Pine Needles

We thought they were feathers. A bird, I said as he was locking our door, it’s probably been caught by a cat. They were everywhere. Our communal hall was full of them. But as we got closer I realised that they were in fact pine needles, great clumps of them. Someone had clearly dragged a dead Christmas tree through and not bothered, or felt obliged to clean up afterwards. And just after I’d begun reading the monk’s book about cleaning too. He wouldn’t approve. Though perhaps would not, being a Buddhist have passed judgement. He got agitated, and so did I. And yet, what is the point? We could clean it ourselves. Or get in touch with the agency and report it. All our actions impact on others. There is no getting away from it. But also we need to accept that people’s standards are different. I just want to be at peace. Let it be, eh?