This old tree’s been standing a million years. That’s an expression: when we say “a million,” when we say “ancient,” we mean prior to mind, beyond our relative figuring—what’s always so. Why did Bodhidharma come from the West, a monk asks zen master Joshu. Joshu replies: “The cypress tree in the garden.”
“So covered with moss,” the poem says. This moss is stillness; it is luminous heart; it is no-reckoning; it is nonduality; it is silence. Endless varieties of life find nourishment, rest, and shelter in its being.
Don’t you see, I am also that ancient tree. Both you and I cannot be other than that. We are both the tree and the moss that grows on it. Please. Pause. Take a breath and drop all other pretension. Confess with me now: we are also overgrown with love.