WoodMoor Village Zendo

On the Strength of All Conviction...

Oh, Just in case I forgot to post this poem, here it is. It speaks of mindfulness to me:

On the Strength of all Conviction and the Stamina of Love
by Jennifer Michael Hecht

Sometimes I think
We could have gone on
All of us. Trying. Forever.

But they didn't fill
the desert with pyramids.
They just built some. Some.

They're not still out there,
building them now. Everyone,
everywhere, gets up, and goes home.

Yet we must not
Diabolize time. Right?
We must not curse the passage of time.

-- Jennifer Michael Hecht

Everything is Waiting for You, David Whyte

Here's the poem I sent this week in my weekly email reminder for the Willamette Mindfulness Practice Group:

At the end of the semester, with countless deadlines, lots of work left to do, the urgency everything seems to gain, it is easy to forget that there is a flow to things, an interconnection to all that is, and that we are part of it all. I love the following poem by David Whyte. In the first line it reminds us perhaps of one of the most critical insights: "Your great mistake is to act the drama as if you were alone." A wonderful call to mindfulness. Join us tomorrow to talk about how we can nurture mindfulness through developing that sense of connection to everything that is:

Everything is Waiting for You
by David Whyte

(After Derek Mahon)

Your great mistake is to act the drama
as if you were alone. As if life
were a progressive and cunning crime
with no witness to the tiny hidden
transgressions. To feel abandoned is to deny
the intimacy of your surroundings. Surely,
even you, at times, have felt the grand array;
the swelling presence, and the chorus, crowding
out your solo voice. You must note
the way the soap dish enables you,
or the window latch grants you freedom.
Alertness is the hidden discipline of familiarity.
The stairs are your mentor of things
to come, the doors have always been there
to frighten you and invite you,
and the tiny speaker in the phone
is your dream-ladder to divinity.

Put down the weight of your aloneness and ease into
the conversation. The kettle is singing
even as it pours you a drink, the cooking pots
have left their arrogant aloofness and
seen the good in you at last. All the birds
and creatures of the world are unutterably
themselves. Everything is waiting for you.

If you want to hear David Whyte do a reading of this poem, follow this YouTube link.

Shinto, by Jorge Luis Borges

Shinto
by Jorge Luis Borges

When sorrow lays us low
for a second we are saved
by humble windfalls
of the mindfulness or memory:
the taste of a fruit, the taste of water,
that face given back to us by a dream,
the first jasmine of November,
the endless yearning of the compass,
a book we thought was lost,
the throb of a hexameter,
the slight key that opens a house to us,
the smell of a library, or of sandalwood,
the former name of a street,
the colors of a map,
an unforeseen etymology,
the smoothness of a filed fingernail,
the date we were looking for,
the twelve dark bell-strokes, tolling as we count,
a sudden physical pain.

Eight million Shinto deities
travel secretly throughout the earth.
Those modest gods touch us--
touch us and move on.

Buddha's Dogs, by Susan Browne

Buddha's Dogs

I'm at a day-long meditation retreat, eight hours of watching
my mind with my mind,
and I already fell asleep twice and nearly fell out of my chair,
and it's not even noon yet.

In the morning session, I learned to count my thoughts, ten in
on minute, and the longest
was to leave and go to San Anselmo and shop, then find an outdoor cafe and order a glass

of Sancerre, smoked trout with roasted potatoes and baby
carrots and a bowl of gazpacho.
But I stayed and learned to name my thoughts, so far they are:
wanting, wanting, wanting,

wanting, wanting, wanting, wanting, wanting, judgment,
sadness. Don't identify with your
thoughts, the teacher says, you are not your personality, not your
ego-identification,

Happy Valentine's Day

I hope you have a wonderful Valentine's day. Not that you have to eat candy, wear red, or play any particular coy games... but that you have a day suffused by love and reflection of loving-kindness. If you have the love and reflection along with the candy and the red, well then, so much the better. Here are some poems that speak to me of love:

Gathering of Lovers
by Rumi

This is a gathering of Lovers.
In this gathering
there is no high, no low,
no smart, no ignorant,
no special assembly,
no grand discourse,
no proper schooling required.
There is no master,
no disciple.
This gathering is more like a drunken party,
full of tricksters, fools,
mad men and mad women.
This is a gathering of Lovers.

