Only once did not appear very thin layer of rice flour, once only found no footprints in the flour.
monastery far away in the hills overlooking the west, from the mill which is already too far. The rice fields vanish in the haze and distance.
The silhouette of the mountains, rocky spine, is coated in a thick wet forests, mountains of the dragon. Silence seems
total forest animals pass even the smallest silent, the crickets seem to whisper, the numerous streams flowing dialogue.
How came the master, no one remembers, we all remember always, almost always, his sound of carefree laughter, now that I recall, were themselves silent, now a silent remembrance.
sit to meditate at his side was always a mystery, that was not anything special, it was his mystery. No one ever saw the floor was covered with that thin layer of rice flour. Whether it was the pavement of rocks outside patio in the summer, or the glossy wood interior room on rainy days or winter. There was always
who disturbed the silence of the ground, leaving their footprints in the flour. Thousands of reasons were provided in his absence today is any valid.
Today when all meditate nobody dares to stop before you get the signal, each time is different and yet all the identified: once was the unheard song of a bird, another day the ringing of a bell in the distance, the best remembered was the sound of a leaf to get rid of a tree, patio some say, others say in the distance.
that day they sat down to meditate at the invitation of the teacher, everyone thought would struggle to fit into the small room that was never intended for such a large group of monks, but as if the monks Valley had the hand that brought the summer sun in winter dried in minutes flagstone patio and finished meditating in the living room with the doors open and the patio is accommodated those who found no room in the interior.
Valley monks also noticed as they were accustomed to see the fine layer of flour on the floor and under one another mark the end of meditation, we all discussed among themselves but nobody ever I ask the teacher or by the presence of flour, or its absence that day.
The last time they sat down to meditate as usual but not before inviting the teacher.
Each day at the end of meditation, alone, always I will from this day, everyone sees in cleaning the floor, as a counterpoint to the white layer of rice flour that last day, as white as ever, and only this time without a single footprint, and the empty zafu teacher.
Today everyone remembers countless lessons, but those memories are like a whisper inside each. How long lived with him? No one can clarify it would be easier to say exactly how long he will live each day without however Ely miller's child yet the child remains del molinero.
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