At the Monastery, we primarily write notes to communicate. I may need help with a recipe or express a concern or ask for something. In November, it may read "May I have another blanket please? Gasshō."
At times, to a conditioned human, writing a note can feel slow and inconvenient, like something to get through in order to get to something else or get what I want or have information so "I know."
Writing a note is actually a gift. It slows everything down, taking the communication process out of conditioning's hands and providing a space for Life to inform. To write a note, rather than to speak from an impulse or reaction, there is a pause that occurs. What do I want to say? What's actually going on for me right now? If it seems time to communicate, one reaches into a wicker basket that holds neatly cut and stacked pieces of recycled paper. This example of care and attention reminds us how we want to be. Hand writing offers another pause as one must slow down (especially so in my case) to form the letters so another can easily read. Questions can now enter through the pause. Is it clear? Is it kind?
As we allow Life to inform our word choice, there is one word we invariably write at the end, Gasshō, which means my heart and your heart are one. We are reminded in every communication that we are in this together, we are sisters and brothers of the heart and there is nothing—not getting something done, knowing something, or getting what I want—that is more important than the process of being present to Life. The note paper, the pen, the pause, the one who offers the communication and the one who receives, Everything and Everyone is the Buddha.
Gasshō,
Scott