Each morning and afternoon spent printing, every evening and
midnight at the press blends into one never ending session . Sesshin—alone
with the effort, this one includes the one that came before, becomes the next, like
breath, the koan of a handle forever turning. There is a stance: ready, balanced, energy from
the floor, head bowed slightly. There is the scent of ink, its hiss, fingers
grasping paper, fingers grasping paper,
and the muscles in their remembered movements, feetlegsbackarmswrists. Fingertips lift paper, grip handle, an
economy of gesture flows from the fullness of preparation. The repetition that leads to this moment, its
endless beginning: lead and steel kata, the quiet steps that led here, focus birthing
practice. An emptiness in rhythm: within
the mechanics of making, with each sighing impression, within the machine-noise—silence.
