Every morningthe worldis created.Under the orange
sticks of the sunthe heapedashes of the nightturn into leaves again
and fasten themselves to the high branches–and the ponds appearlike black clothon which are painted islands
of summer lilies.If it is your natureto be happyyou will swim away along the soft trails
for hours, your imaginationalighting everywhere.And if your spiritcarries within it
the thornthat is heavier than lead–if it’s all you can doto keep on trudging–
there is stillsomewhere deep within youa beast shouting that the earthis exactly what it wanted–
each pond with its blazing liliesis a prayer heard and answeredlavishly,every morning,
whether or notyou have ever dared to be happy,whether or notyou have ever dared to pray.
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In the quiet between heartbeats a whisper calls you home, you are not broken you are becoming. These threads of silence and sound are letters from the threshold, offerings from the edge of stillness. Nigel TEA AND ZEN - MAIN LIBRARY
