the grownup

.

All this stood upon her and was the world

and stood upon her with all its fear and grace

as trees stand, growing straight up, imageless

yet wholly image, like the Ark of God,

and solemn, as if imposed upon a race.

And she endured it all: bore up under

the swift-as-flight, the fleeting, the far-gone,

the inconceivably vast, the still-to-learn,

serenely as a woman carrying water

moves with a full jug. Till in the midst of play,

transfiguring and preparing for the future,

the first white veil descended, gliding softly

over her opened face, almost opaque there,

never to be lifted off again, and somehow

giving to all her questions just one answer:

In you, who were a child once — in you.

~ Rainer Maria Rilke

lying in the grass

.

Is this everything now, the quick delusions of flowers,

And the down colors of the bright summer meadow,

The soft blue spread of heaven, the bees’ song,

Is this everything only a god’s

Groaning dream,

The cry of unconscious powers for deliverance?

The distant line of the mountain,

That beautifully and courageously rests in the blue,

Is this too only a convulsion,

Only the wild strain of fermenting nature,

Only grief, only agony, only meaningless fumbling,

Never resting, never a blessed movement?

No! Leave me alone, you impure dream

Of the world in suffering!

The dance of tiny insects cradles you in an evening radiance,

The bird’s cry cradles you,

A breath of wind cools my forehead

With consolation.

Leave me alone, you unendurably old human grief!

Let it all be pain.

Let it all be suffering, let it be wretched-

But not this one sweet hour in the summer,

And not the fragrance of the red clover,

And not the deep tender pleasure

In my soul.

~ Hermann Hesse

art by camille pissarro

this side

.

There is light. We neither see or touch it.

In its empty clarities rests

what we touch and see.

I see with my fingertips

what my eyes touch:

shadows, the world.

With shadows I draw worlds,

I scatter worlds with shadows.

I hear the light beat on the other side.

~  Octavio Paz

from  Selected Poems

translated by Eliot Weinberger

art by van gogh

attaining harmony

.

The best warriors

do not use violence.

The best generals

do not destroy indiscriminately.

The best tacticians

try to avoid confrontation.

The best leaders

become servants of their people.

This is called the virtue of non-competition.

This is called the power to manage others.

This is called attaining harmony with the heavens.

~ Tao Teh Ching

translation by j.h. mcdonald

far company

.

At times now from some margin of the day 

I can hear birds of another country

not the whole song but a brief phrase of it

out of a music that I may have heard

once in a moment I appear to have 

forgotten for the most part that full day

no sight of which I can remember now

though it must have been where my eyes were then

that knew it as the present while I thought

of somewhere else without noticing that 

singing when it was there and still went on 

whether or not I noticed now it falls

silent when I listen and leaves the day

and flies before it to be heard again

somewhere ahead when I have forgotten

~ W.S. Merwin

from The Pupil

art by van gogh

always traveling

.

In one sense we are always traveling, 

and traveling as if we did not know where we were going. 

 In another sense we have already arrived. 

 We cannot arrive at the perfect possession of God in this life, 

and that is why we are traveling and in darkness. 

 But we already possess Him by grace, 

and therefore, in that sense, we have arrived and 

are dwelling in the light. 

 But oh! How far have I to go to find You

 in Whom I have already arrived!

~ Thomas Merton

from The Seven Storey Mountain

art by van gogh

the door I made

.

Outside the door I made but don't close

I glimpse the movements of unfamiliar birds

a handful of jade is worth a whole mountain

but gold can't buy a lifetime of freedom

the sound of icy falls on a dawnlit snowy ridge

the sight of distant peaks through leafless autumn woods

mist lifts from ancient cedars and days last forever

right and wrong don't get past the clouds

~ Stonehouse

from The Zen Works of Stonehouse

translated by Red Pine

kneeling

.

Moments of great calm, 

Kneeling before an altar 

Of wood in a stone church 

In summer, waiting for the God 

To speak; the air a staircase 

For silence; the sun's light 

Ringing me, as though I acted 

A great role. And the audiences 

Still; all that close throng 

Of spirits waiting, as I, 

For the message. 

