All that was stuck, fixated, frozen in place, now moves, and in moving, delights. It is Zen Master Dogen’s “dharma gate of enjoyment.” The body is no longer structured from memory, from unconscious rules of behavior, but resonates with song, the song of bread-making-itself.
Elbows flex and straighten, a breeze in the summer air; shoulders awaken, water flowing over the rocks, and the chest expands, releases, leaps. Wings spread. Have you attained something, or have you let go the idea there is anything to be attained? Have you gotten somewhere, or resumed your original nature, boundless and immeasurable?
Time stops, time swings, without separation from object, without separation from experience. The body is completely willing. The body does not begrudge the time it takes, does not aim for the future, is not enmeshed in the past. That’s what the mind does. The too-solid flesh melts, responding to the dough, engaging the hands in absorption. Wrists, forearm, elbows, a body standing. Somewhere a floor. Kneading the bread covers all space; there is nothing outside this vastness, and time is simply swallowed up.
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