In an old book that I haven’t opened for many years, I discover a scrap of paper on which I had written:
« Sweet birdsong before dawn
pierces night & day
and the aching heart,
too, is pure. »
An underlined sentence says, « Everything we need for awakening is present in the very ground upon which we sit. »
So it is.
Tonight that « ground » is my feeling a bit sick, weary, not wanting to venture into drizzle and chill. It’s all right here, and that’s all there is.
Late at night, it wasn’t dark at all; the invisible moon lit up the clouds and the fresh snow reflected all light. A soft and peaceful world.
This morning the snow is melting. Drops falling on the iron backdoor-bell, make it sound modestly; ting…ting…
That’s Sunday morning here.