Sat zazen for 30 minutes before the sun cracked the ridge. The air was cool and still. Steam rose off my tea as I listened to the dogs stretch and shake off the night.
After tea, I fed the animals. The hens clucked at me like old women gossiping. One of the goats stared hard like I owed her something. I hauled water, checked the fences, and split a few rounds of tamarack. The axe bit clean. Wood’s still wet from spring melt, but it’ll season by fall.
Walked the fence line with my Colt Anaconda on my hip. Spooked a deer by the lower pasture. Watched her bound off like smoke through the trees. I stood there awhile. No words. Just wind and the hush that only comes when you're not trying to make anything of it.
Back home, I weeded the garden. The peas are climbing, beans just starting. I buried a dead chick, no bigger than a pine cone. Life and death, side by side in the dirt. Just the way it is.
Made stew for lunch and sat zazen again. Thirty minutes. No insights. Just breath, just silence. That’s enough.
Later, I hiked to the forgotten sanctuary. Sat on the old deer stand. Saw the Cascadia Tree across the canyon. I think of my father there sometimes, though he never saw this place.
Evening came quiet. My bride's away tonight. I made a simple dinner and played shakuhachi alone on the deck. The dogs curled up beside me. One snored like an old man.
I sharpened my axe before bed. Said a prayer without words. Just breath again.
Doing what I can with what I got. That’s the whole sermon.
Add comment
Comments