Shinkichi Takahashi’s cat flew a helicopter. Between the lines of his poem, the cat asks, “How do you know you are not already a cat enjoying life?”
What?
The cat said, “You sit there in the morning seeing the being through the non-being. The wind blows your whiskers as you notice the white while preserving the black. You hear the water dragon chanting and love its stillness. And you dare to think you are meditating? What is seated?
“Don’t you know that Stillness is already being Still? You add nothing to it by also being still.
“Why not live? Enjoy its beauty. It looks through your eyes at the wonder of itself. Let it be this way instead of trying to add something to it.”
The cat fell silent.
I was alone with the book, finally noticing the space between words that was always present.
Why should the One attain Oneness when all the pleasures of itself are itself?
Forgetting. Something like fingers covers the sky in forms of golden light.
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