Girl begins as no barrier
As open as open could be
Then filled with
No boundary itself
Wechsel zum Austausch mit der Leere
(Change to exchange with the void)
Mary
Mary
Mary
Conceived as the
Within
Without
Monday, December 08, 2025
Sunday, December 07, 2025
if you see god, give your best
I’m not going to Wash.DC, not me
Nope, not on your life, no way —
I’d rather stay home and wait
For news
Of demise
Or some other terminal celebration
I’ll just stay home
Immaculately concieved
Tathagata’s birthday
Departure of duplicity
Everyday mysticism
"تمويه" "tamwihi"
I'll read what is at hand
for instance, The Paris Review
"Camouflage", by Adania Shibli
translated from the Arabic
by Max Weiss. We wear disguises
It is during the pauses
between reading numbers
for the auditor at her desk
I open the tidy issue, Winter 2025
because it sits on cardboard box
next to chair, non-assiduously like
a lethargic cat you stroke because there
it gets dark early as days still shorten
the cold grips walls of old house
deer look to bed down on old leaves
dog on bed makes snoring sounds
the kufiyya on dashboard, then hiding
it from checkpoint soldiers, then waving
it at young boys throwing stones at car
his uncamouflaged head in a dangerous land
streetwise
the buddhists in Augusta cancel
zoom practice this morning
I logged on three times
figured they’d thrown me out
the way buddhists do when mad,
gave me wrong link, frowned on me
turns out there was illness, said email
after I watched myself and cat
in front room chair by large window
I like buddhists
they stay well within themselves
even when in public, no soliciting
in fact, they’re hard to pick out
in a crowd, unless one is playing
shakuhachi on sidewalk behind coin cup
Saturday, December 06, 2025
ceart go leor
“Whosoever is delighted in solitude is either a wild beast or a God.” (Aristotle)
did I tell you my name
you did
ok
do you remember what it is,
my name,
do you
no
ok
well, guess i'll be leaving
bye
thanks for
the coffee --
ok
ceart go leor
ok
rearranging my dusty room
Finding sweatshirts from years ago, dress shirts from long long ago, ties from decades ago. Two hundred socks, some that match.
Discouraging accumulation of a recluse.
I’ve forgotten why these things inhabit my room. I wear a different dress shirt every day. I don’t go anywhere, just downstairs, walk the narrow trail up Ragged Mtn. I can go a month and not repeat. They’re themselves ragged, wrinkled, worn out, and perfect for these days of haphazard memory.
I used to think I was a christian. I used to think I was a buddhist. Now I don’t think and find myself a buddhist christian without belief. I pray, I meditate, but without reference to anything other than the prayer and meditation.
Odd, isn’t it? Form has no function.
Dementia Is a New Way to Be Buddhist
Today my mum said she doesn’t remember
arriving at my house with a dishcloth,
doesn’t remember me telling her
my kitten stayed overnight at the vet,
that I’d be coming over to help with bills.
What she remembers is now.
She knows her memory is a ship
leaving port without permission,
her memory is a cloud she can’t hold.
When she asks, Why is everything so hard?
I say, I don’t think you’re the only one
asking that. When I say, I have trouble
with loss, she says, We are all leaving.
She adds: I know I won’t be around
much longer. So I ask her
what she’ll come back as? A pig, she says,
then laughs. I tell her I can’t imagine
seeing a pig and having to say,
Oh, there’s my mom! She smiles
and says, Then maybe I’ll return
as a hummingbird. Another conversation
in the present. Another conversation
I will remember alone.
Copyright © 2025 by Kelli Russell Agodon.
Never thought of myself as a cowboy. I aint, really.
But these days the lyrics of the country western song sound familiar, and feel even more familiar:
Mamas don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys
'Cause they'll never stay home and they're always alone
Even with someone they love
https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/waylonjennings/mammasdontletyourbabiesgrowuptobecowboys.html
Growing up with “Gunsmoke” in the afternoons on the small tv in Brooklyn house I felt I lived just off the Main Street of Dodge. My gunbelt and sixshooter cap gun, stetson and boots, kept my solitude from varmints and outlaws wandering the sidewalks of Bensonhurst where horses were tied to railing out front.
Now I live between two mountains. Barn has horse stalls broken down with ancient strands of straw nuzzled between floor and wall.
Always alone.
What a curious idea!
