Using an old chipped glass that no one would notice if it got broken, she hunched down and scooped some water out of the pond. The reeds and raupō, algae, water lilies and lotuses had created a thriving aquatic ecosystem. Given the frequency and volume of croaks she had been hearing in the evening, she was sure she’d find a tadpole in the glass of scooped-up water. Back in the kitchen, with two small hands she gently placed the glass on the bench of well-worn hand-hewn oak, and stared intently. The water was murky—brown, silty, and too dirty to see if there were any tadpoles within—but she waited. Throughout the afternoon, in between chasing butterflies among the wildflowers and watching the sparrows search for worms, she returned eagerly to the glass, to see what, if any, secrets it had given up. As the sun sank lower and lower, she discovered the water began to become clearer and clearer as the sediments began to sink, overcome slowly by gravity.
Let the silt settle.
And the glass became less opaque, less secretive, revealing the mysteries of the brackish water, it became evidently clear that there was no tadpole contained within. A frown, followed by a pout, overtook her usually inquisitive face. Certainty—in our beliefs, in our interpretations, in our actions, in the interpretation of others’ actions—is an illusion, a mirage of inference and a desire for safety; as the uncertain, the unknown, hides potential danger. Thinking we understand a situation fully, that we know through our murky thoughts, is at best naive while at worst hubristic.
Let the silt settle.
In the same way that dirty water can become clear if the particulates are left to settle, so too the mind can gain clarity if we can just observe in presence; there is no imperative to pull on the thread of a thought, to do anything with it. Allow the unknowable void—the infinite potentiate of mushin—to percolate thoughts without agitating the silt.
Let the silt settle.