Prompt me, God; 

But not yet. When I speak, 

Though it be you who speaks 

Through me, something is lost. 

The meaning is in the waiting. 

~ R. S. Thomas

with thanks to whiskey river

the beauty

If any part of nature excites our pity, it is for ourselves we grieve, 
for there is eternal health and beauty.  
We get only transient and partial glimpses of the beauty of the world.  
Standing at the right angle, we are dazzled by the colors of the rainbow in colorless ice.  
From the right point of view, every storm and every drop in it is a rainbow.  
Beauty and music are not mere traits and exceptions.  
They are the rule and character.

~ Henry David Thoreau

from his journal, 1856

art by Roderick Maclver

paths which the mind travels

.

I left the woods for as good a reason as I went there.  

Perhaps it seemed to me that I had several more lives to live, 

and could not spare any more time for that one.  

It is remarkable how easily and insensibly we fall into a particular route, 

and make a beaten track for ourselves.  I had not lived there a week

 before my feet wore a path from my door to the pondside; 

and though it is five or six years since I trod it, it is still quite distinct... 

 

The surface of the earth is soft and impressible by the feet of men; 

and so with the paths which the mind travels.  How worn and dusty, 

then, must be the highways of the world, how deep the ruts 

of tradition and conformity! I did not wish to take a cabin passage,

 but rather to go before the mast and on the deck of the world, 

for there I could best see the moonlight amid the mountains. 

 I do not wish to go below now.

~ Henry David Thoreau

from the last chapter of Walden

art by van gogh

.

How invisibly

it changes color

in this world,

the flower

of the human heart.

~ Komachi

pebble

.

The pebble

is a perfect creature

equal to itself

mindful of its limits

filled exactly

with a pebbly meaning

with a scent which does not remind one of anything

does not frighten anything away does not arouse desire

its ardour and coldness

are just and full of dignity

I feel a heavy remorse

when I hold it in my hand 

and its noble body

is permeated by false warmth

-- Pebbles cannot be tamed

to the end they will look at us

with a calm and very clear eye

~ Zbigniew Herbert

translated by Czeslaw Milosz and Peter Dale Scott

I would like to describe

.

I would like to describe the simplest emotion

joy or sadness

but not as others do

reaching for shafts of rain or sun

I would like to describe a light

which is being born in me

but I know it does not resemble

any star

for it is not so bright

not so pure

and it is uncertain

I would like to describe courage

without dragging behind me a dusty lion

and also anxiety

without shaking a glass full of water

to put it another way 

I would give all metaphors

in return for one word

drawn out of my breast like a rib

for one word

contained within the boundaries

of my skin

but apparently this is not possible

and just to say - I love

I run around like mad 

picking up handfuls of birds

and my tenderness

which after all is not made of water

asks the water for a face

and anger

different from fire

borrows from it

a loquacious tongue

so is blurred

so is blurred

in me what white-haired gentlemen 

separated once and for all

and said

this is the subject

and this is the object

we fall asleep with one had under our head

and with the other in a mound of planets

our feet abandon us 

and taste the earth

with their tiny roots

which next morning

we tear out painfully

~ Zbigniew Herbert 

translated by Czeslaw Milosz and Peter Dale Scott

just being

.

Dharmakaya is not just expressed in words, in sounds.  It can express itself in just being.  Sometimes if we don't do anything, we help more than if we do a lot.  We call that non-action.  It is like the calm person on a small boat in a storm.  That person does not have to do much, just to be himself, and the situation can change.  That is also an aspect of Dharmakaya: not talking, not teaching, just being.

This is true not only of humans, but other species as well.   Look at the trees in our yard.  An oak tree is an oak tree.  That is all it has to do.   If an oak tree is less than an oak tree, then we are all in trouble.  Therefore, the oak tree is preaching the Dharma.

~ Thich Nhat Hanh

from Being Peace

the knower

.

