From the hut window, I spotted a Cooper's hawk diving into the alley. It reappeared, settling on a power line, holding a stunned garter snake. A scrub jay flew over, parked within a couple of feet of the hawk, and clearly was talking to it, bobbing obsequiously, as much as to say, "you gonna eat all of that?" The hawk, seemingly a bit miffed, lifted its wings and made off to a distant walnut tree to eat in peace.
I gave the scene a little gassho.
What was that?
Sometimes we are the hawk; sometimes we are the scrub jay, and sometimes we are the snake. Sometimes we are the suddenly snakeless grass.
There is much to bow to.
When we gassho, one hand is us and the other is ... the other person, the thought we just had, that fleeting feeling, that old familiar pain, the mountain, the river, the hawk, the snake, the jay, the grass, leafless walnut, strumming wire between power poles, wind, hair falling in front of our eyes, a sudden truth revealed, a vulnerability, an unexpected strength, the altar, the universe. One with, one with, one, one, all, all, unspeakable, hence gestured, a candle flame at the ends of our arms, supporting, accepting, being supported and accepted, vanishing into and becoming all past, present and future support and acceptance.
Nowhere is there anything hidden from the gassho.
-- shonin