On zazen being not optional...

I gasp at the chill air hitting my lungs, my cheeks, as I emerge through the low door of the yurt. At my feet black walnut casings have been mounded by a frantic squirrel on grass now crisply whitened. Early morning sun softens a pale valley sky, the rooster crows. I stop under the maple tree to marvel at fallen leaves, edges and veins of brilliant red fingers most delicately frosted with sparkling white.

Inside the farmhouse cast-in-iron moose, lumberjacks, hemlock tree, fox and flying geese radiate soft warmth. Through the crack in the wood stove red flames glimmer on the moose’s shoulder. The sounding of the singing bowl fades through my body in long resonating curves. Crows caw alternating with a distant rooster. Cat licks my fingers. Lightness in, releasing outwards of nothing. The morning being breathed…