Keeping Watch
by Hafiz

In the morning
When I began to wake,
It happened again--

That feeling
That you, Beloved,
Had stood over me all night
Keeping watch,

That feeling
That as soon as I began to stir

You put Your lips on my forehead
And lit a Holy lamp
Inside my heart.

Short Love Poem by Rumi

The minute I heard my first love story,
I started looking for you, not knowing
how blind that was.

Lovers don't finally meet somewhere,
they're in each other all along.

Getting There, by David Wagoner

Getting There

You take a final step and, look, suddenly
You're there. You've arrived
At the one place all your drudgery was aimed for:
This common ground
Where you stretch out, pressing your cheek to sandstone.

What did you want
To be? You'll remember soon. You feel like tinder
Under a burning glass,
A luminous point of change. The sky is pulsing
Against the cracked horizon,
Holding it firm till the arrival of stars
In time with your heartbeats.
Like wind etching rock, you've made a lasting impression
On the self you were
By having come all this way through all this welter
Under your own power,
Though your traces on a map would make an unpromising
Meandering lifeline.

Content, by David Ignatow

Content

I should be content
to look at a mountain
for what it is
and not as a comment
on my life.

-- David Ignatow

New

From sunny California, I have to post this fantastic poem that my friend apparently Werner read at sangha yesterday. I got it via email today and just had to share it here in WoodMoor Village. Read it! The less words I use to describe it the better:

New
by Dara Gatling Austin

Take off the backpack
lie down in the long grass
pull up the blue sky blanket
and rest.

So many years of dharma practice
straight spine diligence
straining toward enlightenment.

Today
this hillside
just this.

Lie down in long grass
let the earth take you
deer tracks and horse dung
and the eye within in the eye
revolving and luminous.

I never new this
did no one tell me.

I remember my zen master
in the interview room
“trust yourself,” he said.
Just be yourself.
I think his meaning was this,

Take off the backpack
lie down in long grass
let the sky take you
rest.

Breathe space into space into space
I never new there was so much light.
I never new there was so much...

light.

Making Love with Hafiz

Lately I've been reading Hafiz's poetry again, and it is a bell of mindfulness. Well, more like quite a few bells. Part of what I like best about his poetry is the complete sense of playfulness that pours from it. This man was having a good time. It comes across so clearly as he speaks of the divine as love, and of making love to the divine, and... what I would prefer to hear from many religionists, a thorough commitment to seeing life as a chance to express, to embody, that love. His poetry is playfulness. Playfulness an opportunity to love even more deeply. Then again, this doesn't sound so strange from a person who wrote perhaps one of the best definitions of what a poet is: “someone who can pour light into a spoon, then raise it to nourish our beautiful parched mouths.”

These are some of my favorite poems by Hafiz. Many others remain. Sometimes I replace the more religious allusions with non-theist language. At other times I place the word Buddha, or Dharma here or there. Still later I place the words duck, broom, almond, or sky. It is still the same. Full of love, full of passion, full of play. Try it at home. Put the word beloved, or better yet, the name of your beloved in place of "the divine," or God. Read it out loud. Read it to your loved one. As Hafiz said, All a Sane man can ever care about Is giving Love (yes, add woman to that line. From his poem I know the Way You Can Get)

Keeping Watch

In the morning
When I began to wake,
It happened again--

That feeling
That you, Beloved,
Had stood over me all night
Keeping watch,

That feeling
That as soon as I began to stir

You put Your lips on my forehead
And lit a Holy lamp
Inside my heart.

------- more after the jump--------

Poems by Phoenix

Phoenix has been writing poetry at school, and as part of the lesson plan they've been going over various poetic forms. These are two of his recent poems. Aren't they wonderful?

The Tree

The tree is
Green
Like
The
Grass

With pokey vines
Like a knife

Yiiiiiiikes!!

My Mom

My mom is special
buys me video games.
My mom is,
Cooking, eating, playing
video games.
My mom is a reader,
Kisses and hugs.
My mom is love.

Beyond the Question, May Sarton

A friend from Sangha sent this nice poem a while back. Thought you might enjoy it.

Beyond the Question
by May Sarton

The phoebe sits on her nest
Hour after hour,
Day after day,
Waiting for life to burst out
From under her warmth.

Can I weave a nest for silence,
Weave it of listening,
Listening,
Layer upon layer?

