Having never left, I am back again.
This, although I traveled to Portugal, where we sat together deepening the minutes, hours, days, surrounded by green hills and the brassy music of a fireman’s band rehearsing in the ramshackle hall next door.
This, although I then crossed mountains and rivers and towns, returning now to the lush ground of home, a black bird on the grass, the garden a bloom of spring, with friends, family, work.
Reading Dogen, Bataille, Layman Pang, Giacometti, all reporting the daily news.
It’s Dogen today:

 »When I climbed the mountain and crossed the river, I was. Time can only be in me. Since I still am, time cannot leave me.
If time does not come and go, the time I climbed the mountain is the living now of being-time.
If time keeps coming and going, the living now of being-time is in me. This is being-time. »