So many paths go up
from the foothills
but one moon grazes
if you're not going anywhere
any road is the right one.
Students, one Mexican, one Israeli, discuss Kant and whether there is an observer observing the observed, buttermilk pancakes between them. The farm rolls in with wet dirty knees. They smell like morning dew, dirt, and spinach. The guesthouse crew pulls their monthly dish duty, bow out and take a break. The baker recites a poem that ends like, "and from a mouse in the talons of a hawk, we transform with wings flapping into the great sky."
I sit there thinking about all of the things I should do on my day off and then decide that I won't "should" today. Here I am, sitting under our skylight, legs outstretched on our tatami, drinking green tea with rice milk.
Life on the farm is non-stop. This week, we planted about 12,000 little plants on about 2 acres. It's our sixth planting. Planting one, just three months old, was gleaned by the food bank and will be mowed under this week. Next week, planting 7 will take its place.
What can I tell you about wading into waist high broccoli and using your finger tips to test the buds; too tight, not ready; too far gone, cut and drop into the furrow; just right, purple green, nutty in flavor, one for me, one for market. All you can hear is the ocean crashing against the hills. That's all that's happening on these clear days.
The inner landscape has its own ocean. Waves crash there, too. We go into the zendo and weed before the self goes to seed. The selflessness of our ancestors is what made this valley what it is. For 40 years or so, people have dedicated their bodies and minds to the soil and to the schedule of introspection. Conversations about the self creating the self out of the self have been had at the breakfast table with different voices but similar intention for boundless kalpas.
We are just an echo. We are just remembering our memories. This is our vast inconceivable inheritance.