In that moment when the gentle chirping of a small bird resounds as a pounding spring deluge, washes away the creak and thrum of passing cars, when she sings only to you, her small voice drawn in to your ears, your mind, until it fades slowly like the bell and you wait for it to strike again, to feel it seep down your spine, ooze into your fingers and toes, pool in bent knees and elbows, folded hands. In that moment the gentle chirping is your voice, and you are perched in the weeping cherry tree in the garden preening in the morning sun.
Sitting atop a hundred foot pole you are convinced there are only two directions: pole and down. Old Osho asks, how will you proceed and you stare back at this lunatic. How will you proceed, he repeats?
You release the pole step slowly away, looking at ten directions before you, you move your feet, each one touches the path of each of the three worlds and Osho gently touching your elbow walks a bit by your side.
A reflection on case 46 of the Mumonkan (Gateless Gate) Koans.
I used to think that the key to a great crepe was all in the wrist. That was before my wrist was fused by a doctor who explained that no motion was better than endless pain where motion ceased to practically matter. Now I realize that the forearm is capable of so much more that that for which it is given credit, that the elbow is a joint underappreciated, and that when the crepe slides off the pan and onto the plate, the forearm can take a silent bow, giving a wink to the crepe pan for its nominal contribution to the effort lying on the plate.