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I've built a fiberglass-roofed hut
where there's nothing to take away.
After eating, I conk out.
When the hut was completed,
it was a children's playhouse.
It had long been abandoned —
covered by blackberries.
Sometimes I live at the hut,
drying out weeds.
No need to go shopping.
No movies, no popcorn.
Though the hut is nine feet square,
Nowhere is there a place not here.
Within, an old nun
gawks out the window.
With her gnarled hands
she trusts being/time.
The neighbors can't help wondering —
what's going on in there?
For now, the old crone is present,
losing track of Meaning.
Knowing she does not know up or down,
she looks straight ahead.
A wide window below green cottonwoods--
five star hotels can't compare with it.
Just nestling in her zero-g chair
all things are settled.
Thus, this mountain nun
doesn't squint at circumstances.
Living here she no longer
hankers for escape.
Who would proudly arrange place settings,
trying to lure guests?
Doing as a Buddha does
cannot not be what a Buddha is.
Instantaneousness can't be
looked toward or away from.
Meet the lineages and spiritual friends,
absorb their guidance.
Salvage fence boards to build a hut
and don't give up.
When your begging bowl breaks,
which it will, relax into your day.
Open your face
and walk, de-stressed.
Thousands of teachers
babble, but the message isn't garbled.
If you want to benefit
from dwelling in your hut,
Don't expect to be polishing that begging bowl
forever.