As it is
an invitation to silence
Alone in the house at dawn, I listen for the wind, or the sound of something, anything moving.
Nothing.
Nothing but the space between things.
Not an empty nothing.
A fuller than full nothing.
Neither fullness or emptiness.
Who could explain such a thing?
Alone, I contemplate the space between flowers.
Sitting, I listen to the mind, and give it up for the sound of the breeze.
Stopping for a moment, I breathe, effortlessly.
What is this?
It is simply this — as it is.
—
Words: Andō.
Image: Unknown.
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