In her book Hand Wash Cold, Karen Maezen Miller tells of seeking a teacher, and of discovering what she now knows about a teacher:
"A book may teach, but a book is not a teacher.
"A teacher may find fame, but a teacher is not a celebrity.
"A teacher comes from a line of teachers and completes a length of training that he or she freely admits is never complete.
"A teacher is rarely found and yet astonishes you with his or her complete availability.
"A teacher doesn't ask much of you— not your life, not your loyalty, and not a high fee for a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
"A teacher waits." (52)
"A true teacher is likely to be the most ordinary person you'll ever meet." (53)
"Choosing the wrong teacher is worse than having no teacher at all." (54)
Miller is speaking specifically of a Roshi, an "old teacher" of the Zen tradition. I've looked at the list, though, and by its standards I know I've had a few good people as trained teachers in my life.
And then there's every daily life experience that comes to me, each with its lesson, every day full of newness and things to notice in ways I never before have noticed. The natural world, the objects of my life, and all the pets and people, when they are predictable and when they are unpredictable. Again and again I am learning to laugh and otherwise just learning.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Trust
I know I share in the essence of this green, green world, how it glistens, how the green burns so intensely in this rainy day. I am aware that I know nothing except what I know through the slime and mud and mush of this sensuous world. All of it.
Thomas Moore writes, in Original Self, "What would it be like, I wonder, if we were born in some dramatic spiritual way. Say the soul like a sheet of silky gauze fell down from the heavens in a soft flutter? Would that be preferable to the birth of a human being at the fork in the legs amid blood, excrement, and waters? I don't think so, because we are given life by the green mama as well as the angel of fire, and the green mama doesn't think much about what she does. She loves and gives birth and then takes back to herself everything she has birthed.
"The mystery of green life can be trusted because it is not self-conscious. By some magical transformative power, the green of the mother's trees and plants overwhelms us with its beauty." (82)
Thomas Moore writes, in Original Self, "What would it be like, I wonder, if we were born in some dramatic spiritual way. Say the soul like a sheet of silky gauze fell down from the heavens in a soft flutter? Would that be preferable to the birth of a human being at the fork in the legs amid blood, excrement, and waters? I don't think so, because we are given life by the green mama as well as the angel of fire, and the green mama doesn't think much about what she does. She loves and gives birth and then takes back to herself everything she has birthed.
"The mystery of green life can be trusted because it is not self-conscious. By some magical transformative power, the green of the mother's trees and plants overwhelms us with its beauty." (82)
Monday, May 16, 2011
Everything Matters
"The wild geese do not intend to cast their reflection
The water has no mind to receive their image."
~a Zenin
Those two lines capture the essential way that Lao Tzu's words are true, that if we will have peace in the world, the nations, the cities, the family, then we must find the ways to create peace within our own hearts. Retired and tired, both, I live so quietly that I sometimes can imagine that what I do in a day doesn't count for much, that my choices and small needs and contributions no longer matter. But I really know better.
Everything matters.
Every thing, large or small, matters. One's presence or absence, one's silence as well as one's words, the way we eat, the way we talk, walk, what we notice and what is outside our consciousness entirely. All of it. Everything matters.
We set our plans, and work to carry them through, we stay busy in our days, spend our resources to reach the goals we set for ourselves. We strive for all sorts of things we imagine to be desirable. We look around the rooms and hallways of our lives at all we have done. We judge our contributions. Of some things we're proud, of others not so much, but we can think about and observe the results of who we've been, what we've done.
We also can not know how our influence echoes out. We are the geese, we are the water. We also cast and reflect an image in the world without any thought or mindful intention.
This afternoon I planted seventy-two impatiens and two trailing coleus plants, and moved the impatience that had overwintered indoors to try them where we'll see them from the front door. In addition, today I did a whole variety of small things in an effort to make the house a safe, comfortable place for our not quite one year old granddaughter who will visit next week. Simultaneously, I want the house also to be safe and comfortable for our blind and arthritic eighteen year old cat. I relax into the certainty that this, too, matters, every detail matters, for I deeply trust the truth that in the way of the Zenin above, everything matters.
