Tanzan and Ekido were once traveling together down a muddy road. A heavy rain was still falling.
Coming around a bend, they met a lovely girl in a silk kimono and sash, unable to cross the intersection.
"Come on, girl" said Tanzan at once. Lifting her in his arms, he carried her over the mud.
Ekido did not speak again until that night when they reached a lodging temple. Then he no longer could restrain himself. "We monks don't go near females," he told Tanzan, "especially not young and lovely ones. It is dangerous. Why did you do that?"
"I left the girl there," said Tanzan. "Are you still carrying her?"
Muju
My favorite zen koan.
I'm working on an art project, and have some real momentum right now.
I swore I'd never be one of those artist who names their pieces of art after people they know,
but I'm doing that with this project.
You see, I did something a few months ago that, at first glance, seemed incredibly out of character for me. A small gesture, but ultimately when dissected grows into a monumental pivot of fate borne out of a single small choice. And a choice that to the naked eye or setting acquaintance seemed radical and random, but was actually deliberate and done with such principled conviction it was an orchestra in a single sentence.
This new collection is both bold and reticent, complex and dastardly simple, and will trace the value of such a delicate and vibrant human interaction.
I think you'll like it. And you'll be able to see it when it's finished.
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