A Clay Jug Full of Canyons

Today was prop up your good friends day, which I am always more than happy to do. One of the people who needed propping was really at the end of her rope already when she had some old, icky business rear it's head.

"I thought I was done with this! I thought it was out of my life and I wouldn't have to deal with it anymore!" When she was done with her well-deserved freak out, I told her that now I was going to "go all Buddhist on her ass." And proceeded to do so. The reason I did was that what she said clearly resonated for me with what was on my mind with yesterday's post.

Kabir wrote about the clay jug which can contain mountains and canyons and the tools we need to test our mettle (or metal), because we contain everything. All our experiences, every lake we've gazed at, every leaf we've raked, every eclipse we've watched, they exist inside and outside us. We contain them entirely. No matter how many things we make part of our experience, part of us, there is infinite space left.

The upshot of this is that we cannot leave behind our experiences as we contain them, but that bad relationship, tragically embarrassing experience, or profoundly moving moment mean no more, or more less than that moon, that canyon, that raked leaf. They all just are.

Fingers Pointing to the Moon

Inside this clay jug there are canyons and pine mountains,
and the makers of canyons and pine mountains!
All seven oceans are inside, and hundreds of millions of stars.
The acid that tests gold is there, and the one that judges jewels.
And the music from the strings that no one touches, and the source of all water.

- Kabir (translation by Robert Bly)

I met Erik Storlie Sunday at the MZMC; he was the guest speaker for the Dharma talk and, I learned, one of the founders of MZMC. He shared the Kabir poem above as an example of how we are infinite in scope. Usually, Zen poetry is used to illustrate Zen principles, but although Kabir is many things, a Zen Buddhist is not one of them.

In addition to this poem, he made a reference to the concept of enough (Dayenu) from the Pesach seder. It did my heart so much good to hear him draw from a multiple outside sources. Immersing myself in comparative religion has been an avocation of mine for many years. When I am concentrating on getting clarity on spiritual and philosophical issues, I draw from my exposure to a wide variety of world religions, but Buddhism, most especially Zen Buddhism tends to draw somewhat exclusively from their own (admittedly large) pool of texts and poetry. It was comforting to see someone else feeling free to look outside the proverbial temple for inspiration.

There is a famous teaching that the teachings of the Buddha are like a finger pointing at the moon. Having Judaism, Hinduism, earth spirituality, Sufism, etc. from which to draw from feels like I have many friends with me, all pointing. It seems to me that the more fingers that are pointing, the more easily I can find the moon.

The Place Where You Live

I was cooking some wild rice today and it took me into a place of considering food and place. (If you live in Minnesota, you know that there is no food stuff more associated with this place than wild rice.)

A couple of Septembers ago, my friend Richard was visiting from Hawaii and I said something about, "Oo - it's getting to be risotto season!" To which he responded, "Risotto has a season?" I had to explain to him that when you live in a place where you have seasons, and the temperature can vary as much as 135 deg.F (this is not an exaggeration) over the course of a year, you don't cook things like risotto in the summer (or chili for that matter). He had a real "Aha" moment about place and food; I could see the gears clicking together in his head.

This, then brings me to examining my relationship to place. I've always lived somewhere with seasons; distinct, extreme, defined seasons. I wonder how my life would be different if I lived at a different geography. Somewhere where seasons manifest differently - or, as in Hawaii, there is only one. I cook so seasonally that I wonder how my meals would be different. Would I never make chicken soup again? Would I cook like it was summer all the time or would I adjust to the sameness and begin to vary my menu? As it is, I absolutely cannot eat asparagus out of season; it's just too weird for me, so I must contemplate my relationship to locality and seasonality would be.

Richard was dying for fresh apples when he was here (for which it was, unfortunately, too early). Funny to think of apples as exotic.

My birthday is at the beginning of September, so I am curious as to whether my relationship with my birthday would be different. By the end of August, I am a bit tired of summer, so I wonder if I would tire of the sameness of the seasons or if I would miss the anticipation of the change.

"Stand in the place where you live. Now face north. Think about direction and wonder why you haven't. Stand in the place where you work. Now face West. Think about the place where you live and wonder why you haven't before." – "Stand" by REM.

A Rest Stop in the State of the Sublime

An Adobe Abode
Translation is such a tricky thing. Pali is the original language of the buddhist liturgy and is, essentially, a dead language. Combine this with the cultural gap between modern Westerners and ancient South Asians and translation becomes a tricky thing.

I have a particular interest in the Brahma Viharas which is frequently translated as the "Divine" or "Sublime" Abodes or Abidings, and they are Compassion, Equanimity, Loving Kindness, and Sympathetic Joy (again, there are some translation considerations here).

I felt compelled to get clear about what, exactly, "Abode" or "Abidings" mean. Since translations are the purview of academics, I wanted to see what the linguistics of this phrase are, sending me into Dorky Fascination No. 28: Etymology.

My understanding of the word "abode" was pretty limited, as it (embarrassingly) turns out. I thought that it meant "residence" and "abide" meant "tolerate". I'm not sure how I reconciled the two; basically, I guess I just didn't bother. Although my translations were not incorrect, they were incomplete. "Abode" also means: "stay or continuance in a place; sojourn". Not entirely different from my definition, but different enough in important ways. Abode implies an impermanent resting place. The connotations of this are initially disconcerting. After all, if these are sublime ways of being, aren't they the state we must be in all the time? But if we look at "abide", which in verb form is the present tense of "abode", it can be defined, "To remain stable or fixed in some state or condition; to continue; to remain."

I am taking to a place where I see a place of rest, stability. This is a state where we can find respite. It is an opportunity for repose. When the frustration or dismay over striving to make the Divine Abodes a permanent state of being becomes disconcerting, we can remind ourselves that we can go to them as an interlude or breathing space. Then, be with, enjoy, and appreciate the moments we find ourselves there.