JustThis Zen

When Zen master Fa-ch'an was dying, a squirrel screeched on the roof.
It's "just this" he said, "and nothing more."

Einstein letters

Prompt: 

Dear Mileva,
I’m sorry I said everything is relative last night. Of course our love isn’t. I just got a little carried away. It won’t happen again.
Sincerely Yours,
Albert Einstein

++++++++++



Bern, 1905
Dear Albert,
Your apology is very thoughtful, and the flowers you set out for me as you left for Bern this morning were breathtaking. That said, Hans and Susana from across the street were in a fight last week, and to apologize, he made her breakfast in bed. So, relatively speaking, you’ve got some ground to cover.
Warmly,
Mileva



Bern, 1905
Dearest Mileva,
You’re a clever one. It’s that wit of yours I fell in love with. However, I must inform you that I spoke with Hans, and I have learned that his transgression far surpassed my own. I don’t want to tell tales outside of school, as it were, so I can’t share the details, but as we both know, a punishment must fit the crime. Relatively speaking, a very thoughtful note & breathtaking flowers should do the trick.
With Love,
Albert



Bern, 1905
My Albert,
Nice try. Susana told me last week that Hans forgot their anniversary. You may see this slip-up as far worse than yours, but in actuality it is quite understandable considering his Alzheimer's, and it is hardly an affront to their love. Try again.
Lovingly,
Mileva



Bern, 1905
Sweet Mileva,
Fine, my dear. For you, the world. I will meet you at home tonight at 7:00; dress for an opulent New Year’s Eve, and be prepared not to return home until quite late!
Forever Yours,
Albert



Zurich, 1906

You have gone too far, Albert! I am sick of your relativity being an excuse! The fact that you are generally sleeping by 8:00 does not make 10:15 “quite late,” especially not on New Year’s Eve! You are treading on thin ice. I will be staying here with my sister in Zurich until you warm up.
Regards,
Mileva



Bern, 1906
Mileva,
Love of my life, apple of my eye; I cannot sleep, I cannot eat! How I’ve mistreated you is unacceptable and I will make the world right. I have commissioned us a portrait, which should arrive in the coming days. I hope this token reminds you of the man you once loved, and of the man you still love.
Albert



Zurich, 1906
Oh, Albert!
What a marvelous gesture! I can’t wait to see the image you picked. One from our wedding day perhaps? You never cease to dazzle me. I will be home as soon as I can!
In love,
Mileva



Bern, 1906
Mileva,


Albert



— Andy Bernstein 
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—Sarah Webb

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What the Living Do

Prompt:

What the Living Do

Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there.
And the Drano won’t work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up

waiting for the plumber I still haven’t called. This is the everyday we spoke of.
It’s winter again: the sky’s a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through

the open living-room windows because the heat’s on too high in here and I can’t turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,

I’ve been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,

I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.

What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss—we want more and more and then more of it.

But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I’m gripped by a cherishing so deep

for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I’m speechless:
I am living. I remember you.


— Marie Howe

++++++++++

     How It Ends

The crusty dishes have piled up,
rear ending a clogged sink and each other.
There is a steady stream
speeding off the dining table, expecting
to be quickly rinsed and parked
in the dishwasher until a full load.

This is the way it happens, the stream
of dishes, of letters to write, of chores to do,
of errands to run stream forward
like highway traffic until
a fog bank, a car spinning on its blown tire,
something stops the flow, hard.
The dishes clog the drain board.
The work clogs the in-basket.
Absence fills the in-box.
Life's expectations are not met
in an ER waiting room.

—Jeffrey Taylor
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JustThis is the dharma journal of the Austin Zen Center (AustinZenCenter.org and Appamada).

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