The nonseparation of Buddhist understanding lies close to the ground of all poetry, Western as well as Eastern. Every metaphor, every description that moves its reader, every hymn-shout of praise, points to the shared existence of beings and things. The mind of poetry makes visible how permeable we are to the winds and moonlight with which we share our house. There is a difference, though. In the consciousness of shikan meditation, there is nothing else: no words, no intermediate forms of attention or consciousness. Whatever is present becomes the entirety of what is. “Not one, not two.”
— “The Myriad Leaves of Words”