You are reading this, and the reading is wearing it.

Every eye that passes over these words softens them a little, the way a thousand hands soften the rail of a stair.

Nothing here is being destroyed. It is being used.

What do you give your attention to, and what does your attention do to it?

The tea bowl that is loved is the one with the chip, because the chip is where a life touched it.

Rikyu swept the garden until it was clean, then shook a branch so that a few leaves fell.

Which lines of your own day are worn smooth, and which are still crisp from never being read?

Impermanence is not the sadness that things end. It is the condition that lets them be touched at all.

The I Ching does not ask what will happen. It asks what is happening, and where you are standing in it.

If this page becomes unreadable, it will be because it was read.

Somewhere, someone is resting a finger on this sentence right now, or no one is.

Is attention a kind of wear, or a kind of care?

Come back in a year and see what the world has read, and what it has let alone.

What would you keep crisp, if you could, and what would you be glad to see softened?