But one must first become small,
Nothing but a presence,
Attentive as a nesting bird,
Proffering no slightest wish
Toward anything that might happen
Or be given,
Only the warm, faithful waiting,
Contained in one’s smallness.

Beyond the question, the silence.
Before the answer, the silence.

-- by May Sarton

Wildflowers, Xu Yun

You've traveled up ten thousand steps in search of the Dharma.
So many long days in the archives, copying, copying.

The gravity of the Tang and the profundity of the Sung
make heavy baggage.

Here! I've picked you a bunch of wildflowers.
Their meaning is the same
but they're much easier to carry.

-- Xu Yun

To think... by Robert Creely

"To think..."

To think oneself again
into a tiny hole of self
and pull the covers round
and close the mouth--

shut down the eyes and hands,
keep still the feet,
and think of nothing if one can
not think of it--

a space in whose embrace
such substance is,
a place of emptiness
the heart's regret.

World's mind is after all
an afterthought
or what was there before
and is there still.

-- Robert Creely, On Earth: Last Poems and an Essay (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2006)

Dictionary in the Dark, Nye

Dictionary in the Dark
by Naomi Shihab Nye

A retired general said
“the beautiful things about it”
discussing wasr.
We were making “progress”
In our war effort.
“The appropriate time to launch the bombers”
pierced the A section with artillery as
“awe” huddled in a corner
clutching its small chest.
Someone else repeated, “in harm’s way,”
Strangely popular lately,
And “weapons of mass destruction”
Felt gravely confused about their identity.
“Friendly” gasped. Fierce and terminal.
It had never agreed to sit beside fire, never.

Naomi Shihab Nye, You & Yours, Boa Editions, Ltd., Rochester, NY 2005

For My Young Friends Who Are Afraid, Stafford

“…What you fear
will not go away; it will take you into
yourself and bless you and keep you.
That’s the world, and we all live there.”

William Stafford, from “For My Young Friends Who Are Afraid”

Burlap Sack, Hirshfield

Burlap Sack
by Jane Hirshfield

A person is full of sorrow
The way a burlap sack is full of stones or sand.
We say, “Hand me the sack,”
But we get the weight.
Heavier if left out in the rain.
To think that the stones or sand are the self is an error.
To think that grief is the self is an error.
Self carries grief as a pack mule carries the side bags,
Being careful between the trees to leave extra room.
The self is not the load of ropes and nails and axes.
The self is not the miner nor builder nor driver.
What would it be to take the bride
And leave behind the heavy dowry?
To let the thin-ribbed mule browse in tall grasses,
Its long ears waggling like the tails of two happy dogs?

After the Fact, Ammons

After the Fact (from Epoch)
by A. R. Ammons

The people of my time are passing away: my
Wife is baking for a funeral, a 60-year old who

Died suddenly, when the phone rings, and it’s
Ruth we care so much about in intensive care:

Adam and Eve's Dog, Richard Garcia

Adam and Eve’s Dog
By Richard Garcia

Not many people know it but Adam and Eve had a dog.
its name was Kelev Reeshon, which means, first dog.
Some scholars say it had green fur and ate only plants
and grasses, and that is why some dogs still like to eat grass.
Others say it was hairless like the Chihuahua. Some
say it was male, some female, or that it was androgynous
like the angels or the present-day hyena. Rabbi Peretz,
A medieval cabalist in Barcelona, thought it was a black
dog and thatit could see the angels which were everywhere
In the garden, although Adam and Eve could not see them.
He writes in his book of mystical dream meditations,
the Sefer Halom, that Kelev tried to help Adam and Eve
see the angels by pointing at them with its nose, aligning
its tail in a straight line with its back and raising one paw.
But Adam and Eve thought Kelev was pointing at the birds.
All scholars agree that it had a white tip on its tail,
and that it was a small dog. Sometimes you see
paintings of Eve standing next to a tree holding an apple.
The misinterpretation of this iconography gave birth
to the legend of the forbidden fruit and the fall from grace.
Actually, it was not an apple, but Kelev’s ball and Eve
was about to throw it. One day, although there were no
days or nights as we know them, she threw the ball
Right out of the garden. Kelev ran after it and did not return.
Adam and Eve missed their dog, but were afraid to leave
the garden. It was misty and dark outside the garden.
They could hear Kelev barking, always farther
and farther away, its bark echoing as if there were two dogs barking.
Finally, they could stand it no longer, and they gathered
Kelev’s bed of large leaves and exited the garden.
They were holding the leaves in front of their bodies.
Although they could not see it, an angel followed,
trying to light up the way with a flaming sword.
And the earth was without form outside the garden.
Everything was gray and without shape or outline
because nothing outside the garden had a name. Slowly,
they advanced toward the sound of barking,
holding each other, holding their dog’s bed against their bodies.
Eventually they made out something small and white,
swinging from side to side, it seemed to be leading them
through the mists into a world that was becoming more visible.
Now there were trees, and beneath their feet, there was a path.

