moon, not-moon and black beans

I don’t know the number of hours I’ve spent in meditation, sitting on my cushion. Time spent being. Time spent in that delicious blend of thought and non-thought.  When my mind wanders, it tends toward the practical.  Grocery list, grocery list.  Pat it on the head and send it on its way to follow all those other fragments of thoughts floating between the ears. Sorting laundry, sorting laundry. What kind of thought is that? Dunno, but it is mine and I let it, lovingly, float away.

I have been told that this is the path of enlightenment.  Just sit.

Just stitch. Just weave.

I still need something rhythmic to take the edge off my mind. I can sit for hours if I have a needle or a shuttle in hand. Today’s stitches create the illusion that there is a difference between moon and not-moon.

What?

Surely a sunlit rock is different from the empty space that surrounds it? Only if we wish to create such divisions.  Work of a list-making mind. Moon, space, the bamboo basket and I are all part of the same, beautiful illusion, part of the same mysterious truth.

And what of black beans?  I bought a bag of black beans and a jar of alum at the grocery yesterday. The beans are soaking in a pot of water, and I’ve steeped some silk scraps in alum and water, a simple mordant for dye.  I’ve read that you can get beautiful shades of greyish blues and purples from the humble black bean.  We shall see.

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