A Tale of Zen

Years ago, a friend and I went to Kyoto. While we were there, we visited Ryoanji Temple and its renowned rock garden. It was a cold, overcast weekday and nobody else was there. We sat on the wooden porch next to the garden and as we watched, a single snowflake fell. It was one of those rare and very special moments; I could swear I heard the sound of one hand clapping.

Unfortunately, most of the time, this is more like what my life looks like.

Zen garden school

Although I only very rarely dress up in an orange sheet, I do often feel like the guy at the side with his head in his hand. More often, though, I’m one of the clowns playing in the sand. And that’s probably just as it ought to be.

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