Teachings are a field of flowers visible in brilliant flashes of summer lightning. How else can words describe how it proceeds? I am remembering a poem that ends, “When flowers are handled, the scent sinks into the robe”. In the compass of being, where is north? Of all directions I could travel, I depend on them to point the way – even in deepest darkness. How does the river in the midst of the mountains find the ocean? Without my vajra master, how can I step through the invisible door? How else to cross the threshold where flowers sing and rainbows dance everywhere? How else to reside in the place I never left? Like one magical snowflake falling on a field of snow, for the first time again, the most impossible of possibilities. Inseparable as the heat of summer, in the appearance of thunder, riding horseback in the sunshine of dreams, like mother’s arms, like the flights of birds and the sound of thunder. Wine and laughter, an instant when lightening strikes, the moment when the ocean of being overflows in all directions. Where is ordination anyway without my vajra master? In the stillness of dancing with abandonment, there is no movement. In the midst of writing with love, there are no words.
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