Being alone.
As if even remotely possible.
bedankt sinterklaas
young deer with limp
wanders close to speeding white pickup
stares up and down road
walks into driveway and dooryard
nibbles on yew branches outside kitchen
old apple placed outside barn door by rowboat
attraverso l'oscurità
I don’t want to hear it.
Hear what?
That the default position
Is sin and evil.
And if it is?
That lies are the norm
That self-interest the fallback.
What would you prefer?
Tell me about goodness.
What about it?
Is God good?
Sure, God is good.
And?
We are not God.
Is God in this world?
Yes, God is in this world.
Where, when, how?
Only when God is through with you.
Through with me?
Breaking through with you
Into the world
As it is, attraverso l'oscurità
Through the darkness
Seeing through here
e adesso (and now)
mio padre mia madre, così com'è
I practice
Death
Falling asleep
At night
Napping during
Day
What dreams
May come
Heaven, the
As it is
Earth
Given
This, così com'è
Bread of quotidiá
Each breath,
Each moment a
Deliverance
From (through)
Yes, (even this)
evil
If we would
Have it
Be, (being,
been)
So …
(Ah, man!)
Friday, December 05, 2025
vivre, pourquoi pas
It is December,
of course,
time to be reading
Sartre, Camus,
and Heidegger
I’m not sure
i've gotten beyond
absurdity
the problem of suicide
of nothingness
whether in existential
philosophy, Zen Buddhism,
or the unfolding absurdity
of political discord and
narcissistic megalomania --
I choose philosophy --
the detritus of political
chicanery is much less
interesting than whether
to live (as Camus says) or die
tuning radio in parking lot
Oboes rather than words
(Those clashing symbols)
Ah, silky melodious sound
wieviel
Wieviel
You ask
How much
Keinviel
I say
Not much
We are talking
About love
Enough for sanity
Genug
Yes, enough
To continue on
dropping to 1 degree
It is cccold
Window frozen shut
Nextdoor they make snow
(How good)
The gift of shelter
Thursday, December 04, 2025
wishing i'd been there
1.
too many words
crowd the space
mind abandoned
2.
if you love me
teach me
what you see
3.
on snowy
frozen mountain
deer prints
as empty and thus infinitely interpenetrating
About the Avataṃsaka Sūtra, also known as the Buddhāvataṃsaka Sūtra:
The East Asian Buddhist view of the text is that it expresses the infinite universe as seen by a Buddha (the Dharmadhatu), who sees all phenomena as empty and thus infinitely interpenetrating, from the point of view of enlightenment.[22] This interpenetration is described in the Buddhāvataṃsakasūtra as the perception "that the fields full of assemblies, the beings and aeons which are as many as all the dust particles, are all present in every particle of dust."[24] Thus, a Buddha's view of reality is also said to be "inconceivable; no sentient being can fathom it".[24]
The following passage from the Buddhāvataṃsaka describes this holistic idea of universal interpenetration or interfusion which sees the total sum of all things as being contained in each individual phenomena:
This idea would later become central in East Asian Buddhist traditions like the Huayan school and Zen. --wikipedia
What is in one is what is in all.
If your practice leads you into the clear spaciousness of enlightenment, thank you!
If your depravity leads you into perverse and hostile antagonism to truth and the good, o merdè!
I cannot dwell alone. You dwell within me. There’s a crowd there. I look in the mirror. I see you.
I’m so upset with myself for running for president with no interest in the people of the country I’m meant to lead and serve.
I’m so confused as to why I shot those two people wearing camouflage on the street in D.C. last week.
I remember saving the young boy from running into traffic in India where a speeding truck bore down on him.
I prayed for the mother of a friend whose obituary appeared in the paper today. Of course I had died in that Portland hospital with her, our myocardial infarction catching everyone by surprise.
The Avatamsaka sutra also states that the wisdom of the Buddha (the Tathagata) is present everywhere in the universe, indeed, it is present within every living being. Thus, the sutra states (in chapter 32, Manifestation of the Tathagata):
One cat scratches at cellar door to get downstairs and out under porch. I let her down the stairs, put midday treats in their bowls. Give dog a biccie. Sip bitter coffee. Look out at gray day with snow clinging to branches.
Feel like the inside of a crypt.
Attending what everyone calls a transition.
