engage harmony tighter than unison.
A single mouse came over ice crusted snow to cabin's east side, then disappeared into roof-drop furrow.
Warm vision sits benevolent vigil in sunlit view of Bald Mountain.
Inside house, Jane's voice on WERU.
Her mom, Betty, requests Gorden Bok.
Baking fragrance from kitchen.
The settling simplicity of Saturday hermitage.
Will there be only a limited number of visits to harbour shop remaining?
Coffee completes idyll.
Time for four mile drive.