O, Nothing

   Our teachers are everywhere. They come from the neutral zone, pushed up through (and colored by) the compost of our half-digested experience and half-baked interpretations.

   The blank face of your dying father, incapable of generating new content, reflects only the past, which it is now your choice to meet, forgive and dismiss, or to react to as ever, to perpetuate the self and the other with tradition and the comfort of a familiar prison. In that look you see judgement. But look again. Set him free; set yourself free. Could that be the hint of a smile? The cosmic joke en-fleshed?

   Step out onto the deck, notice what leavings are there for you to interpret, like tea leaves. Through the lens of the Personal and the Anthropomorphic, every thorn, every branch, every stray turd is a considered insult.

   Through the lens of wonder, humor or equanimity, this is the Day’s inimitable collage: Art, unburdened of meaning, on a post card sent from the Cosmic Center.

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