Perhaps, more accurately, a fulmination.
journey of a thousand wings
Chickadee
Flies to feeder
Back to branch
Again and
Again
One seed at a time
God is not
Good is
God
Again and
Again I am
Leaving branch
closing ap(peal) to sanity
Yes
We have
No
(Bananas)
We have
No
(Bananas)
Today
Frightening
How
(Bananas) he
Is
I
Say
(Bananas)
Go. Away
Wednesday, December 03, 2025
intoxication of pernicious truths
I remember when I taught at university. There was a desire to think. Alongside the expectation that theories and facts, trends and history were part of the learning experience, thinking might have been a luxury left to the side while trying to convey the data of philosophy and familiarity with language and concepts.
There was a waterfall of possibility and a slender stream of time to foray the gushing offerings of the texts and barrage of potential tumbling toward that swept-away wisdom downstream.
A more skillful pedagogue might have been content with the limitations of time and speculation and focused more clearly on breaking open the names dates and theories nicely displayed in the table of contents.
Perhaps I inadvertently tried to make graduate students of newly arrived and neophyte to-be students of a required stepping stone course. Upper level courses had more elasticity and I was invited to that niche. I should have figured this out decades ago and angled toward Oxford or Cambridge to fully embrace the lecture and tutorial motif.
Philosophy, I might have said, is the conjunctive between Life and Death.
I would prefer to take up residence in such a connective, and deconstructed the "and" and recomposed a new sive/sive where life is a variant of death and death a mirror of life.
I think of so many friends who are no more, and I pity them. Yet they are not so much to be pitied, for they have solved every problem, beginning with the problem of death.
&
In the fact of being born there is such an absence of necessity that when you think about it a little more than usual, you are left—ignorant how to react—with a foolish grin.
&
Two kinds of mind: daylight and nocturnal. They have neither the same method nor the same morality. In broad daylight, you watch yourself; in the dark, you speak out. The salutary or awkward consequences of what he thinks matter little to the man who questions himself at hours when others are the prey of sleep. Hence he meditates upon the bad luck of being born without concern for the harm he can cause others or himself. After midnight begins the intoxication of pernicious truths.
&
As the years accumulate, we form an increasingly somber image of the future. Is this only to console ourselves for being excluded from it? Yes in appearance, no in fact, for the future has always been hideous, man being able to remedy his evils only by aggravating them, so that in each epoch existence is much more tolerable before the solution is found to the difficulties of the moment.
&
(--in The Trouble With Being Born, by E.M. Cioran, trans by Richard Howard)
The evils of the current day are aggravating the composure of our minds. Cioran might suppose that this aggravation is necessary preparation for any successful resolution of the evil we experience.
It is disturbing to consider that the flaring of evil is prelude to identification, encounter, and possible resolution into something less evil or even good.
Does the "O felix culpa" lend the notion that fault and resolution, that good and evil -- (like life and death) -- are directly up against one-another in a symbiotic dynamic of interaction?
Is there in Cioran's thought the implication that the very notion/act of "being born" is troublesome in that it introduces a faulty dualistic conception that there is some applicable distinction between being-born and being-not-born?
It also conjures an odd distinction between being-born and not-being-born. (Can "not-being" be born?) Can nothing come into being in a similar way that something comes into being?
This, from Forest City Zen:
When I was pretty new to Zen practice, I came across a quote, Unborn mind is Buddha mind. I was baffled at this term “unborn”. Subsequently, I've learned that whenever our interest is piqued by some Buddhist teaching, like Unborn mind is Buddha mind, it is a good idea to pay attention. This is our body's way of asking us to grow. At the time, however, I was confused. How could something be “unborn”? Was this some sort of baffling Zen koan? It kind of got under my skin. So, I decided to set out and try to find out and understand this expression. The expression was used and popularized by a 17th century Japanese Rinzai Zen teacher named Bankei who lived between 1622 and 1693.
