Itinerary

Charlie P. dies in Maine State Prison. In there for a heinous crime, he was in his thirty third year as inmate. His name is taken off the Corrections website. He's done his time. I liked Charlie.

A doctor we know is in the hospital waiting on word about a growth blockage in process of diagnosis. He is dear to us.

We light a candle in chapel/zendo for both these men.

As medicine protects from the torments of poison, so Nirvana eases the torments of poisonous passions. Moreover, as medicine puts an end to sickness, so Nirvana puts an end to all sufferings. Finally Nirvana and medicine both give security.
-- Nagasena

Today is Saturday.

Tomorrow morning, Sunday.

Day by day we praise each and every one of you!

Water in boat, outside boat; strake life on it

Bailing boat, high tide head of harbor, calm waters.

Until time to go, no place to go, going anyway.

Each has curious distinction of being Schrodinger's cat, simultaneously alive and dead before peering within.

Look in, either way, truth be known.

Say it again; but, try not to use words

I am going home. Dvorak's New World Symphony musical refrain echoes sweetly. But not in the interpretation traditionally understood. At least not in tonight's conversation.

It is not that home is some other place. Nor are we 'going' there, as if there meant not here. Gerund or gerundive might help.

'Going home' is a singular notion. I am going home means I am the very activity and movement of what is called 'going home.'

I am here going home -- meaning the very nature of my being is the movement and activity of 'going home.'

Not 'to' some place, but as that ontological passing-through everything way of being that has as its nature the journey of factical 'going-home.' How I stand in regard to things is a passing-throughness that is a going-home -- meaning that in my passing through is my ephemeral and moveable becoming what I am -- which is a going-home.

Which is what I am.

Going-home.

Not before; not after. Undivided itself.

Follow.

No.

One.

Only truth serves and saves

Make no mistake, poetry is the great teacher.

Brushing the leaves, fell
A white camellia blossom
Into the dark well.
(--poem by Basho, 1644-1694)

Poetry, like life, as the zen master said, is one continuous mistake.

If you don't know where to turn, don't

No more. Never the less. I think collapse and revolution are inevitable.

What will become of us?

On the other hand -- a good night's sleep is a good place to start.

You are well; come

Sunday is rest.

The rest of the day is contemplative sitting, reading, rearranging chapel/zendo.

                Some call it resting in God.

Some ... just rest.

God is that place where everything not God finds rest, and everything God receives whatever arrives in inquiry, pilgrimage, or devastating empty desolation.


Today, for me, there is no problem with any route to this place.

Bienvenue!