Taking no prisoners. Including herself.

There is no stopping it. The light continues to bleed. It breaks open in an endless run, yoke to sun. There will only be more light. We are essentially alone.

Reaching up up up slicing through dusty plastic windows my gaze on my creation. It pains me how holy. Grime and beauty. We continue forward; BART lurches on.

We are always continuing on. We have to. We can’t find anywhere to go. Never with any spoil, never any fear. Only a blank, open space where we will build an entirely separate room–

–I want to live there. More and more I am unable to tolerate the rude ocillations of this world. Of me. I have found my home in that empty room behind my eyes. Let me stay.

A little girl wags her finger in the air at her mother. She has pink clips against raven black hair. Her mother is talking loudly on her phone. Every once in awhile she swats at the little girl’s hand. Behind her, someone has stuck a small piece of white paper into the back of the worn fabric seat. It says “GOD.” I surrender into my tiredness.

There is so much work still. “Beautiful, difficult years of zazen,” Roshi says. “That is all life is.” I would add painful: long, challenging, painful years of joyous, belligerent practice. Eventually, the pain will drop away as just another sensation. But I will be ready for rest, when it comes. When it comes.

( It already has. It’s already here. )

§1086 · June 29, 2010 · Daily1, Narrative, Over in Oakland, San Francisco glory · Tags: , , , · [Print]

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