Forests, the original cities of the life, demonstrate vivid displays, harmoniously bold, an original Times Square, the platform scroller of life, having lived. Here, rivers of emergence [will]carve[d] deeper, the moats of life, reproducing at the intersection of a reverberation of instruction, a vivid attracting theatrical display, and an exciting offering both in experience and delay, and then the stage’s maintenance withdraws, the work of having assembled both structure and banners, and accomplishing the attraction, the pollination, now favoring cessation rather than becoming. Within cessation is the seed of becoming, by way of intentions aligning, a <magnet|polar>ization.
Falling liquid, ions, the great clockwork of protein and geared meshes, rotate on axis, and torque, generated, comes to a stall, energies withdrawn, and stilled, stasis in the seed, the kinetic transformed to potential, the exchange rate of energy and matter; mitochondria’s gentle sibling, chlorophyll, one of fire, one of water, breathing of light, energy, and matter. Of oxidation, and lense, a compass of zen.
To the practitioner of misogi, there is one gift, to give, today, and not another. Behold harmony, rather than conflict, the heart is two, enjoined, rather than one, and of the two, are now four, and off axis, is eight. An <un|grasping is an <un|folding, and now is the gift, an offset, phase favors emergence. The great sea of samsara is life. Do not be mistaken. Above all else, avoid picking and choosing. What direction to move?! Plants worship the sun, without name nor ritual, and the alter of structures, sheds the theatrical display, of these offerings remains in the brightest of light with obstructions removed, for the kingdom, the phylum, the class, the order, the family, the genus, the species, to remain… until all beings…
A vast Buddha Field, limitless. Superpositioned, the six realms, the ten, and these too, are right here, right now. The heavenly bridge is just this, to live, to breath, and walk, all realms, simultaneously. And here, knowing, beyond all, the gods themselves come, the devas play of moving songs, the asuras trade of measuring skill, the humans engage in gardening theater, the animals flow through artful endeavor, the hungry ghosts demonstrate piercing effort, the demons produce of energy and heat. The planes, like the heart, entwined, beating, this starship earth, traveling, without moving. The warp gentle, in the heddle, and turbulent in the shuttle, carrying the weave of life and death, the fabric of samsara.
The Warrior Buddha is known as Maitreya, and the tree, is iron wood. And of this tree, of this world pore, like a staff descending, penetrating to the heart of the matter, of the loom, of samsara, with its churning waves. The loom masters, at play. For in this space, unfabricating, another fateful display, of having come, having gone… tathagatha… [will]r<ai|eig>n[ed].