Yawning now at the end of the day.
What went on during all these hours, from morning until night?
I suppose it was what is often called « a day like any other. »
And yet, a long phone conversation with a dear friend was today, not any other day. A visit to the computer repairman was today; it was not the visit I made yesterday. The sun came and went, as only it could today. Clouds slipped across the today sky. Sheets washed today won’t be washed tomorrow. All around, everywhere, the heart of today beat on and on.
I read somewhere a definition of Zen practice as really just about finding an authentic way of being present to everything that is. Or holding everything in open hands. Including these modest words, written late, on the fly.