Departing. Bags packed. Booze bought. Minor food luxuries accounted for. Lots of weed, and foreign Cuban tobacco to go with the Jamacian Rum swished back from the bottle between freinds, and the turns stoking the fire in drizzling cold Muskoka May. All last years firewood has been sold. Quickly chopped logs drenched from the melting snow sizzle like golden kettles and I imagine the luxury of tea or even better, coffee to wake me in the morning. No commodities like pots or pans, electricity or running water, just this sacred fire and the northern pilgrimage. Burning the entire weekend, burning to its entirety. Drunken stumbles, broken bottles, mud and forming puddles, as powerful as the glaciers that carved these ancient lakes and limestone gorges, the flattened old mountains and cliff faces. These things formed from glaciers, shall now form me, whispering out my name as the smoke weaves its way through the trees. Brush away the shattered glass from bottles broken testing out a BB guns aim. To Catch five minutes to meditate, to catch a kalpa, on this rock I’ve named the Cyclops Head. Hear what the forests of eternity have to say. No boredom. Six sleepy bears laughing instead of hibernating, bolder and more beautiful then the glowing coals of this here fire. True pureland. The phoneix is reborn every morning, and put to sleep on deaths doorstep every night. Last logs breaking down inro ash and the pure white pillows of fanned smoke and debris. Never going out. Embers are awaiting oxygen. Six Bhikshu awaiting the Buddha, and not knowing, that this is the one source, the one stream, the one sacred fire.
Namu Amida Butsu