By following any religion, 

cult or creed, 

one becomes inevitably conditioned, 

because one is obliged to conform and accept its disciplines, 

both physical and mental. 

One may get a little peace for some time, 

but such a peace will not last long. 

In your true nature, 

you are the knower of concepts and therefore 

prior to them.

~ Nisargadatta Maharaj

two washings

One morning in a strange bathroom

a woman tries again and again to wash the sleep 

from her eyelids' corners,

until she understands.  Ah, she thinks, it begins.

Then goes to put on the soup,

first rerinsing the beans, then lifting the cast-iron pot

back onto the stove with two steadying hands.

~ Jane Hirshfield

from After

I looked for my self

.

I looked for my self, but my self was gone.

The boundaries of my being

had disappeared in the sea.

Waves broke. Awareness rose again.

And a voice returned me to myself.

It always happens like this.

Sea turns on itself and foams,

and with every foaming bit

another body, another being takes form.

And when the sea sends word,

each foaming body

melts back to ocean-breath.

~ Rumi

translation by Coleman Barks

sketch by e.e. cummings

audible to all men, at all times, in all places

Silence is the communing of a conscious soul with itself.

If the soul attends for a moment to its own infinity, then and there is silence.

She is audible to all men, at all times, in all places, 

and if we will we may always hearken to her admonitions.

~ Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862)

from Thoreau and the Art of Life

art by Roderick Maclver

busy days

.

These were full and busy days...

This busy life is quite different from the shiftless leisure that shantyboaters are supposed to enjoy.  We became industrious and respected members of the community.  I even cut corn in the fall to get our winter's supply.  On Sundays we prepared for visitors.  I kept myself presentable, and did not become involved in any work which could not be dropped instantly.

This placed us in a new position with regard to the river.  Watching it from the shore, almost as a landsman, we might have felt a longing to drift with it again and, ever passing new shores,  make only brief stops along the way.  Yet we did not regret our present shore-bound life, rather we made the most of it; for the autumn and our departure would come soon enough.

~ Harlan Hubbard

from Shantyboat Journal

edited by Don Wallis

art by van gogh

the seer, though unseen

.

...the Imperishable.  It is neither big nor small, neither long nor short,
 neither hot nor cold, neither bright nor dark, neither air nor space. 
 It is without attachment, without taste, smell, or touch, without eyes, ears, 
tongue, mouth, breath, or mind, without movement, without limitation,
without inside or outside.  It consumes nothing, and nothing consumes it.

In perfect accord with the will of the Imperishable, sun and moon make their orbits;
 heaven and earth remain in place; moments, hours, days, nights, fortnights, 
months, and seasons become years; river starting from the snow-clad mountains 
flow east and west, north and south, to the sea.

Without knowing the Imperishable, whoever performs rites and ceremonies
 and undergoes austerities, even for many years, reaps little benefit,
 because rites, ceremonies, and austerities are all perishable.  Whosoever dies 
without knowing the Imperishable dies in a pitiable state; but those who know 
the Imperishable attain immortality when the body is shed at death.

The Imperishable is the seer, though unseen; the hearer, though unheard;
 the thinker, though unthought; the knower, though unknown. Nothing 
other than the Imperishable can see, hear, think, or know.  It is in
 the Imperishable that space is woven, warp and woof.

~  from the Brihadaranyaka Upanishad

translated by Eknath Easwaran

Some Further Words

Let me be plain with you, dear reader.

I am an old-fashioned man. I like

the world of nature despite its mortal

dangers. I like the domestic world

of humans, so long as it pays its debts

to the natural world, and keeps its bounds.

I like the promise of Heaven. My purpose

is a language that can repay just thanks

and honor for those gifts, a tongue

set free from fashionable lies.

Neither this world nor any of its places

is an "environment." And a house

for sale is not a "home." Economics

is not "science," nor "information" knowledge.

A knave with a degree is a knave. A fool

in a public office is not a "leader."

A rich thief is a thief. And the ghost

of Arthur Moore, who taught me Chaucer,

returns in the night to say again:

"Let me tell you something, boy.