Bankei describes the unborn mind in glowing terms,
What I call the “Unborn” is the Buddha-mind. This Buddha-mind is unborn, with a marvelous virtue of illuminative wisdom. In the Unborn, all things fall right into place and remain in perfect harmony.1
Bankei gives an idea of how the unborn mind functions with this quote,
The Unborn manifests itself in the thought, “I want to see” or “I want to hear” not being born … The reason I say it's in the “Unborn” that you see and hear in this way is because the mind doesn't give “birth” to any thought or inclination to see or hear.2
-- (from Unborn Mind, Kuden Paul Boyle, Forest City Zen Group)
It is intriguing to consider that we human beings are a sort of nexus between the seen and unseen world, where things can emerge, if you will, without fully entering this visible realm with independent existence, but, rather, participate in active engagement in this physical realm, straddling the seeming divide without inhabiting either realm, but only as co-responding echoes criss-crossing this or that without permanent residence or even graspable tangibility.
Those who claim there is no birth and no death seem odd to those of us for whom such a claim rings preposterous.
And yet (and yet) this existence we cultivate as a given fact, is, indeed, troublesome.
As such, Siddhartha Gautama, was given to such exploration that the truth of suffering, craving, seeing through, and actual ways of being in this (Maya?) world constituted his Four Noble Truths.
As such, Jesus of Nazareth, wandered through a fantastical narrative of transcending (life and) death that we are uncertain about whether death is real, whether resurrection is a thing, whether everyone who has "died" will transcend that belief and arise into a realm beyond our understanding or conception.
Heidegger said that language is the house of being.
And non-being?
How is it we dwell in these two expressions of phenomenal and spiritual reality, and still have such difficulty (trouble) navigating and negotiating them?
(I just sat with some Friends, the Quaker variety, at their Wednesday mid-week zoom.)
Practice, practice, practice!
moonrise over spinnaker trail Ragged Mtn (sh, 3dec25)
inherently complete
Chinul thought he was smart.
He looked around the 12th century and saw Francis in Italy and Dogen in Japan. His hometown was in Korea.
Said to himself: “Let’s just write something before dinner and call it quits."
Errant thoughts are fundamentally empty; the essence of mind is fundamentally pure.
You suddenly realize this essence is originally free from afflictions; the essence of knowledge is inherently complete, no different from Buddha.
To cultivate practice based on this is called the Zen of the highest vehicle, and it is also called the pure Zen of those who realize suchness.
So he did. Call it quits.
Finished his tea and trundled off to his reading chair.
He didn’t exactly realize suchness, but it was a nice idea to imagine what it would be like to realize suchness.
“The true nature of reality as it is” -- what an idea!
He got into bed, chuckling.
He was asleep in no time.
Pretty smart if you ask me.
the paperwork verifies it
I never wanted to be a saint
then, unexpectedly, I became a saint
I am in heaven after my death
holy and ensconced in beatific light
I don’t remember dying, I don’t
nor do I know what a saint is, I don’t
but here I am, a saint, with a certificate --
it says: "You are a saint, goodbye and good luck!"
Tuesday, December 02, 2025
noise and smoke
Nor do I write poetry.
Got to love the subtlety. We need more folks who don't write poetry. Poetry is dangerous and fraught with a belief in its importance.
In Praise of My Sister
(by Wisława Szymborska)
My sister doesn’t write poems.
and it’s unlikely that she’ll suddenly start writing poems.
She takes after her mother, who didn’t write poems,
and also her father, who likewise didn’t write poems.
I feel safe beneath my sister’s roof:
my sister’s husband would rather die than write poems.
And, even though this is starting to sound as repetitive as
Peter Piper,
the truth is, none of my relatives write poems.
My sister’s desk drawers don’t hold old poems,
and her handbag doesn’t hold new ones,
When my sister asks me over for lunch,
I know she doesn’t want to read me her poems.
Her soups are delicious without ulterior motives.
Her coffee doesn’t spill on manuscripts.
There are many families in which nobody writes poems,
but once it starts up it’s hard to quarantine.
Sometimes poetry cascades down through the generations,
creating fatal whirlpools where family love may founder.
My sister has tackled oral prose with some success.
but her entire written opus consists of postcards from
vacations
whose text is only the same promise every year:
when she gets back, she’ll have
so much
much
much to tell.
Rather, write as little as you can.
Bunch words in narrow places.
Let vanilla egg nog pour into glass.
Take haiku, for example. They're not artistic creation.
Haiku are immediate noted glimpses into what is real.
Don't let the sneaking syllables fool ya!
They'll fall asleep as soon as they lay down.
hieroglyphics
No, I haven’t given up
I look out window
Woodpecker skims trunk
They say snow soon
The nice old lady in Augusta
Shopping aisle asked if I was ready
No, not given up
Cat yawns on window sill
No snow yet, school bus passes
Monday, December 01, 2025
Sunday, November 30, 2025
co-creators of world, co-destroyers of world
It is that time of year when we wonder who we are, where we’ve come from, and where we might be going.
