So there is the dog, the cat, the table and chair, books, photographs, keepsakes. The peel of an onion and a bit of parsley on a wooden cutting board. There is the hedgehog-like orange studded with cloves, the calendar on the wall, each week’s same seven days named after the planets of our milky galaxy. There is each day, this day, the only day, ever always and once again setting this task before you: break open your heart. Do your work, and let it be a work in progress. Let there be no fixed course.
There are the organs working their magic inside of you, the longed-for renunciation of all your desires. There is the routine each day, to some the subject of fervent dedication. And yet the routine exists within the construct of an erratic life whose days are lived out in a world ruled by impermanence.
There is Nature, the greatest teacher. Here are the qualities that show us how to live in this world. Here is the music to be revered, the architecture to be contemplated. Let it be softly observed, gently noticed. Not studied wildly like some mad scientist yearning for discovery.