Yesterday, on the peace picket line, I was approached by one of the sometimes-odd-duck participants in the vigil. Without preamble, he began to tell me about a 93-year-old man he had been talking with -- a man who could no longer remember if he was hungry or thirsty or why, with an erection, he was hot for his wife. I replied that I thought he would either discover that he was hungry or he would drop dead.
Today in the zendo, the tale re-echoed in my mind. There I was, sitting half-lotus, incense burning, butt firmly placed on the zafu ... and I honest-to-goodness could not remember why I was there. I knew without effort that zazen was a seriously sensible thing to do, but for the life of me, I couldn't remember why.
The best I could do was rest in the effortless conviction that it was sensible ... until someone or something proved things were otherwise.