close up image of a bok choi seedling

One morning, during the predawn zazen—in between the velvet, inky silence and the deep, sonorous tones of the rin-gong—there is an especially long meditation period, or so it seems. Time seems fluid here, elastic. A minute feels like an hour. An hour is a lifetime is the blink of an eye. Time is everything and has no meaning at all.

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