From Notre Dame Review

Through My Mouth They'll Say It

From Altazor
Vicente Huidobro

I’m the mad cosmic
Stones plants mountains
Greet me Bees rats
Lions and eagles
Stars twilights dawn
Rivers and jungles all ask me
What’s new How you doing?
And while stars and waves have something to say
It’s through my mouth they’ll say it.

Clifton, In White America

In White America
Lucille Clifton

I come to read them poems,
A fancy trick I do
Like juggling with balls of light,
I stand, a dark spinner,
In the grange hall,
In the library, in the
Smaller conference room,
And toss and catch as if by magic,
My eyes bright, my mouth smiling
My singed hands burning

A World For Her

…there never was a world for her
Except the one she sang and singing, made.

- Wallace Stevens

Poetic Mindfulness

This is a poetic exercise that I thought was a very neat mindfulness exercise as well:

Take a walk somewhere outside.
Pretend you’re the first person who has ever seen the plants and trees on this walk. It’s your job to name them.
Notice each type of tree. What does it look like? Is there something distinctive about the leaves or the shape of the trunk? Name each tree.
Name the plants you see. Name the bugs.
Name spots you like to go on your walks, gardens, beaches, sections of town that are special to you.
Name your car and your bicycle.
Rename your street.
Walk at night, especially when the moon is almost full. Go uphill.
Rename the stars, the moon.
Rename the sky.

A practice exercise from Susan Goldsmith Wooldridge’s Poemcrazy (New York: Three Rivers Press, 1995), 35-36. If you haven't read this book yet, go get it now.

Kinnell: After Making Love We Hear Footsteps

The Academy of American Poets has an audio of Kinnell reading this poem. I've added the line in italics (and says, are you loving and snuggling, may I join) even though in most of the sites around the internet you won't find it included (I need to check the printed version in the book), in order to make it the same as the version that you hear Kinnell read in the link above. Do check it out, it is a wonderful reading of a very touching poem.

After Making Love We Hear Footsteps
by Galway Kinnell

For I can snore like a bullhorn
or play loud music
or sit up talking with any reasonably sober Irishman
and Fergus will only sink deeper
into his dreamless sleep, which goes by all in one flash,
but let there be that heavy breathing
or a stifled come-cry anywhere in the house
and he will wrench himself awake
and make for it on the run - as now, we lie together,
after making love, quiet, touching along the length of our bodies,
familiar touch of the long-married,
and he appears - in his baseball pajamas, it happens,
the neck opening so small
he has to screw them on, which one day may make him wonder
about the mental capacity of baseball players -
and says, are you loving and snuggling, may I join
and flops down between us and hugs us and snuggles himself to sleep,
his face gleaming with satisfaction at being this very child.

In the half darkness we look at each other and smile
and touch arms across this little, startlingly muscled body -
this one whom habit of memory propels to the ground of his making,
sleeper only the mortal sounds can sing awake,
this blessing love gives again into our arms.

"After Making Love We Hear Footsteps" from MORTAL ACTS, MORTAL WOUNDS by Galway Kinnell. 1980

Whitman, There was a Child went Forth

Walt Whitman (1819–1892). Leaves of Grass. 1900.

There was a Child went Forth

THERE was a child went forth every day;
And the first object he look’d upon, that object he became;
And that object became part of him for the day, or a certain part of the day, or for many years, or stretching cycles of years.

The early lilacs became part of this child,
And grass, and white and red morning-glories, and white and red clover, and the song of the phoebe-bird,
And the Third-month lambs, and the sow’s pink-faint litter, and the mare’s foal, and the cow’s calf,
And the noisy brood of the barn-yard, or by the mire of the pond-side,
And the fish suspending themselves so curiously below there—and the beautiful curious liquid,
And the water-plants with their graceful flat heads—all became part of him.

