My zen is in the slow swinging tops of sixteen pine trees.
One long thin pole of a tree fifty feet high swings in a wider arc than all the others and swings even when they are still.
Hundreds of little elms springing up out of the dry ground under the pines.
My watch among oak leaves. My T-shirt on the barbed wire fence and the wind sings in the bare wood.
Thomas Merton. A Search for Solitude. Lawrence S. Cunningham, editor. San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 1996: 232.
Sweet afternoon! Cool breezes and a clear sky!
This day will not come again.
The bulls lie under the tree in the corner of their field.
Quiet afternoon! The blue hills, the day lilies in the wind. This day will not come again.
Thomas Merton. Turning Toward the World. Victor A. Kramer, editor. San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 1997: 128
"my zen" - the only other person I've heard put it that way is my ally Bob. He used to tell his kids when they complained of boredom "practice your zen".ReplyDelete
this kind of poetry is very appealing as a way to God - I think more suited to a post-modern than more complex or dense stuff