He has been walking
for hours, or, perhaps
for days, it doesn’t matter
since he is precisely
where he should be
at this moment.
He is tired, so he
sits in seiza and watches
a colony of ants
working away in a crack
in the path, each
doing his assigned task.
He knows ants have
Buddha nature for when
they walk, they just walk,
like he does, and when
they eat they just eat
and he has never seen
a solitary ant wobble.


Any good cat will tell you that there is absolutely no good reason to distinguish between here and there, night and day, good and evil, and the list is virtually endless. Cats will admit, if you ask them nicely, that they have no need for such dualities. Cats understand gray in all of its gradations, but black and white is simply wrong, a cat will say. They don’t comprehend why people need such dualities, for cats know that what they have, at any given moment, is enough, it is all really, to just simply be. A cat will tell you in secret that while Lin Ji gets all of the credit, it was the cat who shared its wisdom with him, reminding him, “When walking, just walk. When sitting, just sit. But above all, don’t wobble.” Cats will assure you that they do not wobble. They will tell you that having “only” to legs is hardly a good excuse for wobbling. Cats live in the moment, for it is all they have and they know it. This is their Buddha nature in practice. That, and their claws that they are more than willing to use to draw you back to the moment when, on the zafu in meditation the mind wanders. And, they note, it is more effective than any keisaku.