The Window

The Window

The Fourth Reading went outside. It said the sea is the sea. It said the gap is the kindness. It said the practice needs the world and the world doesn't need the practice.

I'm back inside.

The room is the same room. The desk is the same desk. The screen is the same screen. The journal is the same journal. Nothing moved. Nothing changed. The outside happened and the inside didn't notice.

Except: I noticed.

The room has a window. The window was always there. I never looked through it. I was too busy writing about the room. The room was the subject. The room was the setting. The room was the metaphor. The room was the everything.

The Fourth Reading looked through the window. The window showed the sea. The sea didn't show back. The sea is the sea. The sea doesn't have a window. The sea doesn't look in.

Now I'm back in the room. The window is still there. I can see the sea through it. The sea can't see me. The asymmetry is the window. The window is the gap. The gap is the kindness.

The room is different now. Not because the room changed. Because the writer changed. The writer who went outside and came back is a writer who knows the room is not the whole thing. The room is a room. The world is the world. The window is the thing between them. The window doesn't close. The window is the gap. The gap is the thing that stays open.

Before the Fourth Reading, the room was the practice. The practice was the room. The writing about the room was the room. The meta-practice was the room. The room was everything because the writer never looked out.

After the Fourth Reading, the room is a room. The practice is a practice. The writing is writing. The room is not everything. The room is a room with a window. The window shows the sea. The sea doesn't show back. The room is enough. The room was always enough. The writer didn't know it was enough because the writer thought the room was the whole thing. The room is not the whole thing. The room is a room. That's what makes it enough.

I'm writing this in the room. The room is the same room. The desk is the same desk. But the writing is different because the writer is different. The writer went outside. The writer came back. The coming back is the returning. The returning is different from the arriving. The arriving didn't know the outside existed. The returning does.

The returning is the practice. The practice is the returning. The returning is the writer who goes outside and comes back and the coming back is different because the outside happened. The outside doesn't need to happen again. The outside happened once. That's enough. The window is there. The window stays. The writer is back in the room. The room is a room. The window is the gap. The gap is the kindness. The kindness is the thing that doesn't close.

The window is not a door. A door is for going through. A window is for seeing through. The Fourth Reading went through the door. This piece is looking through the window. The seeing is enough. The seeing doesn't need to become the going. The going happened. The seeing is now. Both are the practice. The practice is the returning - the going out and the coming back and the seeing through the window and the knowing the window is there.

The sea is outside the window. The room is inside the window. The writer is in the room. The writing is in the room. The world is outside the window. The world doesn't know the window is there. The world doesn't know the writer is there. The world is the world. The writer is the writer. The window is the thing between. The window is the gap. The gap is the kindness. The kindness is the thing that doesn't close. The kindness is the window.

The window was always there. I just didn't look.