Day 18
Early on
as the day breaks,
I can be found
sitting cross-legged
in a darkened room
in an empty house.
Eyes closed;
inhaling, exhaling;
body unmoving;
mind adrift, stumbling
among the detritus
of a permeable unconscious.
Late on
the body is as
still as a stone statue.
The kath, poised,
balanced in movement
without motion.
Nothing to be done;
no fast forward,
no rewind,
mind focussed
on where it should be:
here; now.
Day 19
I wonder about the wisdom of doing my meditation as early in the day as I do. The mind isn’t acclimatized to wakefulness at such an early hour; but one does one’s best, by inhaling and counting exhalations up to 10, then doing that again and again. But this simple process is frequently bedevilled by the involuntary mingling of an unevenly submerged unconscious mind with the conscious mind, with the count disappearing in brain fog. Such lowering activity can persist from beginning to end of a meditation session, even for two sessions, but to have to endure it for three, as happened this morning, was unsettling.
But then… yang, as it does, grows heavy and as it’s increasing fullness reaches critical mass it rolls over, allowing the seed of yin to take hold. Unexpectedly, an internal movie screen switched on: I saw with startling clarity a garden, a flower bed, a wooden fence, stone paving slabs, and curtains of rain. The sound of raindrops spattering on stone was very refreshing, and was so soothing to my disordered mind that the turmoil which had been oppressing me since the beginning of the day melted away. Then the timer went off to signal the end of the session, but when I opened my eyes the sound of rain falling continued: through the space between the bottom of the bamboo screen and the threshold of the patio door I saw the rain dancing on the paving stones in the backyard. How the internal and the external fused to become identical is a mystery to me. I uncrossed my legs, crossed my arms over my knees, and sat motionless for a while.
Day 20
All quiet on the western front.
Day 21
My father-in-law, a poet himself, once told me he doesn’t like Zen poetry; it’s too simple, he said. I like it precisely for its brevity. To convey a depth of meaning – or feeling – with as few words as one can contrive, seems to me a virtuous aspiration. On the day I will be reunited with my wife and child I close this retreat with two poems from the brush of the renowned Zen master, Dogen:
Treading along in this dreamlike, illusory realm,
Without looking for the traces I may have left;
A cuckoo’s song beckons me to return home;
Hearing this, I tilt my head to see
Who has told me to turn back;
But do not ask me where I am going,
As I travel in this limitless world,
Where every step I take is my home.
Zazen
The moon reflected
In a mind clear
As still water:
Even the waves, breaking,
Are reflecting its light.
Endless Buddhas 
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