For the first time this spring, the birds came up with the dawn. They really are quite loud, chirping and chattering as the light tiptoes in to the East. The dawn is singing. The birds grow bright. Making me think....
From the serenity of the koi pond to the casually cast-aside condom in the gutter; from bright understandings to grueling, gut-wrenching horrors; from shoe laces to whizzing molecules; from kiss to catastrophe; from Jesus to Jezebel; from smarts to dumbs ... nothing is left out. Everything is possible. It is utterly and completely personal and in that completeness, it is relaxed. Everyone likes to relax, even practicing Buddhists.
Everything is possible in Buddhism... personally, no one is exempt, nothing is left out... possible.
Everything except Buddhism.
Buddhism is impossible.
And for this, the practicing Buddhist thanks his lucky stars.
Or perhaps, because the all-too-possible Slick Willies will have their say, because philosophies and smarm festivals are possible, it's the other way around and what is possible is impossible and vice versa.
Either way, the practicing Buddhist is thankful.
Everyone likes to relax.
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