Fences, spotlights, and watchtowers

The temple of my spiritual practice lies within concentric rings of fences and walls, spotlights and watchtowers, guards and protocols. Being that I go to a prison to sit with inmates, it could be that I mean what I say literally. Being that my practice is to step aside from all that hinders an awareness of that which I am, it could be that I mean what I say metaphorically. I am thankful that I am not physically incarcerated.

            When we sit in silence and bring our attention to the present moment, the circle of vinyl-covered cushions borrowed from the sofa becomes a sacred place. There is a story of the Buddha (Buddha meaning an awakened one, indistinguishable from the awakened you and I) walking along with his disciples. He stops and says, “This would be a good place for a temple.” The god Indra steps up and sticks a blade of grass in the ground and replies, “There, I have built you a temple.” It is reported that the Buddha was pleased.

            Out in the prison yard, alongside of the track and basketball courts, there is a small dome-shaped skeleton of a structure. Once a week, barring lockdowns and such prison business, the Native Americans are given the opportunity to have a sweat. It does not look like much from the outside, but I imagine that to enter it with the legacy of tradition, ceremony, and community is to step into another realm of being, and, of course, the departure from another realm. I have noticed with interest that even the inmates who do not participate and are not Native American seemed comforted by its presence and use.

            So, just what makes us a prisoner? Or a victim? What hinders us from our potential at this time and place? I wonder about the concentric rings circling the being that I am. Are they protecting me or imprisoning me? Is it worth the price to be safe? Deadened is safe. Dead is even safer.

            But there is another kind of dying, a dying while alive, and a dying that is also a birthing. It is entering the sweat lodge moment after moment, coming back to it like we come back to our breath in meditation. It is to be fearless. It is our birthright.

"The earth is my witness."

     The story of Siddhartha’s (soon to be the Buddha) enlightenment includes his resolute determination in the face of Mara’s (the personified spirit of delusion, fear, and greed) temptations and challenges. As a final challenge, Mara demanded to know by what ‘right’ Siddhartha had to take the seat of supreme enlightenment and who would verify it. Siddhartha reached out and touched the ground, “The earth itself is my witness,” he said. The earth shook and trembles and Mara and his assembly of demons left.

     I think there is more to this than a verification. I think that touch was a touch of absolute unity. The earth was not just a witness to the truth but IS the truth and the mother of all beings that express it in their particular way. The truth for Shakyamuni Buddha does not reside in Heaven, in concepts, hidden in foreign lands or languages. It is not reserved for people of a particular color, IQ, belief system, rituals, or geography. The truth is the truth. It is what it is. It is here, and it is now. It is you and it is I. It is alive. The Buddha’s life story is my life story, and yours.

     The Zen teacher Dogen wrote, “Grasses, trees, and land that are embraced by this way of transformation (awakened consciousness) together radiate a great light and endlessly expound the inconceivably profound dharma. Grass, trees, and walls bring forth the teaching for all beings- common people as well as sages- and they in turn extend the dharma for the sake of grasses, trees, and walls.” Like some would say, “It’s all one love.”

     I’m not sure why I have such a profound resonance with this “The earth itself is my witness.” I’m OK with not knowing. Not knowing why keeps it from becoming a museum piece. It is the invitation to trust and the vastness of not knowing along with the grace of trust are my refuge and birthright. For me, not knowing and truth do not oppose each other. Truth is simple. Truth speaks for itself. There are lots of ways of listening.

    

     Zen poet Ryokan wrote:

“The rain has stopped, the clouds have drifted away

     and the weather is clear again.

If your heart is pure, then all things in your world are      pure.

Abandon this fleeting world, abandon yourself,

Then the moon and flowers will guide you along the Way.”

J.

Last week I heard that J. killed himself. I was surprised to hear that, as were most people I know. He was friendly and sociable, helpful and well known. He worked at the thrift store, and if you live in Bisbee you go to the thrift store if you need to get something, get rid of something, just feel like shopping or getting out. It’s our version of the mall. I did not hear any of the details at the time.

     Sometime later a friend said that she had heard that J. had been a user of a certain street drug. Hearing that became one of those moments when I could clearly watch my thoughts and feelings emerge and take shape. The hearsay was irrelevant to me; the sadness of his passing and my imagining his pain or anguish was unaltered. But, I did think of how sometimes, some of us tend to hide behind that sort of reasoning, as if this made his suicide more comprehensible and in some way, more remote as something that could happen to us or someone close to us. Even the possibility is a threat and so we create distance and separation.

     YET, and I can say what I am going to say without having to exclude our individuality, if we finally face our own mortality and the full kaleidoscope of the human condition as it lives in us, we might not feel so threatened and compelled to build boundaries. Even though we are all born with and into different circumstances and create more conditions as we live, there is a basic condition of the mind and the ways it responds to life that is prior to our differences. It is not ours in the sense of yours or mine, but ours in a collective sense. I don’t know what the pain J. suffered was, but I know what pain is, and I think we are all capable of responding in ways that harm ourselves. If we don’t, we are fortunate and it is by the grace of the whole world. We should bear witness to those less fortunate.

