The edges of my being are thinning out,
like my hair growing finer, letting the scalp show through,
the boundaries between self and other have become permeable.
Every word or thought that might be unpleasant to an other
ricochets off the thin walls leaving an indelible pain.
Searching for houses is my current amusement.
No, it doesn’t tire me out or sap my energy,
because I am no longer driven to move
by aversion to the place I am in.
Rather, it expresses the ever-growing sense of impermanence
that fills my being,
aware that the inn I inhabit
is ever-so-slowly disintegrating.
Moving from the house is nothing—
Let’s talk about moving from life to death.
No more preference for inactivity,
my days are filled with zest for what I do-
work, study, teach-
finally moving about in the world
as if I were still sitting on the cushion,
with the bemused expression of a grandmother
looking kindly on the offspring,
who are no longer hers.