an old writer and his words

  • DROPPING IN

    He drops suddenly from a branch of a tree which you don’t see for all of the others. He lands a foot from you, you pause suddenly and he looks up at you, trying to determine if you are friend, foe, or lunch. He concludes you are not lunch and scurries off under a nearby…

    Lou Faber

  • COSHAN’S DHARMAKAYA

    He spends considerable time looking in the mirror trying hard to see what is there, to see inside himself, to truly see himself as he imagines others see him. The mirror denies him a static image, it is always shifting, and try though he might to grasp one single image he finds it impossible and…

    Lou Faber

  • CHIH MEN’S BODY OF WISDOM

    As you search for the source of all wisdom, will you stop along a beach and consider that it can be found, fully in a single grain of sand. Be careful, for the beach contains countless grains of sand, so choose carefully. If you are uncertain which one contains the source of all wisdom select…

    Lou Faber

  • THE VIEW FROM ABOVE

    The hawk sits in one of the highest branches of the tree, his red shoulders blazing in the morning sun, both staring down on those of us trapped by gravity, by the weight of our thoughts, as we pass by slowly below. From time to time the hawk will offer a short commentary, never ceasing…

    Lou Faber

  • SAMADHI

    He is certain that there is that single moment when it will be exactly the right time for it. There must be such a moment, for it will not happen until that instant arrives and he knows it must be arriving soon. He isn’t sure how he will know when the moment arrives, just that…

    Lou Faber

  • I AM ODOBENUS ROSMARUS, WHO ARE YOU?

    From time to time it sneaks back into my mind, and once there is so hard to ignore or dislodge. It begins softly, “I am he, as you are he, as you are me.” It grows ever more present, foreground, “I am the eggman, they are the eggmen,” and all to soon, I become the…

    Lou Faber

  • DEPARTURE

    It is that magical hour of the day when the sun sets the pond’s surface ablaze. The fountain in the middle shoots drops of liquid fire into to sky, only to watch them return to their now fiery home. This magic only lasts a few moments before the water returns to its natural state, and…

    Lou Faber

  • WINTER’S NIGHT

    A fog settles in over High Wycombe gray clouds shroud a full silver moon great beasts, sinews drawn tight, ready to spring forward, instead crawl along the motorway, the faint lights of London cast a glow to the sky, my breath seems phosphorescent, falling coating the grass, stiff in the breeze.

    Lou Faber

  • A NIGHT AT THE ROSE

    Three beers over two hours and, giddy, I want to sing along with the Irish house band in my horribly off-key voice, just two choruses of Irish Rover or Four Green Fields. It’s beginning to snow outside and it’s a four-block walk to the Government Center station. I suppose it would sober me up but…

    Lou Faber

  • UNGAN’S SWEEPS THE GROUND

    As you stoop to pick up fallen leaves are you cleaning spring, summer or autumn? What seasons are deep within the winter branch? How does your work and that of the tree truly differ, and what leaves do you shed? A reflection on Case 83 of the Shobogenzo (True Dharma Eye)

    Lou Faber