The Zen of Peg

We’re each born with our own buckets of talent. Some are full, some are empty, and some are in-between. One of the traits of growing old is peeking inside those buckets and seeing where nature left you endowed or, perhaps left you a little sparse. With wisdom, one can be sanguine about it. Oh well, filthy rich, nuclear physicist, symphonic composer I will never be.

These, I can accept. But the one that has taken me longest to deal with is clothes-hanging. Yes I am here before you, in a public forum, announcing that I am unlikely ever to advance beyond the 3^rd-dan, brown-peg. Lack of the innate talent, I think. And my gender will always be a barrier, even with prosthetic surgery.

Anne, is the high-master, one who transcends the mere physical world of the peg, the clothes, and the line. Cosmically arranged, they link in multi-dimensional dance beyond the ken of a simple peg-clunker like me.

One must know the peg. One must feel the peg. And still, this is not enough. One must be the peg.

Recently, a short koan was found on the wall of an ancient laundry.
Joshu asked the master “how must one hang the peg?”. “The coffee and the mollusc are one and the same”, the master replied.

Makes no sense to me and if you think likewise, then perhaps it’s time that you too, faced up to the reality of your pegagogic ineptitude.