An intellectual whore is a whore."

The world is babbled to pieces after

the divorce of things from their names.

Ceaseless preparation for war

is not peace. Health is not procured

by sale of medication, or purity

by the addition of poison. Science

at the bidding of the corporations

is knowledge reduced to merchandise;

it is a whoredom of the mind,

and so is the art that calls this "progress."

So is the cowardice that calls it "inevitable."

I think the issues of "identity" mostly

are poppycock. We are what we have done,

which includes our promises, includes

our hopes, but promises first. I know

a "fetus" is a human child.

I loved my children from the time

they were conceived, having loved

their mother, who loved them

from the time they were conceived

and before. Who are we to say

the world did not begin in love?

I would like to die in love as I was born,

and as myself of life impoverished go

into the love all flesh begins

and ends in. I don't like machines,

which are neither mortal nor immortal,

though I am constrained to use them.

(Thus the age perfects its clench.)

Some day they will be gone, and that

will be a glad and a holy day.

I mean the dire machines that run

by burning the world's body and

its breath. When I see an airplane

fuming through the once-pure sky

or a vehicle of the outer space

with its little inner space

imitating a star at night, I say,

"Get out of there!" as I would speak

to a fox or a thief in the henhouse.

When I hear the stock market has fallen,

I say, "Long live gravity! Long live

stupidity, error, and greed in the palaces

of fantasy capitalism!" I think

an economy should be based on thrift,

on taking care of things, not on theft,

usury, seduction, waste, and ruin.

My purpose is a language that can make us whole,

though mortal, ignorant, and small.

The world is whole beyond human knowing.

The body's life is its own, untouched

by the little clockwork of explanation.

I approve of death, when it comes in time

to the old. I don't want to five

on mortal terms forever, or survive

an hour as a cooling stew of pieces

of other people. I don't believe that life

or knowledge can be given by machines.

The machine economy has set afire

the household of the human soul,

and all the creatures are burning within it

"Intellectual property" names

the deed by which the mind is bought

and sold, the world enslaved. We

who do not own ourselves, being free,

own by theft what belongs to God,

to the living world, and equally

to us all. Or how can we own a part

of what we only can possess

entirely? Life is a gift we have

only by giving it back again.

Let us agree: "the laborer is worthy

of his hire," but he cannot own what he knows,

which must be freely told, or labor

dies with the laborer. The farmer

is worthy of the harvest made

in time, but he must leave the light

by which he planted, grew, and reaped,

the seed immortal in mortality,

freely to the time to come. The land

too he keeps by giving it up,

as the thinker receives and gives a thought,

as the singer sings in the common air.

I don't believe that "scientific genius"

in its naive assertions of power

is equal either to nature or

to human culture. Its thoughtless invasions

of the nuclei of atoms and cells

and this world's every habitation

have not brought us to the light

but sent us wandering farther through

the dark. Nor do I believe

.artistic genius" is the possession

of any artist. No one has made

the art by which one makes the works

of art. Each one who speaks speaks

as a convocation. We live as councils

of ghosts. It is not "human genius"

that makes us human, but an old love,

an old intelligence of the heart

we gather to us from the world,

from the creatures, from the angels

of inspiration, from the dead--

an intelligence merely nonexistent

to those who do not have it, but --

to those who have it more dear than life.

And just as tenderly to be known

are the affections that make a woman and a man

their household and their homeland one.

These too, though known, cannot be told

to those who do not know them, and fewer

of us learn them, year by year.

These affections are leaving the world

like the colors of extinct birds,

like the songs of a dead language.

Think of the genius of the animals,

every one truly what it is:

gnat, fox, minnow, swallow, each made

of light and luminous within itself.

They know (better than we do) how

to live in the places where they live.

And so I would like to be a true

human being, dear reader-a choice

not altogether possible now.

But this is what I'm for, the side

I'm on. And this is what you should

expect of me, as I expect it of

myself, though for realization we

may wait a thousand or a million years.

~ Wendell Berry

from the American Poetry Review (May/June 2002)