All things, all that is sensed, all that is worked through the forces of nature is of the nature of ease. But easy is tricky is simple is subtle is surprising is stripping is achingly plain. Or these are the seeds dropped from my own memories I grow in the water of my present actions, with hands that touch with a will toward holding tight.
Subtle as cell division it is, this process of grasping. It too is easy.
How often I expect that I am pure inside and all of these outside things are causing me problems. I try to empty them without emptying myself and I run around dumping an empty bucket like a madman. It's like looking for my keys under a streetlamp for the sole reason that it's light there, except Nasrudin knew what he was doing.
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