Volatile memory has re-condensed overnight.
OK, Kris; on second thoughts, maybe this story is clean enough to post publicly.
I mis-remembered: it's not a poem!, but contains a poem: "Crowd-sourced";
you'll see:
Sheng Yen told us this, on 7-day sequestered retreat:
A young disciple broke away from his master, but still liked to send taunting
notes back up the hill to the monastery to report on and brag about his
progress in Ch'an.
One day, he sent this note to the master, by courier:
"I avoid the world's dirt,
and sit from morning 'til night
like Buddha,
on this soft, comfortable cushion."
The Master received the note, and sent it back down, with one added line:
"Farting... farting... farting."
--J.
PS (now, on to anything a bit less scatological). ;-)
> Kristopher Grey <kris@...> wrote:
>
> Sitting in Zazen
> The ripe old fart smells something
> Butt what can this be?
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