a journal of self-propelled dharma
Impulse and Intuition got into a scrap. Get out, get out, run! screamed Impulse, in reaction to my itchy reluctance to being with what is. Beckoned by the spectre of boredom, consumer capitalism came flying to the rescue: Buy! Buy! Buy!, she cried, Spend some money, make it better! So I tried that. I found …
I am Fukudo! Pelting through the halls at 4:50 am like a zen town crier, clanging a brass bell on a glossy red stick. I begin in the basement zendo, flipping on the lights and gently ringing to bring the corners of the room to wakefulness, finishing up with three big cascading peals to rouse …
Why would a person spend hours and hours staring at a white wall? I ask myself this question a lot. On a spring Saturday sixty of us rise at 5am and hustle to the basement for the monthly one-day sit. We hunker down for another big day in the zendo—sitting, slow-walking, sweeping, eating brown rice …
I want to say that the reason why I haven’t posted anything in the six weeks since I landed at San Francisco Zen Center is because I haven’t had time to write, but that would be untrue. The fact is there are 24 hours in every single day, with 60 minutes crammed into each hour …
I dream of a world where people live small. It’s happening. It’s a meme. Small houses, small gardens, small vehicles, small pleasures. Small incomes. Small needs. My path is to live and to model that life. Enrich my networks. Take care of what I have and get rid of what I don’t need. Place myself …