Writing my « book, » or reading, walking in the rain along a Belgian canal, riding the Métro on a holiday afternoon, letting the cat out and in, pulling on a black sock, sitting at the window, I am always seeking what without fail eludes me: the say of it.
I want the last word of the perfect tongue.
And yet I already know the words of that language can’t be had or said.
I can only renounce. All I can do is find where I fail, where the word escapes and how.
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.
True, it will always be too much for "me."
But the truth is also that you are it.
Why would I want to grab the last word of the perfect tongue. Isn’t that just a movement of our thoughts, a part of the never ending comparison process that our mind loves. Just sit and as sensei said in such lovely words "When the sky opens, the downpour is a drenching revelation, the crack of thunder an unpronounceable word."
Dont know what to say. Always seems to much for me.
There is not a thing to show, nor a thing with which to show it.
There is nothing to make, nothing made nor making.
"Cat" is not cat, "rain" is not rain, "window" not window, "walking" not walking.
When the sky opens, the downpour is a drenching revelation, the crack of thunder an unpronounceable word.
you mean : Here and now – makes us search for the perfect word?
Here and now
what is it – that makes us search for the perfect word?
I dont understand what you mean by: "the last word of the perfect tongue"
Can you show me?