If Buddhism speaks to me, it is because, when I read the texts or when I listen to the talks, they reflect practical experiences I’ve had.
Spiritual practice infuses and texts are flavored with the scents of experience.
If I were to post those texts and teachings on a hollow practice, until I become unable to tell apart the egg or the chicken, I’d walk away without the shadow of a doubt.
And when I note such a plastering phenomenon emerging from religious traditions – Buddhism included – I walk away.
When, out of spiritual fatigue, out of weariness, when solitude starts showing its heavy face, I may forget to walk away, I may get disheartened, and dry out from within.
If my heat gets colder when it lays in a room, this means, the fireplace is empty.
No hearth to warm my soul. On the walls, a few flames are painted while disciples are packed shivering, repeating again and again : “we’re feeling good, right ?”, “It’s so warm in here“…
I have long stood among them, and felt grateful for the flames on the wall.
Then, unable to see the waving flames reflected in the glassy eyes around me, I left.
And on the way I grabbed a zafu.
I have crossed the paths of doubt, ways of uncertainty, arrogance, anger, bitterness and solitude.
Crossing prairies, clearings and woods, I met a few groups of practice…I kept going.
I kept going and then…nothing.
A cushion, and nothing
Sitting in the night
No one to utter a word.
Even the pages from the books
Have stopped talking.
A single, simple practice,
No word to ever pass it on.
In his eyes,
He knows I know.
©FJ July 2021 – All Rights Reserved
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