In the Christian metaphor, it is Advent preceding some mysterious birth. In the Buddhist metaphor it is Buddha’s Enlightenment preceding some kind of radical liberation. In the metaphor of what we call ‘my personal life’ it is the exploration of who and what I am in the surround of being, non-being, fullness and emptiness.
After reading from PHILO: FOUNDATIONS OF RELIGIOUS PHILOSOPHY IN JUDAISM, CHRISTIANITY AND ISLAM (2 VOLUMES), by Wolfson, Harry Austryn. Published by Harvard University Press, Cambridge, Mass., 1948 -- I turn to Nishida Kitaro and the Kyoto School of Philosophy.
People are people
I am I
Unperturbed,
I take the path
I take
(Waka written in 1934, quoted by Michiko Yusa in Zen & Philosophy – An Intellectual Biography of Nishida Kitaro, p 257)
It is not that “I am empty,” but rather, that “emptiness is I” (Masao Abe, Zen and Western Thought, 13)
To be religious is to live from the standpoint of emptiness
Nishida goes to great lengths to describe the process whereby ultimate reality, i.e., nothingness, what he also calls the “formless world,” is also dynamic, and self-expresses as the world of forms – the phenomenal/historical world – through the conscious self of each individual, which is a field of nothingness (basho), at once “creating” the world in the present moment, and allowing individuals to become true selves and true individuals. More precisely, the conscious individual selves at all times reflect the world and, as it were, re-process it to match their concrete experience, in a two-way movement which turns individuals collectively into co-creators of the world, not out of any autonomous power, but as conduits for the self-expression of ultimate reality.
https://thekyotoschoolofphilosophy.wordpress.com/emptiness-is-i/
There’s a thought -- “conscious individual selves...as conduits for the self-expression of ultimate reality.”
And even if we are unaware of that-with-which we are co-creating the world, we are taken with the seemingly impossible fact that we might, indeed, be co-creating this world.
On the other hand, unluckily, if we do not think about it, it won’t matter to us how and however the world comes to be and continues to come to be with or without our conscious participation.
For example, a haiku/koan:
why does trump
fully pardon
drug smugglers
violent criminals
and the fraudulent
Sometimes the answer to difficult koans are staring us right in the face.
nothing to say
Was I asked if I wanted life?
Were you?
Cat got yer tongue?
Just give me one thing
That I can hold on to
To believe in this livin'
Is just a hard way to go
Liturgical season of Advent comes up.
I’m still wondering whether the wandering tedium of our telling life stories is how we mismanage the deeper unspeakable story that ever our perennial “hold on, hold on, he’s gonna be born” folktale exudes each final month of year.
Who wouldn’t want to look at the old rodeo poster and then look at back door through hallway waiting for a particular non-judging savior to take you away?
There’s a tedium to tropes.
A familiar narrative unnecessary to believe in anymore, only the necessary retelling and curtaining up the stage where costumes and props tinsil the mythic cavelike invitatory intuitions of origin and omega of this going off in the morning, coming home in the evening, with nothing to say.
What angel scares the hell out of some young girl with the notion that she wouldn’t just be washing dishes the remainder of her days?
Have a look out window to green bird feeder where red cardinal and clunky bluejay arrive and depart their morning seeds.
Whatever it was meant to be the angel from mount sinai told the old climber about why he was there and what to do tomorrow — something broke off the stoney page and fell into a deep narrow crevice where consciousness cannot retrieve it.
And this now old woman scuttling aisles of grocery cannot remember what is lost behind curtain call and removal of stage makeup.
Every year, the playwright hands out creased and coffee-stained script with modest revisions that soggy memories faintly recall with fading clarity, reciting lines and moving downstage as someone rehearses “behold, I bring you…” for the two thousand and twenty fifth time with impeachable tonality and confused characterization.
We’re all old women. And we’re all old men, another child that's grown old.
We’re waiting for that cave beneath our consciousness to undarken.
Were wondering about this nothing to say.
Saturday, November 29, 2025
sauerkrautsuppe, vorfreude
There is no future. We have to create it.
There is no past. We have forgotten it.
