The sun rises. OK, the scientist would dispute this fact with facts about rotation and location. The sun seems to rise. It is already a very warm morning. A scientist might agree with this statement thought warm is subjective.
The spot where Monk Ki sits is hard. His body rebels against his act of sitting. I’m too old for this nonsense. Knees will hurt later. Oh to just be lying in a bed asleep.
Can Pink Floyd confront us with koans of life? Can politicians? Can the squirrels digging in the yard? Of course the answer is an affirmative. There are millions of questions that can be explored and perceived as great openers. Some people think that zen teachers have a corner on asking great questions that can suddenly enlighten.
Master Ho Ha just harrumphs. It isn’t the questions. It is the silence that props up the questions like invisible bookends.
Monk Ki is reminded of a thought this week. He remembers the smell of the roses in the median strip of I-40 in Winston Salem, NC. That was forty years ago. He smells the roses as if they were inches away from his nose. Amazing. And as real as the scent seems it is just a memory.
And that memory leads to another and another. He remembers people he has met in his life. He remembers people he has communicated with in his life. How many communications are just abbreviated attempts to find an answer to the question of the moment? Unlike a teacher assigned riddle he has dismissed those questions, those people, those moments.
And he suddenly remembers a short verse:
You’re gone, but I’m
Still attached to you;
Grasses burn, but their
Roots remain.
That word looms large like an approaching steam locomotive, also a memory that he can’t escape.
“Attached.”
