This group of tall daisies sticks out onto the concrete ramp up to the Caravansary - the refurbished barn where we sit meditating.   The above picture shows them on Monday.  I especially liked that dying flower in the middle.  The bees - fat black ones -are busy at the freshest flower, showing no sorrow for that one that is wilting away.

There is a koan that speaks to this somehow.  A true Buddha is not made of wood, clay, or gold, but is found "in the inner recesses of the house."  I take it that's this house of the self, our body.  The true Buddha is the one that wilts. Fallible, messy, scattered mind, unwelcome obsessions, and all.