Saturday Morning Practice; two short phrases; eight last words

This

Is my life

Now.

Nothing

Left

Out.

maximum security

The scar from throat to ear told a story hard to hear. 

But he lived to walk that story into the room.

It's not an easy place to live.

The realm of mere fact.

War is a currency that buys lies and liars

30April1975

The defeated United States final run away from Vietnam.

The lies of war.

Continue.

umwelt, shunyata

where we are, is who we are.

Para-Dicé

Alongside the saying of anything.

There is the silence of everything.

Dikē, justice, waits on our voice.

shunyata, umwelt

who we are, is where we are

Say no more

Tasers and guns. 

Sever and project. 

Soul from body. 

This new spirituality. 

Save by destroying. 

Bringing an end. 

A false faith.

In no hope.

an open vastness

Hondō is the main hall of worship of some Japanese Buddhist temples. 

Honda is the make of black seven year old Ridgeline that came when green Element went on earth day this week. 

A hancho arrives unseen. (Japanese hanchō squad leader, from han squad + chō head, chief; verb, to be in charge of a project or situation.)

Some animal chews in wall.

Sunday Evening Practice in zendo with warm stickfire in old stove. Acoustics of Prajna Paramita bounce around wood as rainfall keeps time on roof.   

Reading Melissa Blacker from Shambhala Sun on our basically good nature before sipping delicious Hungarian mushroom soup with nockerl in silence at table with six humans four animals and uncountable invisible beings.

The great death in Buddhism is dying to dualistic view. Yet here we live. The twos of perception. The countering temptation of all of what we are to resort to an idealistic conception of who we are. 

When, in fact, we are all of it. Choiceless appearance. Yet, somehow, without aversion, allowing wholeness its expression while remaining present to Buddhanature cultivating compassion and kindness.

There is so much disappointment and sorrow in our midst. Illness, earthquakes, criminality in high places and low, deluded inequity, economic maliciousness. 

We practice. We sit in silence. We intend justice. We act and bring ourselves into places of diminished freedom to remind ourselves to be portals of passage to a modest freedom and liberation.

We become haiga of heart-touched haiku lifted from calligraphied page to three dimensional form moving through raindrops as April looks over its shoulder as mountain tumbles in Himalayan mist.

We are fragile.

We pray for Nepalese brothers and sisters.

Bowing in awe, stepping carefully along ground, the open vastness of broken heart.

1. 
   

ah je sais

Whatever space 

Dalai Lama enters

He is great mother moving

Cherished as changing direction of water finding

new edges to wear down with flowing grace.

(But I repeat, myself.)