Notes from this day would be of going and coming, the journey of the journey, in wind and rain, darkness early and late.
I observe my fellow travelers.
A man with thick glasses and a heavy bag steps off the Métro, then quickly jumps back on as the doors close, realizing it’s a stop too soon. A homeless man, one of many, eats bits of bread and sausage spread on a newspaper. He shouts when a fussing child cries and cries.
Someone tells me, « It will become clearer, little by little. »
Master Tozan said, I am always most sincere right here.
Most sincere
About the Author: zenscribe
Enseignante Zen et poète, Sensei Amy “Tu es cela” Hollowell est née et a grandi à Minneapolis, aux Etats-Unis. Arrivée en France en 1981 pour étudier la littérature et l’histoire, elle y est restée, s’installant à Paris, où elle élève ses deux enfants et gagne sa vie en tant que journaliste.
The Zen teacher and poet Amy “Tu es cela” Hollowell Sensei was born and raised in Minneapolis, but came to France in 1981 to study literature and history and has lived in Paris ever since, raising her two children and making a living as a journalist.
This is where I reach out and pinch your nose.
Ha!
No.
But still being wrong, maybe I understand a little deeper.
And then you will be right?
If I’m wrong, I change my mind.
And so?
It is an English word.
Wrong?
And what if you are wrong ?
I don’t know a thing about samadhi.
I see that when I drink the tea, the cup empties. When I tap the keys, characters appear. When the electric bill arrives, I pay to light the lamp.
Being here in no-concept is most sincere and free.
It sounds like samadhi to me.
But samadhi – how should I say this – seems is like a trap to me or like a crooked alibi, or like a head stuck in the sand…
We are also in this world which can be captured (more or less) in concepts. And in this world we are accountable for our actions.
And I – for one – am not too spiritual to be wrong.
"Here" is not a concept (a "lie") when I am right here, at my cherry-wood desk in the lamplight amid books, papers, an empty cup, the cat asleep, a motorcycle idling outside the window as day fades, my fingers lightly tapping the white keys.
When we are not here we tend to lie, to pretend and to expect?