Saturday, April 19, 2014
(Continued from page 1)
"These teachings are like a raft," Buddha instructed. "(It is) to be abandoned once you have crossed the flood. Do not speak -- unless it improves on silence."
Last week's enhancements on silence, a day's worth of gifts in the emptiness, one sunrise-to-sunset fleeting insights of space, included these: the first tumbling leaves of autumn, gliding like bits of shredded fabric, to the ground; the din of crickets and grasshoppers, seldom seen but symphonic in the evening air; a tiny yellow and black goldfinch speeding across my field of vision like a muzzle-loading bullet of color or a flame flying; the purple loosestrife like cattails turned inside out; the drying dock weed the first foreshadowing of winter.
In the frames of still images I hold are the dun-colored shorn sheep, grazing so slowly in the fields that they seem frozen there. Far out in the wetlands, a familiar flock of Canada geese pad through muddy flats, while nearer to where I am, a farmer is baling hay, filling the morning air with a sweet, light perfume, cut grass and greenery emptying their stems, creating still another space.
These things fill me now, as best they can, these medicinal memories. With time and patience, stillness and silence, I remember I will be healed.
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