This morning I cleaned the bathroom. The mirror had become smudged.
I also fed the cat.
In a letter written to a friend in the 1930s, Samuel Beckett expressed dismay that a poem he had written was facultatif, or optional.
I am struck by the resonance this has for me, how I feel exactly that sense sometimes about what I do and write.
My practice can be seen as that: to come closer and closer to what is, nothing extra, nothing lacking, nothing facultatif.
But what is it? And who?
Layman Pang was once asked the quintessential Zen question about the meaning of Bodhidharma’s coming from the West. He replied, Does anyone remember it?