It might not be the cruelest of months but we can say March is unpredictable. I wasnt looking forward to another snow. A week ago Crocus and Daffodils coaxed by warmth and bright sun following some unseen authority opened and flirted with the promise of Spring. The cheerful call of Red-Winged Black Birds magically lifted the veil of winter revealing the other world, the one of birth, renewal, things green
anticipation and a rekindled sense of adventure.
I gave myself license to wander, passing the old stable our former Zendo, mildew covering the once white plaster wall. I knew the passage alongside Privet and not yet unfurled ferns. The last storm left tree limbs scattered on the neatly aligned wood planks leading to the simple stone garden. Yes Zen would have aptly described the aesthetic.
The larger stones which appeared like islands now gone.
Untidy, edging toward derelict. Untended yet a ghost of form held. It was here in the warmer months the sangha walked in silence, a skein of black resembling migratory birds keeping measured pace. A practice called Kinhin. Up until now I had never felt permission to trespass in a space once held sacred; this day felt different as if a spell broken, a membrane dissolved.
The Ocean when still can be heard.
Sparrows flitting among bramble. This emptiness, the trail of a wave crest breaking and meeting shore – a heritage of silence embodied.
I bend to pick up the weathered and sun-bleached fragment of a bone. It speaks deer. The bone held up, my head tilted back my eye peers through the hollow.
Birds keep moving in the neutral sky.