Compassion is the ability to see clearly into the nature of suffering…
The enemies of genuine compassion: pity, moral outrage, and fear. —Roshi Joan Halifax

Practice with infinite gratitude to
the past,
Infinite service to the present,
And infinite responsibility to the
future. -Old Zen admonition

A tale of so many different scriches that I could leave. The presence of metta this morning and heart eyes that see the oneness of all. No difference between all else and my own heart, thoughts, needs, and actions. The scrich of Maxwell Wildlife Refuge’s sanctuary and the serenity gifted. The scrich of confusion for one who treasures gifted single feathers found. To find so many hawk feathers scattered in one area. How could the predator become the hunted? The scrich of walking beside the lake and finding feathers of a duck, even a partial wing. To kneel and ponder how dangerous the journey. Then the scrich of getting in my car as a truck of young men, hunters, parked and they began surveying the lake of geese and ducks. Hunting is forbidden. It is a refuge. Remote from houses and no rangers on duty.

The journey from the cushion of metta and oneness to confusion over a hunted hunter and sadness over a fallen sojourner answering the call to come home. Then to end with outrage, anger, and fear. To ponder such emotions on the drive home. How do they fit? Where is the metta? Yes, little one, where is the metta. Compassion has no boundary. There is not my heart and yours. I who felt such gratitude and oneness with the fallen had judged those who I truly do not know if they ever took their guns out of the truck. And though I would never intentionally harm another, am I blameless? Without a gun, how do my actions harm the earth and others? How quickly I can judge and is not that the most powerful weapon?

No difference between all else and my own heart,

thoughts, needs, and actions.

Hawk feathers repel tears

but accept grace prayed.

Soft eyes hidden gaze without fear.

All is one. All is One.

Metta. Metta. Metta.