It is a characteristic tendency of human beings
to indulge in emotions such as happiness,
grief, or anger in response to present conditions,
failing to balance these feelings
with the awareness that
present conditions are results of past causes.
It is illogical to face the present
only as an object of enjoyment
or tolerance, neglecting to use
it as the opportunity to create the future.
--Muso Kokushi (1275-1351)
At Friday Evening Conversation many talked about their thanksgiving, its rituals, its dishes.
I couldn’t find my voice.
It was as though I was suspended in the air following stepping off the day before and realizing there was no ground of tomorrow.
Only the assertion that today is today.
The rare opportunity to remain silent except to recommend Ensō’s mistress’s Kraut Soup which I’ve not tasted in a while.
Except for the promise that, in due time, I will.
with all, little due respect
These are dark days
Snow is coming
The turning earth
Doesn’t give a hoot
Whether trump lives
or dies — it merely
Turns — Mars varies
Between 34 million to
250 million miles away
From our deathbed vigil
For a disgraceful man —
You’ve got to admire
His pluck and morbid vim
While watching booster
Slither back to base
Demeaning departure
Gone justice gone dignity
Friday, November 28, 2025
one’s inherent nature
It occurs that all technology is modeled on the insights and observations of the human mind.
We have cameras because we have eyes, opthalmic nerves, and synapses in the brain.
The world as we know it, meaning the mechanical and exterior manifestation in concrete manipulable technicity, has its origin in the imaginative configuring of the mental processes taking place in the interior, the human cognition and creative impulse acted upon by something prior and more powerful than our abilities.
Conduits.
Instruments.
Co-creators.
I understand some would say that even such explanation is far too far down the path from the more innate creativity presaging humanity wherein the very essence of “creator” hovers over and within what we are calling “human” enacting upon the external world what is an internal impulse to originate.
“If You Meet The Buddha On The Road, Kill Him”
― Linji
Looking to the exterior to explain the exterior is an act of circular rationalization.
The inner is the outer.
The impulse to translate “Om mane padme hum” as “Behold what is within without” (or, behold what is without within) is nascent investigation of the unicity of being (or, valiantly, the univocity of being given expression in a seeming diversity of appearances.
The sacred and the ordinary are not two.
If you love the sacred and despise the ordinary, you are still bobbing in the sea of delusion.”
― Línjì Yìxuán (d.866AD)
There are phrases that express the intuition:
"As above, so below."
It may be noted that the original Arabic of the verse in the Emerald Tablet itself does not mention that what is above and what is below are "as" or "like" each other, but rather that they are "from" each other:
English translation of the Arabic:[24] That which is above is from that which is below, and that which is below is from that which is above. (wikipedia)
The question occurs: 1) What is within me? 2) What is within us?
The evidence suggests: 1) That which is without me. 2) That which is without us.
Are we what-is revealed in the world?
Are we goodness and grace? (Yes!)
Are we malevolence and disgrace? (Yes!)
A core theme in Linji’s teaching is the transcendence of dualistic thinking. He taught that distinctions such as right and wrong, delusion and enlightenment are themselves obstacles to the realization of the true nature of mind. Linji’s teachings urged students to let go of all conceptualizations, pointing to the “empty mind” or the mind free from attachments as the path to realizing one’s inherent Buddha Nature.
https://the-summa.notion.site/Linji-School-100e1fead75e80fe8d45fa084310d7f0
What is the true nature of mind?
Six AM, an MRI for mistress of the good dog Ensō. Then, Buttermilk Pancake with blueberry sauce overlooking Camden Harbor afterward. Across table -- eggs, sausage, potatoes toast. There was coffee and tea. Nice place. Nice people.
What used to cost $12.99 now costs $42.00 +.
But that’s just me.
I suppose I’ll continue to wrestle with the words found sixty years ago in Thomas à Kempis (d.1471): "A wise man once said `As often as I have been among men, I have returned home a lesser man.”
(Seneca, Epist.VII) https://www.worldinvisible.com/library/akempis/imitation/chapter%2020.htm
I still don’t completely grasp this pericope. But it stays with me.
If I were to recompose his and Seneca’s thought, I might say: “As often as I think I am outside of where I am, I discover that, within which, I have never stepped out of -- except by deluded thinking.”
It’s an inside job seen outside. If there is any looking to be done, look there!
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