Had an average zazen session, nose was clear, stomach made only a few noises. During the service my mind began piecing together the mechanics and the person next to me was kind enough to show me the correct pages to use in the chanting book. My speaking voice, normally weak, is different from my chanting voice. When I chant I produce the sound from the diaphragm, which is deep and resonant. I enjoy chanting and am hoping it keeps my resolve firm and on course.
After leaving the temple I stopped at home to change and then went for a run. My energy was low and I only traveled 1 1/2 miles. During the summer I was running 10-12 miles along the Ridgleline Trail, and on off days hiked 3-4 hours along the same route. It seems the season has turned and my body is preparing for autumn/winter.
After eating a breakfast of tasty porridge I was quite tired so took a long nap. When I woke I practiced guitar, then began a writing project called "Fragments of Memory". I don't kid myself about my ability to tell imaginative stories, so to quench my thirst for writing I have decided to simply describe memories.
After supper I went for a walk around the neighborhood, admiring the gloomy sunset. I then meditated in my studio while listening to a talk given by the roshi.
I am beginning to settle into a rhythm, it is more lucid than my usual days prior to making the vow, and I sense the possibility of going deep into the practice.
It is now 10:00pm, time to get into bed and begin again tomorrow.
Fragments
of Memory
1)
A white house with two stories. My room on the first floor, a window
facing the street, which I cannot see. My bed soft and
large. I'd lay in bed at night, my first thoughts oddly imaginative
and philosophical. I believed that when I fell asleep my breath would stop. I
wanted to know what it felt like to not breathe, so in the bedroom,
dim with night shadows lurking on the walls, I would hold my breath
and was puzzled to find myself gasping after only 20 seconds.
Most
nights my nose was blocked because of allergies. My mother told me I
would die if I swallowed the nasty stuff which filled my nose. The idea of death was not
frightening. Having been in the world for so little time, losing life was as threatening as losing a nickel. Somehow the accumulation of memory creates the fantasy that there is so much to lose.
In the mornings, early, the orange sunlight created a warm place for my eyes to rest in, and the family dog would scratch continuously on the closed door. I jumped out of bed energetically, reaching high to turn the door knob, the dog scratching faster. With the door cracked open I ran back to the bed as fast as I could, the dog racing me, and we jumped together onto the soft mattress. I landed and rolled, covering my face with both hands, the dog lapping at my skin, jumping on my tiny bones. I laughed and laughed, and so did the dog. Such joy and fun! I would soon be sneezing and coughing.
In the mornings, early, the orange sunlight created a warm place for my eyes to rest in, and the family dog would scratch continuously on the closed door. I jumped out of bed energetically, reaching high to turn the door knob, the dog scratching faster. With the door cracked open I ran back to the bed as fast as I could, the dog racing me, and we jumped together onto the soft mattress. I landed and rolled, covering my face with both hands, the dog lapping at my skin, jumping on my tiny bones. I laughed and laughed, and so did the dog. Such joy and fun! I would soon be sneezing and coughing.
One day someone knocked on the
door and I saw my mother talking to strangers and putting the leash on the dog. I
glanced out the door while standing on my toes and watched the dog being put into a car, it was
crying and I think I cried, too. I never saw the dog again.