You Are the Only Student You Have

A poem by Rumi:

You Are the Only Student You Have

You are the only faithful student you have.
All the others leave eventually.

Have you been making yourself shallow
with making others eminent?

Just remember, when you're in union,
you don't have to fear
that you'll be drained.

The command comes to speak,
and you feel the ocean
moving through you.
Then comes, Be silent,
as when the rain stops,
and the trees in the orchard
begin to draw moisture
up into themselves.

by Rumi from Feeling the Shoulder of the Lion, translated by Coleman Barks
[ Mathnawi V:3195-3219]

Poetry Meme VIII

Browsing the web
Poems like petals
Adorn my screen

Another Senryu. Many folks posting poetry this month, whether Haiku, Senryu, or other forms. I do think it makes for great browsing around. Thanks to all who are posting poetry.

Senryu-ku? Poetry Meme VII

We are at semester's end and time is slipping by, so my posting suffers. In any case, here is something that is not quite a Senryu, and not quite a Haiku. Perhaps a Senryu-Ku? I consider it more Senryu than Haiku:

In my shelves:
Zen books
Sit and wait

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national poetry month

Poetry Meme VI

Based on some old stuff I'm playing with, this is not quite a poem, more like a collection of phrases in some strange order.

Tell Me

Tell me all about it I said.
All that inhabits you,
when I idly sit and sing your praises.

"—what's to tell?"

When I catch the color of your face
changing with the seasons of your heart.

"—what's to say?"

When your pulse awakens to the sibilant
caresses of my words.

"—what are the words?"

Tell me please, about the absence I create in your heart,
for love and I are old friends, and he tells me you
hold back.

Poetry Meme V

Pink blossoms-
A duck paddles
amid spotted rocks

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national poetry month

'Gospel of Judas' & Poetry Meme V

Hey Jude, Don't Take it Bad

Judas' thirty pieces
were for a favor
to Jesus,
wanting to depart
his mortal coil.
Finally redeemed
is the silver traitor,
By Coptic translation
of his toil.

I know, it is merely a ditty, doggerel, but still, its about play.

Exciting article about the first modern translation of the Gospel of Judas Ancient 'Gospel of Judas' Translation Sheds New Light on Disciple. What it highlights for me is just how the Bible, and those scriptural texts are interesting narratives that should not be read as truth, nor as hard-line fundamentalists do. Interesting texts to be sure. Morally compelling narratives? Sure. That's not to say they are "good." The gospel truth? No. The Catholic Theologian quoted in the article claims that this won't make much of a difference for believers after the first splash. Too bad. New findings, ought to at least allow for some recognition... and re-cognition. The National Geographic has a neat page where you can explore more about this document. There is also a TV show this Sunday about this gospel.

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national poetry month

Poetry Month IV

The practice of playing every day with words is fantastic. Just playing mind you, no need to fiddle with something to come out. Two books that have been pretty inspiring so far: Susan Goldsmith Woodridge's Poemcrazy, and one I've just begun reading: Ted Kooser's (Poet Laureate), The Poetry Home Repair Manual. Both take such nice approaches to the play and joy of poetry. I play with words every day, mostly because my chosen profession is wordsmithing. Still, much of what I do is criticism, so the opportunity to sit and contemplate, to play rather than to feel that some productive criticism has to emerge, is quite welcome. Haiku's are the simplest poetic form I know that allows me to play, be in the moment, and try to relate directly with a minimum of gloss over the play of words, and the interconnection with experience. Here's one for today:

At day's end-
Children in bed
and Papers to grade

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national poetry month

Poetry Meme III

Too busy to post yesterday, this is the post for April 3rd. My son is about to start his soccer season...

In the closet-
The soccer ball sits
in spider webs

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national poetry month

Poet's Obligation (Neruda)

Poet's Obligation
by Pablo Neruda

To whoever is not listening to the sea
this Friday morning, to whoever is cooped up
in house or office, factory or woman
or street or mine or harsh prison cell;
to him I come, and, without speaking or looking,
I arrive and open the door of his prison,
and a vibration starts up, vague and insistent,
a great fragment of thunder sets in motion
the rumble of the planet and the foam,
the raucous rivers of the ocean flood,
the star vibrates swiftly in its corona,
and the sea is beating, dying and continuing.

