Upset in Real Life

cartoon reprinted from The New Yorker

For about a year, this blog was being reprinted on another website.  Not being a big star of the "interweb", as one of my young friends calls it, I appreciate the few readers I have, and every once in a while, someone comments on something I've written.

I was surprised that no-one ever commented on the reprinted blog entries, so I decided to check in and have a look to see if they were actually there.  And I discovered that people were indeed commenting on them -- it's just that this particular site doesn't moderate comments, and I wasn't set up to receive them in any case.  I've learned that this is a fairly common practice.

My biggest surprise, though, was the tone of the comments, nasty and confused, for the most part.  And the writers were all talking to each other, not to me.  My writing was a starting point for endless arguments about all things Dharma and Zen.  Everyone who wrote in hid behind a fake name, so there was no way for me to respond without adding to the public hoopla.

Chagrined and disappointed, I asked the person who maintains the site to remove my blog, which he did graciously and quickly.  But not before defending the style of the blog comments as a part of free speech, something he believes in very strongly.

As of course, do I.  But I have to say that I'm a fan of open, civil and transparent discourse.  Sometimes we strongly disagree with others, but we don't have to make a hobby of argument.  Nor do we need to hide our identity if there's something important we want to say.

And as they say on the interweb, this is just imho.

Teaspoon of Salt

One of my favorite metaphors for dealing with suffering is to compare the intensity of our pain to a teaspoon of salt.  When we put the salt in a small glass, the water is very salty.  When we put the same amount in a large bowl, the water is less salty.  And when we pour it into a lake, it doesn't do very much to change the saltiness of the lake water.

Having a big container (Joko Beck called this the ABC of Zen practice -- A Bigger Container) doesn't mean that we minimize or ignore our pain.  But held with a spacious view, we may find that our suffering can be borne just a wee bit more than we ever thought possible.  We even develop the capacity to touch the great pain of the world.  Rather than turn away, we can turn towards it, and then act in a way that takes it into account.

Recently, one of my students, Bob Waldinger, sent me this photo of the landscape of Patagonia, with the following comment: "When suffering arises, this is the kind of place that overwhelms that little teaspoon of salt."  Thanks for the photo and the thought, Bob!

Pope Francis, closet bodhisattva

While I know well that Pope Francis and I would disagree about many things, (don't get me started on ordination of women, same-sex marriage, and, well...I'll just stop right now...), I found these words, quoted in the current New Yorker article by James Carroll, reassuringly inspiring.

From the apostolic exhortation "The Joy of the Gospel":

"We want to enter fully into the fabric of society, sharing the lives of all, listening to their concerns, helping them materially and spiritually in  their needs, rejoicing with those who rejoice, weeping with those who weep; arm in arm with others, we are committed to building a new world."

Murmuration of Starlings

Amazing video of starlings in flight....thanks Anne Grete!

Boundless Way Zen Rohatsu Sesshin

photo Kate Hartland

A week ago, we completed our 5 day Rohatsu Sesshin at Boundless Way Temple.  Please enjoy the talks at this link, on the topic of Sengtsan's "The Heart of True Entrusting" (Hsin Hsin Ming) given by our four guiding teachers and some of our senior dharma teachers:

http://www.boundlesswayzen.org/recorded.htm.

Do Not Try This At Home

This video was posted on YouTube by Mercedes-Benz Japan, with the following note: 

"As Mercedes-Benz Japan demonstrates in their newest video, even the Buddhist monks well trained in the art of Zazen are shaken by the high-performance of the #A45AMG 4MATIC. Do you think you could keep your composure around the world’s most powerful 4-cylinder series production engine?" 

So, my question is, how bizarre is the modern world?  

My answer:  "Please see for yourself!"

Seeing the Face

Buddha with bodhisattvas, 5th century China, Worcester Art Museum

Last Wednesday I gave my first gallery talk at the Worcester Art Museum.  I sketched in the basics of Buddhism and Zen, and guided everyone in contemplation of the two stone carvings of the historical Buddha.  The photo at the left is of the first statue we contemplated, and below is the second.

Sitting in silence, with eyes closed...and then opening to receive the face of these carvings, done so many centuries ago in China by other human beings who had realized for themselves something that we can encounter today.  The group that had gathered for the talk all had interesting experiences, from feelings of resistance to a deep peacefulness, and everything in between.

Zen Master Wumen once said, "Seeing the face is better than hearing the name."  Of course, he also said, "Hearing the name is better than seeing the face."  To resolve this matter, I recommend reading the poem below by David Whyte.  (Suggested by Betty Spargo -- thanks Betty!)

The Faces at Braga
by David Whyte

Head of Buddha, 6th century China, Worcester Art Museum 

In monastery darkness
by the light of one flashlight
the old shrine room waits in silence.

While above the door
we see the terrible figure,
fierce eyes demanding.  “Will you step through?”

And the old monk leads us,
bent back nudging blackness
prayer beads in the hand that beckons.

We light the butter lamps
and bow, eyes blinking in the
pungent smoke, look up without a word,

see faces in meditation,
a hundred faces carved above,
eye lines wrinkled in the hand held light.

Such love in solid wood!
Taken from the hillsides and carved in silence
they have the vibrant stillness of those who made them.

Engulfed by the past
they have been neglected, but through
smoke and darkness they are like the flowers

we have seen growing
through the dust of eroded slopes,
their slowly opening faces turned toward the mountain.

Carved in devotion
their eyes have softened through the age
and their mouths curve through the delight of the carver’s hand.

If only our own faces
would allow the invisible carver’s hand
to bring the deep grain of love to the surface.

If only we knew
as the carver knew, how the flaws
in the wood led his searching chisel to the very core,

we would smile too
and not need faces immobilized
by fear and the weight of things undone.

When we fight with our failing
we ignore the entrance to the shrine itself
and wrestle with the guardian, fierce figure on the side of good.

And as we fight
our eyes are hooded with grief
and our mouths are dry with pain.

If only we could give ourselves
to the blows of the carver’s hands,
the lines in our faces would be the trace lines of rivers

feeding the sea
where voices meet, praising the features
of the mountain and the cloud and the sky.

Our faces would fall away
until we, growing younger toward death
every day, would gather all our flaws in celebration

to merge with them perfectly,
impossibly, wedded to our essence,
full of silence from the carver’s hand.


from “Where Many Rivers Meet”
Many Rivers Press
Langley, Washington
davidwhyte.com