The wonder of clocks in old towns and cities
is that few actually care if the time
they portend is accurate or an approximation.
The importance often seems inversely
proportional to the size of the place in which
it is called upon to render a temporal verdict.
Best of all are the clocks whose hands
have ground to a halt, or gone missing,
for they are the philosophical seers,
sent to remind us that time is our construct
and in the grand scheme of things
exists only because we demand it to do so,
and long before the clock we got along
sufficiently well by being always
and forever in the present moment.
“There is an art,” the old monk said, his samu-e belted tightly, “to spreading peanut butter. Consider this carefully for it is a matter of gravest importance. Spreading peanut butter requires care just as meditation does. You wouldn’t think so, but try it in your robes and see how unruly your sleeve can be. It is like raking the sand in a dry garden. It seems easy enough to do, but you know how hard it is to ensure that your presence is unseen and unfelt when the job is done.”
She said, “I truly think
that a large part of your problem
is that you spend too much time
thinking about what other
people think of you.”
He wasn’t inclined to agree,
but she did think that so
he had to give it consideration.
“I don’t think so,” he replied,
“but if you think so, then perhaps.”
“What I think doesn’t matter,”
she said, smiling, “I remember
some of the best advice
I have ever been given,
‘What other people think of me
is simply none of my business.'”