Harking the wind of impermanence howl.
Howling for you, howling for me, howling for no one.
Of that wind, we could say, it hardly ever leaves us. The howling is everywhere. In the woods, prairies, mountain slopes, at times roaming freely across the vastness of the desert, at times it arrests as you cross the street. On the water, it creates ripples and stirs waves that rage.
In silence. You must have heard the wind move swiftly through silence.
Sometimes howling within and, at times, it feels what was howling here or there is not just the wind howling. It is you who is howling, us who are howling, all things howling in unison.
Call that intimately close yet infinitely distant murmur the universe. To speak of impermanence you sometimes say the wind of Mujo but in reality, it is nameless.
At times it feels the wind you heard a long time ago somewhere in the mountains is still howling and it is in this incessant howling, in the: yes, I can hear it, right now, that the sheer unobstructed manifestation of impermanence cuts through what was past, what is now and, what will be, to simply presence movement that is timeless.
Impermanence is not there for us to measure our lives against, it is measureless. Which is why the wind does not howl outside. Which is why it is not howling inside. As if swept away by the wind, to suddenly realize that outside or inside no longer designate a place. No place, nowhere to dwell. Dwelling is nowhere, ( Bleiben ist nirgends - R.M.Rilke.)
Nowhere howling, everywhere heard.
Our lives are not subject to impermanence, we are the subjects of impermanence. The howling of the wind is the voice of your father before you were born.
That close, this far.
That far, this close.
Boat ride on the Bosphorous with Nima, october 2018