The poplar trees have begun to drop their large, lovely tulip-like flowers, yellow petals each with an orange base, and with cream stamen and pistils at their heart. Lao Tzu wrote, "Nature does not hurry, yet everything is accomplished."
[I found the opening Zenin on page 43 in Thomas Moore's 1981 book Original Self, but he cites his source as Nancy Wilson Ross, from page 258 in her 1960 book The World of Zen. A google search did a less-good job of indicating original source, original author, than Moore did, so I'm trusting Moore, and HarperCollins.]
The water has no mind to receive their image."
~a Zenin
Those two lines capture the essential way that Lao Tzu's words are true, that if we will have peace in the world, the nations, the cities, the family, then we must find the ways to create peace within our own hearts. Retired and tired, both, I live so quietly that I sometimes can imagine that what I do in a day doesn't count for much, that my choices and small needs and contributions no longer matter. But I really know better.
Everything matters.
Every thing, large or small, matters. One's presence or absence, one's silence as well as one's words, the way we eat, the way we talk, walk, what we notice and what is outside our consciousness entirely. All of it. Everything matters.
We set our plans, and work to carry them through, we stay busy in our days, spend our resources to reach the goals we set for ourselves. We strive for all sorts of things we imagine to be desirable. We look around the rooms and hallways of our lives at all we have done. We judge our contributions. Of some things we're proud, of others not so much, but we can think about and observe the results of who we've been, what we've done.
We also can not know how our influence echoes out. We are the geese, we are the water. We also cast and reflect an image in the world without any thought or mindful intention.
This afternoon I planted seventy-two impatiens and two trailing coleus plants, and moved the impatience that had overwintered indoors to try them where we'll see them from the front door. In addition, today I did a whole variety of small things in an effort to make the house a safe, comfortable place for our not quite one year old granddaughter who will visit next week. Simultaneously, I want the house also to be safe and comfortable for our blind and arthritic eighteen year old cat. I relax into the certainty that this, too, matters, every detail matters, for I deeply trust the truth that in the way of the Zenin above, everything matters.
The poplar trees have begun to drop their large, lovely tulip-like flowers, yellow petals each with an orange base, and with cream stamen and pistils at their heart. Lao Tzu wrote, "Nature does not hurry, yet everything is accomplished."
[I found the opening Zenin on page 43 in Thomas Moore's 1981 book Original Self, but he cites his source as Nancy Wilson Ross, from page 258 in her 1960 book The World of Zen. A google search did a less-good job of indicating original source, original author, than Moore did, so I'm trusting Moore, and HarperCollins.]
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Saturday, May 14, 2011
The cat and the deer
"As important as it is to believe, it is even more important not to believe. Pure belief is too thick. There is no room for movement and no motive for reflection. When belief is rigid, it is infinitely more dangerous than unbelief. And belief becomes thick and rigid so frequently that it is often difficult for a thoughtful person to want to believe or admit to being a believer. ....
"...a person of no belief lives an unconscious existence as though he were in a river that he has never observed from the banks. Belief gives daily life the hesitancy of reflection and a little air. Maybe just a dot of belief would save the secularist from absorption in his culture, and a dot of unbelief might save the devotee from drowning in his faith." (34-35) So writes Thomas Moore in his 2002 book The Soul's Religion.
We have an insouciant orange and white cat who loves to go outdoors and explore around the environs of her home. On Mothers Day I'd let her out into the sunny, mild morning, and was then sitting in the window seat, listening to Krista Tippet's program OnBeing and observing the world, when I noticed a deer browsing at the edge of the yard. Then little Miss Yuengling (our pale ale cat, and the companion black-with-white-trim one is Guinness) pranced into the picture, too. The deer, which had been casually looking about between bites, turned to this other creature rustling and bounding about. The deer's jaw and feet stayed very still, but it swiveled and focused it's ears directly at the cat, and craned its neck a bit, and even it's nostrils quivered. The cat bounded and bounced along, oblivious.
