As a writer my I is fixated on birthing pithy lines of prose and then killing all my little darlings, watching words emerge as perfect butterflies from ethereal cocoons only to pluck the wings from their temporal bodies in search of deeper meanings.
Notes on a Buddhist path
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Night and Day
There was a moment last year as twilight bloomed across the sky, when I glanced out the windows of our vihara and noticed a marvelous play of light and dark in the nearby aspen grove. The ebony shadows of the forest pressed themselves against the brilliant etched whiteness of the aspens. Night existing next to day. Separate, yet so close.
Something good
It’s funny how a life can change with just one step in a new direction. How the years of contemplating that step one day come to placing our singularly intention on the new ground that has been waiting for us and for this one rare and precious moment to arise.
Divine Disenchantment
When Dorothy peered behind the curtain in The Wizard of Oz her world fell apart. All that she hoped for, all her dreams, all her plans dissolved in the sudden awareness that no great and powerful being could save her, could rescue her from the suffering of loss or satisfy the cravings that beset her, and her companions.
I know just how she must have felt.
Sight lines
Both gentle and bombastic purveyors of the worldly visited my cushion and walking paths of practice. Welcoming everything, this being enjoined with mindfulness, concentration and wisdom, and they became my three sisters of compassion.
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