It is like an English summer day, cool and cloudy, with deep green grass all around the hermitage and trees heavy with foliage. Occasional slow bursts of gentle sunlight that imperceptibly pass by. Shafts of light and great rooms of shadow in the tall tree-church beyond the cedar cross. The path of creek gravel leads into the shadows and beyond them to the monastery, out of sight, down the hill, across the fields and a road and a dirty stream. All such things as roads and sewers are far from this place.
Knowing when you do not need any more. Acting just enough. Saying enough. Stopping when there is enough. Some may be wasted, nature is prodigal. Harmony is not bought with pasimoniousness.
Yet stopping is “going on”. To cling to something and want more of it, to use it more, to squeeze enjoyment out of it. This is to “stop” and not “go on.” But to leave it alone at the right time, this is the right stopping, the right going on. To leave a thing alone before you have had anything to do with it, if it is for your use, to leave it without use, is not “stopping,” it is not even beginning. Use it to go on.
To be great is to go on.
To go on is to be far.
To be far is to return.