A few minutes later I went to the kitchen and from a different window saw that the cat had pranced and circled her way around to where two other deer were ambling along. She appeared so suddenly in their domain that one of them raised its white flag of a tail and jumped a few leaps away before stopping to really notice who caused the startling movement and noise. There they were, these timid, large creatures and the small, unconcerned one commanding all their attention, the little boss of the scene.
Yuengling was, perhaps, foolishly fearless, and the deer were unnecessarily fearful; she seemingly certain of her position, they quite uncertain. Certainty and uncertainty, faith and lack of faith, belief and unbelief. I find myself in both camps, believing in all that is seen and unseen, and also full of questions and distrustful of those who have such definite, certain sureness that they have answers to the whys and ways of the now and hereafter. Seems to me that wisdom writings present wise questions along with wise instructions for my life. Let me be some combination of both the cat and the deer.
"...a person of no belief lives an unconscious existence as though he were in a river that he has never observed from the banks. Belief gives daily life the hesitancy of reflection and a little air. Maybe just a dot of belief would save the secularist from absorption in his culture, and a dot of unbelief might save the devotee from drowning in his faith." (34-35) So writes Thomas Moore in his 2002 book The Soul's Religion.
We have an insouciant orange and white cat who loves to go outdoors and explore around the environs of her home. On Mothers Day I'd let her out into the sunny, mild morning, and was then sitting in the window seat, listening to Krista Tippet's program OnBeing and observing the world, when I noticed a deer browsing at the edge of the yard. Then little Miss Yuengling (our pale ale cat, and the companion black-with-white-trim one is Guinness) pranced into the picture, too. The deer, which had been casually looking about between bites, turned to this other creature rustling and bounding about. The deer's jaw and feet stayed very still, but it swiveled and focused it's ears directly at the cat, and craned its neck a bit, and even it's nostrils quivered. The cat bounded and bounced along, oblivious.
A few minutes later I went to the kitchen and from a different window saw that the cat had pranced and circled her way around to where two other deer were ambling along. She appeared so suddenly in their domain that one of them raised its white flag of a tail and jumped a few leaps away before stopping to really notice who caused the startling movement and noise. There they were, these timid, large creatures and the small, unconcerned one commanding all their attention, the little boss of the scene.
Yuengling was, perhaps, foolishly fearless, and the deer were unnecessarily fearful; she seemingly certain of her position, they quite uncertain. Certainty and uncertainty, faith and lack of faith, belief and unbelief. I find myself in both camps, believing in all that is seen and unseen, and also full of questions and distrustful of those who have such definite, certain sureness that they have answers to the whys and ways of the now and hereafter. Seems to me that wisdom writings present wise questions along with wise instructions for my life. Let me be some combination of both the cat and the deer.
Thursday, May 12, 2011
I like to hear another's point of view on an issue I care about. It is that kind of other-opinion against which I can test my position— push back, perhaps, or at least test the choices I am making, test what I want and do not want.
If I seek a man's point of view, my adult sons are often among the most honest, thoughtful people with whom I can test myself. They know me in ways no one else does, nor ever can. They are kind, and will engage with whatever issue is on my mind, whatever issue I bring forward to discuss. They are true to themselves, and, also, they love me.
And I love them, forever and ever. I think Mother love is the closest I've observed to unconditional love. In relationship with my sons, it seems important to me to notice the experience of how very complex the deepest kind of love actually is as it takes on the forms of flesh and blood in this world. Knowing my own depth and complexity of feeling for (and relationship with) my sons informs me about who my own mother was, as well.
I do not comprehend in any way the mind of a woman who claims she does not love her child. But I do comprehend the infinite variety, the perfect imperfection, of Mother love, and the helplessness and power that are not mutually exclusive in that relationship.
If I seek a man's point of view, my adult sons are often among the most honest, thoughtful people with whom I can test myself. They know me in ways no one else does, nor ever can. They are kind, and will engage with whatever issue is on my mind, whatever issue I bring forward to discuss. They are true to themselves, and, also, they love me.
