whether to speak of the One, emptiness, God, or even in the philosophy of Zen, the nothingness beyond God, is not to describe reality, but to make a poetic choice
there’s nothing to do but what we’re doing until the next moment when we’ll be doing that, whatever it is
looking forward into the stream of living,
I see hopes, dreams, plans, expectations;
looking back, it’s all the luck of the drift
a way doesn’t show up in the walking,
it shows up in the telling
a way is only a way afterwards
and then only in the telling –
never in the living
the pointers of a master never reach the Way
garden yin, garden yang
doves and jays
pecking at scattered seed
giving up giving up anger (and sorrow and…)
seems to be doing a job
giving up anger was supposed to do
arrogance limits the already partial view we have of the world, producing cataracts on the capacity for insight and wisdom
in any practice, in any art, the invaluable gift is the critique of the master
morning white highway noise,
once made an anxious beginning,
now lulls me awake
hopeless –
a romantic till the end –
a look, a smile, a lilting voice and dreams arise
I tell myself, “you’re too old,
too bald, too fat…”
no matter, dreams arise
spiritual frustration increases with the strength of the desire to know the unknowable
at some moment, perhaps, we stop protesting the wayness of things
All idleness in the back patio,
away from the world for a while,
poetry, a cigar, a pot of tea.
As one moment empties into the next,
it’s clear that the Protestant Ethic
has somehow left this life.
Drifting Awake is on vacation until July 1st. I’ll start posting again then.
Best,
Richard
the peace that passeth understanding can’t be understood
the sooner that lust for position passes, the longer for delight in loving the world
right and wrong are not part of the Way; they arise with the conversations that make us human
tiny grasshopper, green as the leaf it eats,
lives to eat another leaf, and not because of its color
everyday pine-top crow
takes the high ground
caws out to the world
as emotions lose transcendent import, we can relax:
sadness is just sadness, joy just joy,
no avoiding one, no clinging to the other,
they come and go as they will — as do all the rest
without One, how does one
bear being without
some one in one’s life?
it’s not only that life is short, but that it’s ever shorter
No longer concerned with place in the world,
time relaxes, days fill with quiet mystery.
Everday life unburdened, cooking, once a chore,
loses its tedium. I cook and eat at home.
In the garden a sapling soaks after planting.
I sit in the radiance of things as they are.
even the darkest clouds do not refute the sky
no fruit of hard work,
but a gift from elsewhere:
absence deepening in presence
(with thanks to Mei Yao-Ch’en)
most everyone wants to be happy all of the time . . . and no one ever will
without guilt, regrets are nothing to regret; they’re just regrets
sundown –
a confusion of crows,
the cawcawphony begins
little to show for this life:
few things the world desires
the early summer sun cool,
light breeze empties passing thoughts
life is never fair, sometimes people are
long dead Chinese poets
point to Way with their words –
presence summoning absence