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