It nears midnight. It grows late. An extra hour will grace the night.
Paying a visit to Monk YungOutside the hospital window, beyond and through the dark, is an ocean under growing moonlight.
A monk's robe hangs in a retreat in the hills.
Outside the window I find no one but passing birds.
Dusk has come up halfway down the mountain road;
Then I hear the sound of the spring
Cling to the green-tinted slope.
- Meng Hao-jan (689-740)
At 23:15 the most recent vitals were taken.
At meditation practice sitting this morning short sentences were broken in half. I wondered: "Why am I doing this." "What am I doing here."
Then they broke:
"Why am I?"
"What am I?"
Reading Karen Maezen Miller, she speaks of earth as the altar of impermanence.
I bow to this altar.
Just for now.