Every Day is a Good Day.

Unmon said: “I do not ask you about fifteen days ago. What about fifteen days later? Come, say a word about this!” He answered for them: “Every day is a good day.” 

Every day is a good day. Before the midmorning meal or after it is eaten there is no difference. No change except what was within. What was it? I have no idea. Is it important? I don’t care. The morning sun can be obscured by clouds or clearly shining. The mountain may be enclosed in mist or blazingly apparent in stark contrast. Neither the sun nor mountains cares how it is perceived. Each does whatever it is that suns and mountains do. The mind dwells in neither and only spoils the view.

Every day is a good day. The day before was a good day but already it is a point of comparison. Tomorrow is a good day but already it is brimming with unrequited hope or lasting despair. We place the mark of expectation on it, like a kiss upon a forehead. What is real? This moment. This breath. Like a spark it is already gone by the time you realize what it was. You clumsy fuck. You only realize what it was after you are singed. Is this day real? Is it a “good day?” By questioning it is already lost. The day is absolute. The moment is absolute. Your thinking mind is dead. Poke it with a stick.

Every day is a good day. In the countless moments that arise, glimmer and then fall, we see the mundane in the holy and the holy in the mundane. Like a sacred fool we tumble between each moment backwards, placing identity on something that has none and never asked for it. Hoping to find a tree that will bear illusionary fruit we miss the strength and fragrance of dead Juniper. Sit under it and no fruit will ever appear but who cares? No hunger appears either. We sleep under the dead bough of a king.

Every day is a good day. Life is a koan. Life is a folk story. Drop the story. Drop the folk. What remains? Your neck, bared to the world. Expecting but no longer fearing the strike. We sip sweet water from a cracked skull.

Every day is a good day.
Bare your neck to the morning.
Rub sleep from your eyes
pluck wisdom like fleas from
Great Buddha’s woolly mane.
A simple meal.

I bare my neck
Shunyata’s blade is sharp
her aim is sure
A wisper of gratitude
As my head hits the floor
Tasting the salt of earth




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