Grey sky Sunday morning solid green mountain but for one tree ruddy violet standing sentinel as Ensō slurps his breakfast. I too am muted, content to feel poorly in this cool final edge of summer sitting in cathedral seat across from Bald and down from Ragged. No gods or goddesses here. Just tire-pressed stone and yellow leaf, old firewood and rusting boat trailer.
The Way does not need cultivation;
Just don’t pollute it.
What is pollution?
As long as you have a fluctuating mind,
Creating artificialities and pursuing inclinations,
All is pollution.
If you want to understand the Way directly,
The normal mind is the Way.
What is normal mind?
It has no artificial contrivance,
No right or wrong, no grasping or rejection,
No ordinariness and no sanctity.
--Ancestor Ma (709–788) (He is most famously known for his two teaching statements: "This Mind is Buddha" (ji xin shi fo 即心是佛) and "Ordinary Mind is the Way."[2] )
As a Buddhist I am not in my right mind. As a Buddhist I often fall off the way.
As a Christian I am not aware I have ever (as I recall) seen Christ. As a Christian none of Christ’s brick and morter hostels feels ripe. Only the rare monastic resonance obscurely tucked draws my attention from great distance.
Cars go by. No one knows I'm here. Stillness abides
Bird caws. I long to be nowhere else.
The intrigue of the world is barely, vaguely interesting. How long can you watch a suicide pace and fret pointing and obsessing ambivalence with accusation and irrational confusion at the imbroglionic diffusion of the theatrical public proscenium of untalented actors. Such is the performance before us.
Perhaps the ritual of the Sacrifice of the Holy Eucharist, its own rarified esoteric suicide, has stood so long because the rubric movement, words and gestures, have been exactly prescribed and alteration fiercely proscribed to maintain a conforming continuance forestalling opinionated variance. It is a mystery, they say.
When does Becoming become Being?
The Heraclitus/Parmenides argument continues.
Loading old wood into old Waterford wood stove. First fire of season. Just to take chill off before thinking of furnace. It is 52o in shade. We’ve been sitting outside in chill for hours. We talk about man with Parkinson’s approaching impossible stage of care at home -- the stress and difficulty of it. The wife herself taken to hospital after a dizzying incident falling unconscious. Family faces octogenarian parents.
Panta cat on lap.
The Way?
Don’t ask.
One foot in front of another.
Monks chant from France.
