He paused briefly at the door, the sight of a banana sapling to his left bringing a smile to his old wizened face. Originally a gift from a recently deceased loved one, the plant was relishing the rains and thick humidity—with this new growth, his loved one continued to live on, even if in another form. After soaking up a vision of her face in his mind’s eye, he pushed on the heavy wooden door, the loud creaking signalling his arrival to the no-one inside.
The cabin was Spartan, the utmost utilitarian—more of a hut than a home. He himself had felled the trees that formed the shiplap walls, now pale and silvered after decades of exposure to the elements. Save a well-worn rug of faded teals and turquoises, its tassels hoping against hope in the battle against decay, and a black circular meditation cushion sitting squarely in the centre of said rug, the single room was empty. To each of the three large windows we shuffled and pushed them open—though initially they resisted his efforts; the swollen window frames gripped more firmly in the damper months.
Slowly he lowered himself down onto the cushion, assuming the lotus pose—a shape his body knew intimately, one his knees, hips, and spine knew by rote.
A single thought: “Welcome.”
Every thought, every feeling, every visitor was welcome. After all, it was not he who summoned them nor was it his place to banish them. Arising unannounced from the void, from the pristine pre-thought vacuum, he would accept them as they came, for they are nothing more than wind blowing through the trees.
A thunderclap announced itself as a harbinger of a distant storm ruminating in the humidity. Another smile appeared on his face.
*(The above is inspired by an Ajahn Chah quote.)
