All Snow is Impermanent

Raking Around the Snow

Big piles of snowplowed snow are disappearing fast--evaporating from the top and melting on the bottom. This means the ground is rather soggy. Squish, squish, squish. Add in yesterday's April showers, and i am surrounded by various forms of water--in the air, on the ground in puddles, and in the ground as mud. Fortunately, there's more air than water, so i can breathe comfortably. (And my west Texas dry skin has softened considerably now that i'm home in the North Country; my lips are no longer chapped.)    

                     

All things are impermanent. I've been learning this chant, and applying it to many events in my life. All snow is impermanent. All mud puddles are impermanent. All the gold fish in my pond are impermanent--20 of them have disappeared, leaving only one. All lives are impermanent. All bodies are impermanent. I hum this chant throughout the day. 

All things are impermanent, including me.

Gray Water

Our Airbnb casa here near Big Bend National Park drains kitchen dishwater directly into the tiny garden outside the kitchen window. This morning I saw a toad sitting happily in the 3-inch wide PVC drainpipe in a very small puddle of water. Bill was washing breakfast dishes, so more water was coming out. When I leaned over to take a photo, the toad hopped away.

Using gray water to water plants is a must in this climate that receives 10 niches of rain per year. Conserving water is the name of the game here in the Chuhuahuan desert. The gray water creates a tiny habitat where plants grow happily.

At the end of the drain pipe, several things are growing--some sort of mallow, a small yellow daisy thing, and a large yucca.

We meditators need to create habitats for ourselves where we are well-watered. Depending on our larger environment--family, political, work--our refuge may be quite small, yet sufficient for us to grow and bloom. Or sit happily and comfortably like the toad.