Lately it seems like the scenes of life somehow arise from within like dreams. "...that the world is an illusion...is the profound ambrosia of the buddha's teaching." It nearly convinces me not to care about what's won or lost through effort and striving, or think that I ever had any real control over it.
This morning walking the dog first I found a book about cloud formations, and then a little while later an edition of Nagarjuna's Precious Garland. I felt like I'd been following the finger of Dharma around the mostly empty streets of Windsor Terrace. Summer is quiet.
The parsley worms that I keep finding on the fennel growing outside are likewise quiet, mysteriously appearing and disappearing, growing fat in a matter or days, elegantly changing their designs. Maybe they'll become swallowtails, maybe they won't. All I know for sure, they are as fond of fennel as I am.
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