The old man and the cup.
There was nothing else she had left to do, in her sweet and abandoned life, than to massage away his pain. [And meanwhile, in other lives they found a way to be free.]
He picks up the book from the coffee table in front of his cane chair.
He reads from where he left off earlier in the day.
‘In Buddhist terminology, truth is called “emptiness” because truth is empty of all illusions. Do not mistake this emptiness for a nihilistic nothingness. Emptiness is the source of all things. Emptiness is the infinite realm of love and compassion.’
He puts the book down. That is enough for now. One paragraph at a time. A book is like a woman. No need to get to the end. Imbibe her slowly and without hurry. Nothing else matters but the moment she is delivering right now. That moment where his mind empties itself of everything but she.
He is still. His eyes rest on the cover of the book.
“Lama Anam Thubten” is written on the cover.
He wonders when and where the monk lived. He wonders if he was one of his friends.
Yes, he silently laughs, my mind is a little bit strange.
He closes his eyes. He embraces the flow of symbology. He instructs his mind to allow, without grasping, to follow without intending, to notice it all and be rested, and to honour the infinite silence in which it all comes and goes.
He enters the temples of Chiang Mai. He lingers his mind there for awhile, feeling the serenity and grace. How can emptiness become all things, he muses.
When he was a professor of spiritual philosophy he would have known how to answer that question.