After our welcome, introductions and check-in, we prepared
for meditation with a quote from Jean Klein: “It is a very high art to live
with silence and not touch it, not manipulate it with the already known, with
memory.”
At the conclusion of our meditation, we heard from Rilke:
You see, I want a lot.
Perhaps I want everything:
the darkness that comes with
every infinite fall
and the shivering blaze of
every step up.
So many live on and want
nothing
and are raised to the rank of
prince
by the slippery ease of their
light judgments.
But what you love to see are
faces
that do work and feel thirst…
You have not grown old, and it
is not too late
to dive into your increasing
depths
where life calmly gives out its
own secret.
(tr. Robert Bly)
For the
Dharma talk/reading, Sangha members took turns reading aloud several
traditional Zen stories. Before we began, I noted that one of the things I find
so appealing and satisfying about the Buddhism tradition is the many Zen
masters and practitioners who demonstrate deep wisdom, keen insight, and a kind
of playful, even mischievous imperturbability.
I noted that this wry humor comes across in
the koans, mind puzzles (“what
is the sound of one hand clapping?” and “what was your face before your mother
was born?”) intended to confound the discursive mind and make space for real
breakthroughs of insight and even enlightenment; in haikus, the short Japanese poems that often contrast two
distinctive images observed by the writer in some seasonal setting, like mist
and cranes in a pond in spring; and of course Zen stories or tales.
The three stories follow:
Maybe
There is
a Taoist story of an old farmer who had worked his crops for many years.
One day
his horse ran away. Upon hearing the news, his neighbors came to visit.
"Such
bad luck," they said sympathetically.
"Maybe,"
the farmer replied.
The next
morning the horse returned, bringing with it three other wild horses.
"How
wonderful," the neighbors exclaimed.
"Maybe,"
replied the old man.
The
following day, his son tried to ride one of the untamed horses, was thrown, and
broke his leg. The neighbors again came to offer their sympathy on his
misfortune.
"Maybe,"
answered the farmer.
The day
after, military officials came to the village to draft young men into the army.
Seeing that the son's leg was broken, they passed him by. The neighbors
congratulated the farmer on how well things had turned out.
"Maybe,"
said the farmer.
Crossing the River
Two
traveling monks reached a river where they met a beautiful young woman.
Wary of
the current, the woman asked if they would carry her across.
One of
the monks hesitated, but the other quickly picked her up onto his shoulders,
transported her across the water, and put her down on the other bank. She
thanked him, bowed, and departed.
As the
monks continued along their way, the second monk became sullen and preoccupied.
He kicked at the dirt on the path and frowned, completely lost in his thoughts.
Finally, unable to hold his silence, he spoke out.
"Brother,
our spiritual training teaches us to avoid any contact with women. But you
picked that one up on your shoulders and carried her!"
"Brother,"
the first monk replied, "I set her down on the other side, while you are
still carrying her."
Who Cares What You Think?
A young
man went to a zen master. After practicing for a time the student went off on
his own with instructions to faithfully send a letter to the master every
month, giving an account of his spiritual progress.
In the
first month the student wrote, “I now feel an expansion of consciousness and
experience of oneness with the universe.”
The
master glanced at the note and threw it away.
Next
month this is what the letter said: “I finally discovered the holiness that is
present in all things.”
The master
seemed vaguely disappointed.
A month
later, the disciple enthusiastically explained, “The mystery of the one and the
many has been revealed to my wondering gaze.”
The
master yawned.
Two
months later another letter arrived: “No one is born, no one lives, no one
dies, for the self is an illusion.”
The
master threw up his hands in despair, because each letter was asking for a
response, “Is this it? Is this it? Is this it?”
After
that, a month passed, then two, three, five, and then a whole year. The master
thought it was time to remind the disciple of his duty to keep him informed of
his spiritual progress. So he sent the student a letter. The disciple wrote
back, “Who cares what you think?”
When the
master read those words, a great look of satisfaction spread over his face.
“Finally, he got it!”
During announcements, I shared that our next sangha meeting
is in ICPL Room A from 1:30-3 p.m.
Sunday, June 19. I also noted that Sharon Salzberg, a Dharma teacher and
founder of the Insight Meditation Society in Massachusetts (along with people
like Tara Brach and Jack Kornfield), will be in Madison for a few events in
August, including a retreat.
At closing, I shared that the previous Saturday morning I
walked from my apartment to the Farmer’s Market downtown, and just as I was
leaving, I looked up and saw three herons soaring high above in the direction
of Hickory Hill Park. I’d never seen three together like that.
The sky was a little overcast and these great birds were
skimming the underbellies of the clouds, fading into the mist and then
reappearing, dreamlike, graceful, and large as pterodactyls.
It was one of those moments that strikes you, reminds you
how incredibly precious and lovely life is, and what a great fortune it is to
be alive here and now.
We forget, of course. The mind is like a puppy on the end of
a leash, going everywhere but straight, running back to the past, galloping off
to the future.
So we meditate. We breathe. We gather here every couple of
weeks when there are a hundred other things we could or perhaps should be
doing. We remember to slow down when we walk, when we eat, when others are
talking so we can listen deeply -- to bring them joy, to ease their suffering.
We strive to be mindful --
completely present in the best possible way to this precious and fleeting
moment.
We ended with a poem by Ellen
Bass called “If You Knew”:
What if you knew you’d be the last
to touch someone?
If you were taking tickets, for example,
at the theater, tearing them,
giving back the ragged stubs,
you might take care to touch that palm,
brush your fingertips
along the life line’s crease.
When a man pulls his wheeled suitcase
too slowly through the airport, when
the car in front of me doesn’t signal,
when the clerk at the pharmacy
won’t say Thank you, I don’t remember
they’re going to die.
A friend told me she’d been with her aunt.
They’d just had lunch and the waiter,
a young gay man with plum black eyes,
joked as he served the coffee, kissed
her aunt’s powdered cheek when they left.
Then they walked half a block and her aunt
dropped dead on the sidewalk.
How close does the dragon’s spume
have to come? How wide does the crack
in heaven have to split?
What would people look like
if we could see them as they are,
soaked in honey, stung and swollen,
reckless, pinned against time?
Bowing,
Stephen
