As I struggle to employ myself in something other than construction work, I step soundly on the pavement. This year will be telling, but the drama does not often pull me from the work. The quiet pervades. Though I’m doing some complicated projects that may never pan out, I can’t stay with them every available hour. There’s a time to walk absently, to think ahead as far as the next winter’s retreat. Here as well, there’s no rush. There are no hoops for me to jump through. I don’t have a lot of negative pressure. I don’t need to be monitored. The teaching is the practice itself, and the life that supports it. I’m sure what I’m doing is in some way obtuse, that it contrasts against an ideology or method. Perhaps I’m a criminal in some respects, but I can’t measure myself against every rule. My work lies elsewhere, toward attaining enlightenment and saving all beings from suffering.
Evening walk, quiet sky, everyone going home, the cool air streaming past, my mind bursts into an ecstatic state. I feel like an insect, something inside a shell. The drone of cars gives me a strong feeling, not of aloneness, but some familiar alienation. I enjoy it. A modern well of solitude, it resonates alongside my quivering body. I’m constantly amazed that I haven’t quietly expired, or drifted into the ethers. Surely this is how it will end.