     I grew up in a Jewish home and being aware of the holocaust was akin to learning how to walk or talk. As I grew older there was a shift and I realized how important this awareness was to all of humankind, not solely as a horrible event in Jewish history. There are reasons why the world should never forget, that it is not enough to forgive, punish, and pay retribution. Remembering is the only true justice because what we need to learn over and over is its very possibility. It can happen again (and has with no less horror.) This kind of expression of hate, violence, and fear is part of the full array of being human. It does not belong solely to the other guy or other nation or some other time. This acceptance of who we are, individually and collectively, is the starting place of healing and transformation. Denial lets our demons and fears rest in the dark until another day.

     Often our world seems too big, too incomprehensible, and plain old too crazy to respond to in the ways we would like to. I’d like to share one of the greatest of inspirational sayings and teachings that I know, one that has been etched into my mind; from Mother Teresa: “You   cannot not do great things, only small things with great love.” I hold the belief that when we break the boundaries between ourselves and others we make ourselves available and capable in ways we cannot quite fathom beforehand.

     I am sorry of J.’s passing. He must have been hurting. His helpful friendly manner showed that he had a lot of love and compassion to share. I hope his passage will be guided by that love and that compassion.

Be well.

Fleeting Dreams

Jan.22, 2008

“The great net

has been hauled in

close to shore-

how many living things

are tangled in its meshes”

                                    Saigyo

         It was not too long ago that I was spending a lot of time walking; in town, in the desert, and in the mountains. I had a lot of restless energy and had to keep moving. I walked, chanted, looked around, and listened. I made an effort to avoid thinking, thoughts being the burden they were. Even walking myself tired, nights were torturous and sleep eluded me often.

         But lately, with the turning of the seasons, things have changed. I am no longer consumed by my anguish and anxiety. I have taken up running and it being mid-winter, the days are short and pass quickly. I do miss those walks though, they have  rhythm and texture of their own and after many hundreds of miles there developed a deep connection between something within me, the way of walking, and the world I move through.

         Santoka Taneda was a mendicant monk of the early twentieth century. He spent his life walking, composing poetry, begging, praying, and taking care of each day and each day’s events as they arose. One of the haiku that he wrote goes:

Going deeper

         And still deeper-

                  The green mountains

         During the last couple of weeks I have become enamored with the color of the sky. It seems so intensely blue. The air shimmers with clarity, and the vividness of the landscape not only compensates for the open and broad expanses of the desert, but also is enriched by it like heavy, thick swatches of pure pigment on a canvas. The golden yellows of dried grasses, the green of the oak groves, the rocky landscape, and the dusting of snow on the high peaks; all of it seems embraced by that boundless blue sky like a great mother watching in silence- patiently and knowingly.

         So, the other day, in spite of being worn out from a run, I went into the hills. Some of that old anxiety was rearing its head and I needed to be outside. My house, any house, would be too small. I took my fatigue,

sorrow, gratitude for being healthy, and appreciation for a beautiful day with me like one big collage. I meandered; there was no hurry, and when I fell into thoughts I would bring myself back to what was around me.

         Nearing the end of the walk, as I was going through a wooded area on the side of a hill, there was a hunter on the trail ahead of me. He was peering through a spotting scope, and I approached quietly so not to spook whatever he was watching. He pointed out two does feeding on the opposite hillside and a buck in the valley below. It was bow hunting season for hunters and mating season for the deer. He said that he had a buddy down there, somewhere, stalking the buck.

Octopus traps-

         Fleeting dreams under

                  The summer moon

                                    Basho

Oh, no one is spared. Nothing remains outside the mesh of this net. But I like to believe that we humans can at least wake from the dream enough to understand it for what it is, unlike the octopus waiting in its small world for morning to bring its death. I stood there and watched the drama unfold, alert for the sound of a bowstring releasing an arrow.

Is it crying from an arrow

from the fishers of Suma?

                  hototogisu

                                    Basho

And a commentary:

         “According to Basho, the fisherman was trying to scare off crows that had come after the fish being dried in the sunshine on the beach. Also alluded to is the fact that Suma was the site of a fierce battle between the Genji and Heike clans in the twelfth century.”

         I wonder, if the arrow was shot at a crow, why is it that the hototogisu ( A cuckoo-like bird) cries out? Is there an unseen connection? Perhaps a connection without meaning? How many living things are tangled in the great net? This ‘ great net’, does it span only space, or time as well? Are the dead warriors of the past crying out? What exactly was the drama that I was witnessing? What was my part? Your part?  Would I hear the bowstring, the high-pitched cry of a deer, and the clatter of hooves and rocks as the does ran off leaving the young buck behind? As it turned out, they moved out of range and it was over for now. I walked on, the deer walked on; and the hunters, too, went on their way.

         That moment passed, but all things born are things that die, and all that we have collected to distract us, prop up our stories, or create a sense of safety- all of it will pass as if it never was:

Summer grasses:

         All that remain

                  Of warriors’ dreams

                                             Basho

Despite the ephemeral nature of dreams, we all live a dream. In a way they are our containers and bodies. For all that is born, all selves, are dreams, as fragile as a dewdrop on the grass; as real as the moon reflected in water, yet, yet….. We can ‘yet, yet’ endlessly, like a dog chasing its own tail.

         I think of a chapter Dogen wrote called ‘Expounding a Dream Within a Dream.” The way I understand it is in the form of a question that we have to ask for ourselves, over and over again:  Does the dream dream you?; do you dream the dream?; or does the dream dream the dream?

Thank you and

Be well