Natl. Poetry Month Haiku

Ok, so I tried again for today April 2nd (already not sure I can keep this up every day, but it is a practice indeed. Oregon has some rather nice Cherry Blossom trees in front of the state Capitol. The trees line a green mall area that extends across a large segment in the middle of Salem, where you can find government buildings. After walking by I tried the following:

Cherry Blossoms-
At the State’s Capitol,
All aflutter

Yes, that last comma is purposeful. I find a need pause there; and the "all aflutter" is probably trying to do too much work.

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national poetry month

National Poetry Month Meme

April is National Poetry Month and I figured I'd try to start a Poetry Month meme. I thought I'd be a good idea this year to try to post a new poem, poetic thoughts, or some poetic play (words lists, word play, etc.) to this blog every day. What do you think? Want to join in the fun? Perhaps every day is too often? I'll be trying. Taking time to revel in poetic play can only keep me sane.

I just came back from spending a cople of days at the Oregon coast. It was very nice. But if you know the Oregon coast you know that in Winter it is pretty gray, windy, misty, full of clouds, and rainy, yes, much rain indeed. But we just started Spring, and you can see the change. The coast is schizophrenic, spots of sunshine, followed by rain, drizzle, more rain, gusty winds, some dry spots, grayness, lots and lots more wind, huge banks of clouds, more rain, a patch of clear skies, and so on. Amid enjoying all of that (even though, being from Puerto Rico, my experience of beaches and coastline is so different than this Oregon coast), I noticed that some seagulls are, like many sharks, gray on top and white on the bottom. Seen from the side, these seagulls appear just like the Pacific ocean, a mass of gray on top, a band of white foaminess at the bottom. Trying to give expression to these thoughts, I attempted the following:

At the shore
Seagulls take flight
Bellies full of foam

* * *
At Oregon's seashore
Gray seagulls take flight
Amid Spring rains

I don't think they worked out, but it is poetic play and that's what counts. The first one is a clumsy attempt to capture how seagulls sometimes flew so low over the waves that they seemed to pick up the foam in their white bellies. The second one was an attempt to "see" the grayness of Winter lifting with the seagulls. Trying too hard to see something, but I like it best.

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Window on the Body (Galeano)

Window on the Body

The Church says: The body is a sin.

Science says: The body is a machine.

Advertising says: The body is a business.

The body says: I am a fiesta.

-- Eduardo Galeano

Rivertalk, by Jeanne Lohmann

Rivertalk

is whatever comes along,
practice always here while we

keep on shore, all the time
saying we want to get wet.

But the river has ways
of sound and light, ripples

and waves that tell us:
don't be so serious, rumble in

where nothing is finished or broken
and nothing asks to be fixed.

~ Jeanne Lohmann

Tea

A beautiful book of poems, Stone, Bow, Prayer by Amy Uyematsu.. This poem, dedicated to Thich Nhat Hanh is such a beautiful, simple, yet profound tribute.

Tea

for Thich Nhat Hanh

How many years of suffering
revealed in hands like his
small and deliberate as a child's

The way he raises them
from his lap, grasps the teacup
with sure, unhurried ease

Yet full of anticipation
for what he will taste in each sip
he drinks as if it's his first time

Lifts the cup to his mouth,
a man who's been practicing all his life,
each time tasting something new.

-- Amy Uyematsu

Prophets of a Future Not Our Own

Prophets of a Future Not Our Own

This is what we are about:
We plant seeds that one day will grow.
We water seeds already planted, knowing that they hold future promise.
We lay foundations that will need further development.
We provide yeast that produces effects beyond our capabilities.
We cannot do everything
and there is a sense of liberation in realizing that.
This enables us to do something,
and to do it very well.
It may be incomplete, but it is a beginning, a step along the way,
an opportunity for God's grace to enter and do the rest.
We may never see the end results,
but that is the difference between the master builder and the worker.
We are workers, not master builders,
ministers, not messiahs.
We are prophets of a future not our own.

-- Archbishop Oscar Arnulfo Romero

Being as Is

Being as Is

Food and clothes sustain
Body and life;
I advise you to learn
Being as is.
When it's time,
I move my hermitage and go,
And there's nothing
To be left behind.

