When they started coming he was shaving. He remembers the time, the date. The drip of the foam-water. Beads of sweat on his forehead. Steam fogged mirror.
He announced to the local monk recently that he had reached enlightenment. Years of practice paid off. The monk simply bowed as he swept the meditation hall. Dust in the corners he saw. A message from the monk. How did he know he was coming? The unsullied mind speaks in cruel riddles.
* * *
The padding of feet, the gnashing of teeth, breaths fog the forest. Ice dangles from hair matted by the weight and the dirt of fights and love making. The wolves gather.
* * *
The chunk of block splinters. A fraction of log pieced again. Heavy axe swung high overhead. Dreadful blasts bleat the forest walls. What lies on the other side? His greater, subconscious mind is aware of this question but he is not. The conscious mind normally identified with self, the weakest portion of the mind dreadfully unequipped for this task. Or really any other as it is as real and solid as a pyramid of sand poured into one’s hand on a windy beach day. It’s ephemeral and tied in with our meaning making set of biological faculties. The ruse of centuries. The identity isn’t real. You are one with Reality. The Wolf, already inside of you looking out of your eyes. Where are you in this picture? A passing thought is all your identity is. Memories.
Our man, stupid as he is, swings that axe hoping to get somewhere. To survive another winter. Smoke ascends from the chimney of his shack. Hand built by him. He’s learned from generations before him, manhood. You can see it in his beard. A fucking man. Stupid identity. Stupid man.
* * *
He sits peacefully smoking his pipe. His family around him. They’re all sleepy. Dreaming thoughtless dreams, careless. Cared for. The man has cared for them. Without his identity he has taken care for them. The fire crackles. The wolf, yellow eyes look in the window pleased. On to find another victim of fate to enlighten.
* * *
In his morning meditation loose fitting pants and cotton shirt extending to his wrists. His hands, folded in the cosmic mudra like an egg. He serenely contemplates his awareness’ position in reality. It’s just there he thinks. As a plant has its space awareness its. Awareness is.
He no longer wonders about identity. That bridge crossed. He’s baffled in delicious wonder over this. This new found grace. The gift of life a precious one. Why would he ruin it?
The wolf turns on him.