Evening. A bird sings in the tree outside my window. One word for such a moment might be « sweet. »
But the word is not the moment.
A poem I quoted yesterday:
A man pulling radishes
points the way
with a radish.
How do you point the way?
Point the way?
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À propos de l'auteur : zenscribe
Enseignante Zen et poète, Sensei Amy “Tu es cela” Hollowell est née et a grandi à Minneapolis, aux Etats-Unis. Arrivée en France en 1981 pour étudier la littérature et l’histoire, elle y est restée, s’installant à Paris, où elle élève ses deux enfants et gagne sa vie en tant que journaliste.
The Zen teacher and poet Amy “Tu es cela” Hollowell Sensei was born and raised in Minneapolis, but came to France in 1981 to study literature and history and has lived in Paris ever since, raising her two children and making a living as a journalist.
Once i had a very difficult period for a long time. Things were realy sad – even black sometimes. On a certain point i got completely desoriented. Not knowing what to believe anymore. Not knowing anything anymore.
And then all of the sudden, out of the blue, a kind of weard joy came to me. A joy without reason. Light. Ungraspable. Even not mine? For not a thing is ours? But still: there. A joy that has to do with things just being there. Appearing. Present. Fresh. In their essence. For everything is essence. Radical.
What can be more radical then pulling a radish?
And – what is "the way"?
I wake up in the morning and have breakfast. Work a little and then lunch. Write a paper in the afternoon and, if not raining, go for a straw in the garden. The night comes and dinner is on the table. A bit more work, a drink with friends. Sleep.
by everything ?
– all is the way?
words are ‘the lies’ ? – we use to talk about ‘the thruth’ ? – that is allready gone…
question is : why are we so addicted to them?
would our lives be more sincere with half of them? or even less?
so: are man more sincere then woman? (smile)