I remember looking up. Always looking up, and everything was big. The kitchen was filled with scents of stews and freshly baked breads. The chatter was like a continuous symphony. It is probably how I got the music in my head. I love quiet. When it is quiet I can hear the music. But back then it was loud and, at times, frightening.
I would hide under the buffet in the dining room and play quietly, listening to the music inside of me, escaping the busyness around me. I never wondered about it or who I was. I was just this. I never wondered how I got there, to that place where everything was big, and I never wondered why.
Now I am looking up less, unless of course I am to look up at the moon. I think a lot more now than I did when I was smaller, but I still hear the music and when I look up at the moon and see I am just this. It will always be this way whether I am rich or poor, healthy or sick, alive or dead. I am just this.
The teacher says, “From birth to death, it’s just this person.”
“When you look closely, you see that people of the present are none other than people of yore, and the functions of the present are none other than the functions of the past; even going through a thousand changes and myriad transformations, here it is just necessary for you to recognize it first hand before you can attain it.”
-Instant Zen, Waking up in the Present
(Translated by Thomas Cleary)
I wonder if the moon has always been shaped like a heart.