It has moved on. Stepone is well defined. It is a simple progression to the end on virtuosity. It can start again as many times as need be in step one, and then it can go on to the next part.
To continue from there does not seem like a continuation. Step two is forgetting that technique. It is seeing patterns and forms in the techniques that are independent of virtuosity. Step two is looking for the principles behind the rules. It is not easy to learn. It may be impossible to teach. It is allowing it to occur that is most difficult. It is looking around with less preconception. It is accepting things that do not need to be fitted into a space. It is allowing to be that are independent of you. Step two is forgetting virtuosity. Forgetting details, it is not controlling at all. It is things that are. It is very simple but impossible to teach. It does not follow logic by logic. It is not amenable to dissection. It is learning where the shadows fall across the field of learning. How the sunlight changes the facts. It is watching the night birds fly between the stars. it is not at all easy to learn and probably impossible to teach. Step to is learning that words are no more than garments that cover the form. The rules are superficial expressions of things they serve to conceal by their presence. Step two is the principle around which the rules are moulded. It is the depth of a worms burrow during winter and the depth of a worms burrow during summer.
Step two ends in realisation. More abrupt than step one, less abrupt than step one. They are not the same. It cannot be taught, it cannot be sought, it can only be allowed to happen. Step two ends in realisation.
Step three is no more than the rest. It is what comes after. It is what is left when technique is forgotten. It is the world. It is the time and the place. It is beyond the form that moulded the rules. It is the fabric of form. Step three is today. You will never find it in words, mine or yours, but still it is in words, mine and yours.
It all started at the beginning with thiungs that are technical. It all comes to conclusion even before that. The rest is yet to come. It is all of those things. It was what was here before anything else covered it. It is what is here now it is covered. The daffodils that were so empty in the vase as buds are now opened fully. Now they are so full in the vase.
In the air is the sunlight, below the sunlight are the trees. Between the trees a shaft of sunlight falls carelessly to the ground. Beneath the parted trees lies a golden patch on a carpet. Beneath the golden glow lie todays dead leaves. Loose and falling, golden and brown, light and lighted. Beneath todays dead leaves lie yesterdays dead leaves and below yesterdays dead leaves lie the leaves from the day before. Below the dead leaves the moisture holds its place in the old black forms that once were leaves, older, blacker, less and less like leaves as distance grow and sunlight diminishes. Here in the friable spongy black space small ceatures toil happily in circular perfection. Old leaves, old bodies, old waste all finds itself together slowly drifting down finer and finer. Reaching through the black moist earth the strong new roots that hold it all in place. A mat, an unseen tapestry, a pattern of life threads. And lower and lower still the cold rock holds its place in the earth's crust. secretly in with the leaves that fell the day before the day before yesterday, where the moisture has displaced the golden light, secretly sleeps the seed of old. unmet, unnamed, unknown. Stationary until the gentle moisture wakens it. Secretly unrolls the silent seed, the silent seedling and up, slowly up into the golden leaves the golden light. Silently down the thick white root, reaching through the moisture, through the firm black earth, down into that pattern of ages past. Slowly rising year by year, leaf by leaf, drop by drop, fall by fall. rising along the golden tunnel towards the tall trees, rising slowly through the pattern. A slim head reaches the shoulders of its parents, reaches the pale patch of blue reserved in the pattern. A shallow head grows deeper. Narrow shoulders broaden. Caution grows confidence. Down below the pattern of heads the last golden beam retires with a golden watch. Into the pattern the next piece throws down its secret seeds nto young hopeful minds. Todays leaves follow into the new made opportunity.