And I love them, forever and ever. I think Mother love is the closest I've observed to unconditional love. In relationship with my sons, it seems important to me to notice the experience of how very complex the deepest kind of love actually is as it takes on the forms of flesh and blood in this world. Knowing my own depth and complexity of feeling for (and relationship with) my sons informs me about who my own mother was, as well.
I do not comprehend in any way the mind of a woman who claims she does not love her child. But I do comprehend the infinite variety, the perfect imperfection, of Mother love, and the helplessness and power that are not mutually exclusive in that relationship.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
On a Sunny Day, Rain.
Life experiences are additive as well as singular and in the moment. Some memories just walk with us. This one I wrote years ago, now. It was a year when Easter was early. The feeling, the experience, is still true; for me, it's likely one of those forever truths, part of the largesse of life that I carry at this time of year:
It's been many years— decades— since Mother's death. Easter three weeks past, Mother's Day coming soon, the earth is wild with new growth. I'm supposed to be done mourning. But it is her birthday.
I walk alone through steady rainfall, my shoulders squared and my chin tilted up, intentionally allowing the planes of my face to accept the full impact of each small hit. My brows protect my eyes, but the ping of water on my lashes where they extend causes me to blink rapidly, and finally I settle for arranging my face in a squint. The first overall effect of the rain had implied a steady fall. Now I sense the varied sizes and forces among the individual drops. They come at irregular intervals, unpredictable for any given moment and nerve ending. Some droplets feel minute and piercing, like needle pricks. Others feel plump and soothing as balm spreading, comforting as a goodnight kiss. Still others feel thick and sweet as a drop of held-up-and-laughing-baby's drool. The wetness gathers and chases in rivulets to drip off the end of my nose and the edge of my jaw. I touch my tongue to the wetness on my lips, and find it salty. It is then I realize my tears have joined the raindrops.
I feel a lonesome sadness as if it hangs above my right shoulder, as if it were a chasing shadow. I recognize but refuse to perpetuate its presence. Instead I focus on the even swing of my stride, the coordinated rhythm of inhalation - exhalation, and the clean, cool rain falling on my face. The air smells of turned earth, of musty rot, of lily-of-the-valley. Grasses bow down beside the road, obedient to the weight of collected water. Here are fragrant, creamy blossoms on a wild olive tree, so sweet and fleeting as I pass by.
It's been many years— decades— since Mother's death. Easter three weeks past, Mother's Day coming soon, the earth is wild with new growth. I'm supposed to be done mourning. But it is her birthday.
I walk alone through steady rainfall, my shoulders squared and my chin tilted up, intentionally allowing the planes of my face to accept the full impact of each small hit. My brows protect my eyes, but the ping of water on my lashes where they extend causes me to blink rapidly, and finally I settle for arranging my face in a squint. The first overall effect of the rain had implied a steady fall. Now I sense the varied sizes and forces among the individual drops. They come at irregular intervals, unpredictable for any given moment and nerve ending. Some droplets feel minute and piercing, like needle pricks. Others feel plump and soothing as balm spreading, comforting as a goodnight kiss. Still others feel thick and sweet as a drop of held-up-and-laughing-baby's drool. The wetness gathers and chases in rivulets to drip off the end of my nose and the edge of my jaw. I touch my tongue to the wetness on my lips, and find it salty. It is then I realize my tears have joined the raindrops.
I feel a lonesome sadness as if it hangs above my right shoulder, as if it were a chasing shadow. I recognize but refuse to perpetuate its presence. Instead I focus on the even swing of my stride, the coordinated rhythm of inhalation - exhalation, and the clean, cool rain falling on my face. The air smells of turned earth, of musty rot, of lily-of-the-valley. Grasses bow down beside the road, obedient to the weight of collected water. Here are fragrant, creamy blossoms on a wild olive tree, so sweet and fleeting as I pass by.
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