I realised while sitting on a plain chair, breathless, that the disorderly, nebulous, future was of no significance, as it crudely stretched out in my presumptuous mind, reeling on its roots in a soured past. There was room for promises, if I could make for rationale.
I departed from that to which my love adhered, while her own mind grew naturally uncertain with the words inherited from her mothers, not for any man, but for the disembodied future she mysteriously yearned for from far below. I interpreted my dilemma as needless fixation, through a sense of awareness I had acquired through the imperceptible lessons in Zen.
A normal mind is a mind clear of thought fixated on the non-essential. Takuan, a 16th century Zen master, wrote that fixation, a sickness encompassing and encircling the normal mind, brings an end to the practice of art and thus inner-self. Yet fixating yourself on ending a fixation is a mode that can be taken up in order to regain clear thinking.
Zen helps to think about self, about writing. I’m no adept, a student perhaps, but I am conscious of the disquiet that percolates the air when I’m without. Put into practice, this awareness does wonders to plow away the dirt, letting the seeds grow.