Spent Saturday afternoon at Rialto Beach, reading Katherine Paterson's Jip; sitting on a drift of small pebbles, leaning up against a log, watching the surf and filling my shirt pocket with little stones as I read. I've been feverishly pressing on with nonfiction books all week, there's a problem of library due dates and people waiting for the books; and it would be hard to say whether I was more hungry for the ocean or for being lost in a story. I read and watched, watched and read. Then came home again, satisfied.
Roshi complains that I keep sending him pictures of the same beach. I tell him it's because I always go to the same beach, and promise that the photographs are brand new each time. I refrain from pointing out that it's a peculiar complaint to be coming from someone who's been practicing zazen every morning of the world for the past fifty or so years.
No comments:
Post a Comment