-- P'ang Yün (龐蘊 Hõ Un)

Love Casts out Fear - Sara Moores Campbell

Love Casts out Fear - Sara Moores Campbell

In fear, we isolate ourselves.
In love, we connect with others.
In fear, we become immobilized.
In love, we are empowered to act.
In fear, we judge others.
In love, we seek justice.
In fear, we distrust.
In love, we trust.
In fear, we seek punishment.
In love, we seek mercy and forgiveness.
In fear, we see death.
In love, we see life.
In fear, we retreat.
In love, we reach out.
Let us respond to our times with love.
Let us reach out.

Be Like Midwives

My wife and I have been going over this book that our Sangha's dharma teacher gave us as a gift: The Couple's Tao Te Ching. It is pretty nifty, not so much because of the content, which is nice anyway, but the exercise of reading a verse every so often, sometimes one each morning, sometimes we wait a bit before we read again. The other day we read this one, and it really made us stop and consider what each of us is bringing forth into all aspects of our lives. The birth metaphor is not my favorite. I prefer cultivation metaphors, but the sense of what each one of us brings forth into the world every day, into our lives as parents, into our children's lives, into our relationship as partners, and into our individual lives, is something that truly helps us stop and contemplate.

Then again, it has had the same effect regarding this blog. The questions in the second stanza apply well. I'm planning on making some changes to the site. Layout and design primarily. The questions that have been circulating around the buddhist blogosphere regarding blogging and practice are good ones. And so, I might be commenting more on that part of practice, and the challenges that go with it, for me.

#6
Be Like Midwives

Your relationship is constantly giving birth
to new wonders in your soul
It brings forth
dreams and gifts and children,
plans and hopes and accomplishments,
poems and songs and dances,
work and play and rest.
Be like midwives to each other,
bringing comfort and encouragement
to each other's labor.

What is your beloved birthing?
What are you birthing?
What is your relationship birthing?
What sort of prenatal care is needed?
What are the labor pains like?
Are there newborn fruits of your love?
What care do they need?
How can you help?

O me! O life!

This month marks the 150th anniversary of the publication of Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass, so I figured I'd post a favorite poem of his here. You might recognize it, it is quoted briefly in Dead Poet's Society, and is rather well known. But what an invitation to confront feelings of despair as learned helplessness. Enjoy.

O Me! O Life!
by Walt Whitman

O me! O life!... of the questions of these recurring;
Of the endless trains of the faithless--of cities fill'd with the foolish;
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light--of the objects mean--of the struggle ever renew'd;
Of the poor results of all--of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me;
Of the empty and useless years of the rest--with the rest me intertwined;
The question, O me! so sad, recurring--What good amid these, O me, O life?

Answer.

That you are here--that life exists, and identity;
That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.

Mindful, Mary Oliver

Mindful

Every day
I see or hear
something
that more or less

kills me
with delight,
that leaves me
like a needle

Disappearance, Thich Nhat Hanh

Disappearance

The leaf tips bend
under the weight of dew.
Fruits are ripening
in Earth's early morning.
Daffodils light up in the sun.
The curtain of cloud at the gateway
of the garden path begins to shift:
have pity for childhood,
the way of illusion.

Late at night,
the candle gutters.
In some distant desert,
a flower opens.
And somewhere else,
a cold aster
that never knew a cassava patch
or gardens of areca palms,
never knew the joy of life,
at that instant disappears-
man's eternal yearning.

-- Thich Nhat Hanh

Non Duality

All objects unfold in perceiving.
The perceiver is also in the perceiving.
Here, there is only perceiving.
There is no split.
There is no separate self.
There is no separate other.
Everything is made of the same substance.
There is only Oneness.
There is only love.

Richard Miller

Stafford, A Ritual To Read To Each Other

A Ritual To Read To Each Other

If you don't know the kind of person I am
and I don't know the kind of person you are
a pattern that others made may prevail in the world
and following the wrong god home we may miss our star.

Miss Peace, Nacho Cordova

A silly attempt, but, had to get it out of my mind.

Miss Peace

“I want world peace”
Said the vivacious pageant contestant
in front of the full-capacity audience.
And she meant it.
Through the swimsuit competition,
the evening gown parade (that showed
just the right amount of cleavage),
and in the talent night,
when she blew the trumpet,
a few clear notes here and there
(Even though it puffed up her cheeks
And her friends had warned her that
It was not very becoming);

Wendell Berry, The Law that Marries all things

The Law That Marries All Things

1.
The cloud is free only
to go with the wind.
 
The rain is free
only in falling.
 
