When I was young and serious, I remember
studying some
Zen philosophy. It's been years...
many years ago
now since I sprawled on soft grass
like this, the
whole world pressed firmly up
against my back, sky spread out wide blue above
me everywhere.
Turning over, there
within its concrete
border, unwound balls
of pill bugs tractor through the garden's debris
and tiny red
specks of insects and little
jumping spiders; an entire world miniaturized
(I thought) in
the span of a curling cherry leaf—
Blake's universe
in a lost thimble down in the
marigolds. The tight–wound white cord running up
the hard, erect
length of the bronze orb—
tipped flagpole
delicately pings, waffling
in the mild breeze
of premature summer. This time
of afternoon kids are still in school. At the sitting,
the fat, black
butons, flounced and set in the center
of the straw
mats, are sat upon like taking checkers
squares by ardent students eventually filling the Zendo.
The tight muscles
running along my spine relax,
for once, as
meditation facing the blank wall—
begins. I remember
the Roshi has said something about
"no–mind" or "great shining mirror mind" (but I believe
that's documented
Mahayana doctrine). I puzzle
the difference then clear my thoughts. Under this
crinkled sheaf
of self an entire world
without which
what's left? Joining
the chlorophyll
air, floating above iron earth—
itself floating through rare, sun–flecked space—
the dry leaf
molders: A fine dust.
Kevin Cornwall © All rights reserved.