of the limitless sky

The true person is
Not anyone in particular;
But, like the deep blue color
Of the limitless sky,
It is everyone, everywhere in the world.

~  Eihei Dogen

at the core of delusion

  

We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.

~ Kurt Vonnegut 

from Mother Night

 

still I wonder: isn’t there a rock-solid unchanging

 “me” 

hidden somewhere underneath it all?

This unexamined self feels like an isolated, self-sufficient, permanent individual, 

essentially separate from others and all that surrounds it. Yet even a few moments

 of self-reflection suggests otherwise. My body is not the same as when I was eight

 or eighteen years old. If all humans are mortal, then my life will also end,

 exact time of departure unknown. Similarly, all my feelings of happiness and sadness

 come and go, arise and cease, changing gradually or suddenly,

 but always, inevitably, changing.

Looking closely, I also see that I’m not a self-contained, entirely independent individual.

 I need food, water, and air to survive. I speak and write a language generously passed on to me 

by others from long ago. I engage in everyday activities that were all part of my cultural training

 from childhood onward: brushing my teeth, exchanging greetings of “good morning”

 and saying “good night,” attending ceremonies, weddings, funerals.

Even at the most basic level of existence, I did not arise as a spontaneous,

 self-created human being. I was born and nurtured through the union and love 

of my parents, and they are also descendants of many ancestors before them.

 We are all “dependently related” beings, developing and aging in rapidly changing societies.

When we conduct our lives as though, all evidence to the contrary, we are separate,

 permanent, unitary selves, we find ourselves constantly living in fear of the large,

 looming shadow of change. Actions based on a mistaken sense of self, or “ego,”

 as an unchanging, isolated essence are filled with anxious struggle.

 We fight many futile battles against the way things actually are. How are they really?

 They are changing, connected, fluid. It’s as though we are standing waist-deep

 in the middle of a rushing river, our arms outstretched wide,

 straining to stop the flow.

This mistaken sense of self arises as a solidified set of beliefs about who we are

 and how the world is. When we proceed on that basis, all our life experiences are filtered

 through a rigorous, simplistic, for-and-against screening process:

 “Will this person or event enhance my permanent sense of self? 

Will this encounter threaten the ideas I’ve already accumulated?”

 

 Believing the inner voice of deception, we grasp and defend and ignore in service to an illusion,

 causing suffering for ourselves and others.

Letting go of the false sense of self feels liberating, like being released from a claustrophobic prison

 of mistaken view. What a relief to discover that we don’t have to pretend to be something 

we’re not! The initially surprising and challenging news of “no solid self” 

turns out to be a gentle invitation into a more spacious approach to living

 and being with others. Releasing fixation on permanence goes hand in hand

 with taking brave steps toward more communication and harmony in our lives,

 our actions, our relationships, and our work.

We might call this fluid inter-being an “open self,” one that is more sensitive

 to other living beings and nature. This open sense of self allows us to proceed from empathy

 and compassion for ourselves and for those suffering around us and elsewhere.

 With the dissolving of the seemingly solid walls of ego’s fragile tower, our experience is porous

 and permeable, less cut off and isolated. As we gradually release the old commitment

 to conquering the unconquerable, to denying the undeniable, we explore the many genuine

 and fresh possibilities in our ever-changing situation.

 

 

 

 

 

~  Gaylon Ferguson

 

 

gate A-4

 

Wandering around the Albuquerque Airport Terminal, after learning my flight had been delayed

four hours, I heard an announcement: “If anyone in the vicinity of Gate A-4 understands any

Arabic, please come to the gate immediately.” Well— one pauses these days. Gate A-4 was my

own gate. I went there.

An older woman in full traditional Palestinian embroidered dress, just like my grandma wore,

was crumpled to the floor, wailing. “Help,” said the flight agent. “Talk to her. What is her

problem? We told her the flight was going to be late and she did this.”

I stooped to put my arm around the woman and spoke haltingly. “Shu-dow-a, shu-bid-uck,

habibti? Stani schway, min fadlick, shu-bit-se-wee?” The minute she heard any words she knew,

however poorly used, she stopped crying. She thought the flight had been cancelled entirely.

She needed to be in El Paso for major medical treatment the next day. I said, “No, we’re fine,

you’ll get there, just late, who is picking you up? Let’s call him.”

We called her son; I spoke with him in English. I told him I would stay with his mother till we got

on the plane. She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it. Then we

called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and found out of course they had ten

shared friends. Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian poets I know

and let them chat with her? This all took up two hours.

She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life, patting my knee, answering questions.

She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies— little powdered sugar crumbly mounds

stuffed with dates and nuts— from her bag and was offering them to all the women at the gate.

To my amazement, not a single traveler declined one. It was like a sacrament. The traveler from

Argentina, the mom from California, the lovely woman from Laredo— we were all covered with

the same powdered sugar. And smiling. There is no better cookie.

Then the airline broke out free apple juice and two little girls from our flight ran around serving

it and they were covered with powdered sugar too. And I noticed my new best friend— by now

we were holding hands— had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing, with

green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always carry a plant. Always stay

rooted to somewhere.

And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought, this is the world I want to

live in. The shared world. Not a single person in that gate— once the crying of confusion

stopped— seemed apprehensive about any other person. They took the cookies. I wanted to

hug all those other women too. This can still happen anywhere. Not everything is lost.

~ Naomi Shihab Nye

effortlessly

 

Effortlessly,

Love flows from God into man,

Like a bird

Who rivers the air

Without moving her wings.

Thus we move in His world

One in body and soul,

Though outwardly separate in form.

As the Source strikes the note,

Humanity sings --

The Holy Spirit is our harpist,

And all strings

Which are touched in Love

Must sound.

~ Mechthild of Magdeburg

from The Enlightened Heart: 

An Anthology of Sacred Poetry

 by Stephen Mitchell

with thanks to Poetry Chaikhana