I sat in my armchair, opened In Love with the World – A Monk’s Journey Through the Bardos of Living and Death. Yongey Mingyur Ripoche, a Buddhist monk, recounts his adventure in the real world.
I only read about ten pages. This morning, the sky is grey, autumn is coming, cold is blowing. I hear many sirens. There’s a tragedy somewhere. My neighbors went on a cruise on the St. Lawrence River. I take care of their cats. The electricity in the house is flickering. An electrician will come on Tuesday morning.
As I read, I see my hands on the book. The floury light of the morning envelops my myopia. I don’t really need my glasses to read near. I feel good in this way, in silence, surrounded by life, questioning my senses as the monk Ripoche seems to do. It is said of enlightenment, of wisdom, that it is only the omnipresent expression of ordinary life. I have a good feeling about it. It is also said that the wise reincarnate as cats. No matter what the folklore, our life is a journey into a predictable winter. I’ve already dreamt about this story. I may be designing the synopsis right now.