Tuesday, January 1, 2013
The boy matures. He copies the sutras, practices the ancient crafts, learns the doctrines, absorbs the wisdom of the ages. For ten years he studies traditional ways.
And then one day, sitting by a shaded stream, he sees an imprint in the mud. Then another, and another. He recognizes them: they are hoofprints, deep and fresh, traces of something massive. The years of study tell him: these are the signs of the ox.
And so he follows. He does not notice when the traces lead him away from the conventional path. Nor does he notice when he begins to let go of the sutras, to discard the crafts, to cut through the thickets of doctrine. He sees only the next print, hears only the pounding of his heart. He breaks into a run, heading uphill.
The nose of the ox reaches the heavens, says the poet. And I think: the Idea has caught the scent of something coming its way. It enters a seeing-place, a place of revelation, where grass grows thick and sweet. It stops and waits.
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