Beautiful Moments at the Zendo

Frost sticking to our socks as we walked our morning kinhin on wooden planks around the zen garden.

An orange tree, glossy green-leaved, with one single orange remaining.

The perfect chair, old and oaken, found at a second hand store. It holds my back straight, keeps my legs at the right angle, resulting in four consequetive days of almost no pain.

My first experience raking the zen garden.

Walking down from a tall hillside, seeing a cliff face of petroglyphs on the right, two hot air balloons floating silently on the left, city lights remaining from the previous night spread all across the valley below, and the dark purple mountains arising behind.

A beam of light from the oil lamp, streaming across the room from the flame to me, visible only because of the tears in my eyes.

Our ears, finely tuned by silence, hear the deep vibrations of the zendo bell as it is rung at closing, forcefully and long.