“Make of yourself a light,”said the Buddha,before he died.I think of this every morningas the east beginsto tear off its many cloudsof darkness, to send up the firstsignal — a white fanstreaked with pink and violet,even green.An old man, he lay downbetween two sala trees,and he might have said anything,knowing it was his final hour.The light burns upward,it thickens and settles over the fields.Around him, the villagers gatheredand stretched forward to listen.Even before the sun itselfhangs, disattached, in the blue air,I am touched everywhereby its ocean of yellow waves.No doubt he thought of everythingthat had happened in his difficult life.And then I feel the sun itselfas it blazes over the hills,like a million flowers on fire —clearly I’m not needed,yet I feel myself turninginto something of inexplicable value.Slowly, beneath the branches,he raised his head.He looked into the faces of that frightened crowd. Mary Oliver

Nigel Lott Tea And Zen