The wind blows, sweeping across the grass that is greening up, producing multitudinous dandelions at an alarming rate .
The tulips and paper-whites sway in the breeze, standing up to reason.
Big, fat, velvet bumblebees buzz up and down and around, chasing each other up and down the length of the porch, seeming to play some unknown game that makes the dogs snap at them and try to catch them until, for their own safety and this one’s sanity, they are escorted inside, where they stand at the screen, wistful, panting.
They know where they stand, and are thus a fine example of unconditional friendship.
This silver-haired crone sits in the white-painted rocking chair that has held her for several years now, containing her practice, embracing arthritic bones…
iPod earbud cords trailing.
“The Zen Master’s Diary” is the music of the day that is apparent, but the breeze and the bees and the dogs and the creaking of the shed door are accompaniment,
and thus complete the symphony of the apparent, leading into the concert of the music beyond music.
Suddenly, this one opens her eyes for no good reason: Look! The first hummingbird, slugging down the carefully concocted nectar made ready, content in its entitlement. What a metabolism! These friends seem drawn to meditation, flying close for a look into the face of this one, lost in absorption.
It is all You, my love.
Oh, my love.
It is all love.
That is enough.