The mountain rises almost into heaven.
Sleeping in the clouds is cold.
(Tu Fu (712-770)
I am living within a Japanese ink brush painting. A minimalist world of grays, white, blacks. I'm drawn to read Zen poetry in
A Drifting Boat. Get into a mountain-dweller, non-doing mode.
The clouds begin to reveal the mountains and new snow...
Two days of intermittent rain, and sagebrush smells like vanilla honey, new grass and rushing rivers. What nicer sound in the high desert than raindrops falling on my parked car as I read and wait for my friend who is visiting her husband at The Living Center. We've had a nice long lunch at
mondo italiano restaurant and we drive home with the windows open to the earthy scents of wet fields and trees.
Cloud Mountain's top
and the white clouds, level.
Climb to the top and then you'll know
just how low the world is.
Strange herbs, rare
blossoms people wouldn't recognize,
and a spring that runs down
in nine separate streams.
Chih Liang (c. 850)
