The rice is falling...
... needle
...white powder falls on the surface
Inhale
Exhalation
A single feature
A lifetime
The image falls slowly.
Across the open page
Breath in, breath out
One quiet curve
One quiet becoming
Hold gently
Deeply held in the heart
On the quiet outside
Tilt with the wind
No rush.
Not sad
The hand stays soft
The mind stays wide
Bamboo bends without breaking
No rush
No noise
Between two strokes of ink
There is a vast, open sky where we can stop and find ourselves.
Between two strokes
There is a sky
Where we pause and remember
Write about mountains, write about rivers.
Write down the names of your grandparents.
In silence
Ride the mountain, ride the river
Ride the ancestors' names in stillness
Write about sadness, write about sorrow.
To the point of speaking your mind
Ride sorrow, ride patience
Let ink speak
Not for beauty, but for authenticity.
Not for anyone to see, but for us to return home.
Not to impress but to be true
Not for the eyes but for the soul
Slow down a beat.
A lifetime in a single stroke of ink.
Slow down a beat.
A lifetime in a single stroke of ink.
The paper lies still.
The rain is gradually drying up.
Tim is still far away.
The page rests
The ink dries
The spirit remains
The ink dries