The water is free only
in its gathering together,
 
in its downward courses,
in its rising into the air.

If, Rudyard Kipling

If...

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

Fog, Carl Sandburg

Fog

THE fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.

--Carl Sandburg

Ripeness - Jane Hirshfield

Ripeness

Ripeness is
what falls away with ease.
Not only the heavy apple,
the pear,
but also the dried brown strands
of autumn iris from their core.

John Fox - When Someone Deeply Listens to You

When Someone Deeply Listens to You

When someone deeply listens to you
it is like holding out a dented cup
you've had since childhood
and watching it fill up with
cold, fresh water.
When it balances on top of the brim,
you are understood.
When it overflows and touches your skin,
you are loved.

Fill Your Days with Love

Don't know why I haven't posted this here before. Here's a quote from James Broughton's essay Free to Die Laughing (a wonderful, wonderful essay):

My major aim in writing is to set out flags and issue wake-up calls. Life is adventure, not predicament. Amazement awaits us at every corner. If you don’t fill your days with love, you are wasting your life.

What a true sentiment. If we don't fill our days with love... and truly how little it takes to fill our days with love. How do we put bumps in the road to filling our days with love? How do we fill our days with love? True love, not the one that we think is good loving when in fact we are just sedating ourselves with food or mindlessness? And perhaps we need to start with ourselves. I keep learning that lesson.

Love Letters

Every day, priests minutely examine the Dharma
  And endlessly chant complicated sutras.
  Before doing that, though, they should learn
  How to read the love letters sent by the wind
  and rain, the snow and moon.

--Ikkyu

Dogen, To Start from the Self

"To start from the self and try to understand all things is delusion. 

To let the self be awakened by all things is enlightenment." 

-- Dogen

Kindness: Naomi Shihab Nye

Kindness

Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.

Anna Kamienska: A Prayer that will be answered

A Prayer That Will Be Answered

Lord let me suffer much
and then die

Let me walk through silence

and leave nothing behind not even fear

Make the world continue
let the ocean kiss the sand just as before

Let the grass stay green
so that the frogs can hide in it

so that someone can bury his face in it
and sob out his love

Make the day rise brightly
as if there were no more pain

And let my poem stand clear as a windowpane
bumped by a bumblebee's head

-- Anna Kamienska

Billy Collins: Dharma

Dharma

The way the dog trots out the front door
every morning
without a hat or an umbrella,
without any money
or the keys to her doghouse
never fails to fill the saucer of my heart
with milky admiration.

Al Zolynas: The Zen of Housework

The Zen of Housework

I look over my own shoulder
down my arms
to where they disappear under water
into hands inside pink rubber gloves
moiling among dinner dishes.

William Stafford: You Reading This Be ready

You Reading This, Be Ready

Starting here, what do you want to remember?
How sunlight creeps along a shining floor?
What scent of old wood hovers, what softened
sound from outside fills the air?

Will you ever bring a better gift for the world
than the breathing respect that you carry
wherever you go right now? Are you waiting
for time to show you some better thoughts?

When you turn around, starting here, lift this
new glimpse that you found; carry into evening
all that you want from this day. This interval you spent
reading or hearing this, keep it for life -

What can anyone give you greater than now,
starting here, right in this room, when you turn around?

-- William Stafford

Czeslaw Milosz: Love

Love
 
Love means to learn to look at yourself
The way one looks at distant things
For you are only one thing among many.
And whoever sees that way heals his heart,
Without knowing it, from various ills—
A bird and a tree say to him: Friend.

Then he wants to use himself and things
So that they stand in the glow of ripeness.
It doesn’t matter whether he knows what he serves:
Who serves best doesn’t always understand.

-- Czeslaw Milosz

Buddhist Barbie -- Denise Duhamel

Buddhist Barbie

In the 5th century B.C.
an Indian philosopher
Gautama teaches "All is emptiness"
and "There is no self."
In the 20th century A.D.
Barbie agrees, but wonders how a man
with such a belly could pose,
smiling, and without a shirt.

-- Denise Duhamel

A Thanksgiving Prayer?

I’m getting too old for this.
My knees can’t do this bending anymore.
And frankly, I don’t think I should have to.
After all these years, haven’t I earned a bit
Of peace? A respite?

But I guess you know what you’re doing.
And I’m not privy to whatever plans you have.

PoemWalk 1 Poem

A while back