Empty

Walking home late at night emotionally tattered by an emergence of a past relationship and stood up by a friend who offered comfort.

frozen flesh
the long walk home
alone

Very numb this week. I think the relevancy outweighs the melodrama: “‘A beautiful woman is an axe that chops off life.’ The blossoms of the heart are scattered; by evening the tree itself has been turned to firewood.” (Hibbett 54) I know it is from this coming week’s readings, but it is eerily appropriate. Perhaps as a form of meditation I spent the better part of the weekend cleaning my room, which felt like the zen garden’s battle against entropy. By cleaning I was not just concretely making my room clean, but to visitors it is a symbol of myself, just like the hybridity of the zen garden. That being said, “the process is supposedly more important than the product.” (Inouye 69) I wonder, though, if I am cleaning my room in search of enlightenment with this “changing shapelessness that must be constantly formed.” (Inouye 64) This emptiness I’m feeling can’t be the emptiness we’ve been discussing. How can something so uncomfortable be desirable. Maybe it’s not the right kind of emptiness. After reading Zen and the Birds of Appetite, the idea that “in order to master the mind, Buddhist meditation seeks first of all to master the body.” (Merton 95) I think they would really enjoy joining me on my quiet morning rock climbs.  These brief interludes of warmish weather make me understand the cherished status of Spring and Autumn. I certainly “…bid the flowers of Spring.” (Atsumori 70)

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