Seward, Alaska, 1952

(No. 62 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

Starting afresh in a new location is always a challenge to a kid, maybe especially one with no siblings.  I did this several times as a child–and learned, early on, that there is a place deep inside where we can go to survive.  Here, raw pain can somehow be handled–In My Room, as the Beach Boys once put it.  There may be an entry price; more importantly, it is vital not to get stuck there.  As ever, underlying the psychological impact is the essential experience of sitting alone under a solitary moon, even if lost and confused.  And it is in this sense that, even at such a impressionable time as described in this poem, “everyday is a good day,” as the old teaching story has it.

(Numeric reference to Han-shan’s poem reflects the order of presentation in Burton Watson’s translation, presented as Cold Mountain, Columbia University Press, 1970.)

She would come calling
when her path brought
her back to Seattle.
Late one night I returned
to my befuddled cabin
after a starry walk along the Sound.
Curled in my bed, she smiled hello—
I’ll stay the night.

By morning the bed sheets smelled
of firewood smoke
and the sea.

West Seattle, 1971

(No. 5 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

When I recently read this poem at a workshop, a young woman quietly included the following among her written comments: “I did this–this is how I got together with my husband.” Well, I wish her the depth of experience we had on our journey over the next 25 years–including raising a wonderful daughter, building a home together, wandering many mountains and rivers. And though there came a time when we chose to remove our rings and go separate ways, we remain dear friends and share an extended family.

(Numeric reference to Han-shan’s poem reflects the order of presentation in Burton Watson’s translation, presented as Cold Mountain, Columbia University Press, 1970.)

Eventually,
we blink.

Port Susan Bay, Mouth of the Stillaguamish

(No. 39 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

Occasionally I join some birder friends from work for an early morning outing.  We’re fortunate to live in an area where this is easily done.  On this day we visited land newly managed by the Nature Conservancy at the mouth of the Stillaguamish River–one of many local rivers in what Robert Sund called “Ish River Country”.

Call the encounter with that Great Horned an epiphany, a kensho experience, or another word with which you’re comfortable.  Such moments are gifts, and we are never quite the same afterward.

(Numeric reference to Han-shan’s poem reflects the order of presentation in Burton Watson’s translation, presented as Cold Mountain, Columbia University Press, 1970.)

(No. 96 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

So here we all sit, waiting for our “results.”

When to hold, when to fold?  How to try strongly to influence events, but with a view toward acceptance?  It seems to call for, as Stephen Mitchell once noted, a sort of double vision.  “Holding two contradictory views is like looking out of two eyes: the only way to achieve depth.”

Numeric reference to Han-shan’s poem reflects the order of presentation in Burton Watson’s translation, presented as Cold Mountain, Columbia University Press, 1970.)  Special note: No. 96 appears only in the Shambhala Pocket Classics edition of Burton Watson’s Cold Mountain.

Olympic Wilderness Coast, 2002

(No. 38 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

As Gary Snyder once observed, “when Han-shan talks about Cold Mountain, he means himself, his home, his state of mind.” Or, as Han-shan himself put it (in Red Pine’s translation of No. 68):

People ask the way to Cold Mountain
but roads don’t reach Cold Mountain
in summer the ice doesn’t melt
and the morning fog is too dense
how did someone like me arrive
our minds are not the same
if they were the same
you would be here

Snyder renders those last two lines as:

If your heart was like mine
You’d get it and be right here.

Right where, did he say?

Numeric reference to Han-shan’s poem reflects the order of presentation in Burton Watson’s translation, presented as Cold Mountain, Columbia University Press, 1970.)

A drip collects
in a plastic tub
placed on a shelf
in my bathroom.
Its source is not rain,
but cold condensation.
I need to fix it.
This wears on me.
To be honest,
containers collect water
in many rooms of my house.
Although it requires
energy to empty them,
many of the leaks
may never be repaired.

(No. 101 in a series of replies to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

Or, as Hakui Zenji concludes Song of Zazen,

this very place is the Lotus Land,
this very body, the Buddha.

(Numeric reference to Han-shan’s poem reflects the order of presentation in Burton Watson’s translation, presented as Cold Mountain, Columbia University Press, 1970.)

]]> http://www.dsbones.com/2009/realization-101/feed http://www.dsbones.com/2009/dokusan-56 http://www.dsbones.com/2009/dokusan-56#comments Sun, 25 Jan 2009 20:44:56 +0000 David Stallings http://www.dsbones.com/?p=112 Do one-breath zazen!
my Zen teacher would say
when I complained
I hadn’t  time
to meditate regularly.
He would probably approve
my placement of his new book
on the back of my toilet.
Since my prostate enlarged,
I pee more than I used to, making
for frequent short visits with
my old teacher.

*Dokusan—personal interview with the roshi during formal Zen practice

(No. 56 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

In my experience, Zen practice (and probably most such practices) eventually merges with everyday life.  Just look around.

Many koans clarify this point.  For example, Case 21 of the Mumonkan:

A monk asked Unmon, What is a Buddha?
Unmon said, Dried shitstick.

Answering a similar question, Joshu (Case 37, Mumonkan), replied, The oak tree in the garden.

(Numeric reference to Han-shan’s poem reflects the order of presentation in Burton Watson’s translation, presented as Cold Mountain, Columbia University Press, 1970.)

That night my mother tells me
he is gone forever.
I numb, suspend
in dry shock.
-Remember everything he taught you.
-He taught me exactly how to dry
between my legs after a bath.
I’ll remember.

And I do:
I saw the towel forward and backward
on both sides of my genitals.
It works well,
leaves my crotch
feeling tingly.

(No. 41 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

One of the few specific things I recall about my father was his instructing me how to towel between my legs. He and I would occasionally drive to a large, double-sized swimming pool in Murfreesboro, 30 miles southeast of our home in Nashville. On one of these outings, in the pool’s locker room, he imparted this wisdom. It was all I could think of in answer to my mother’s attempt to reassure both herself and me on the night he died.

This daily, post-showering ritual became part of my life long ago. Readying myself for a new day, an occasional shadow of grief or anger will surprise me, all these years later.

(Numeric reference to Han-shan’s poem reflects the order of presentation in Burton Watson’s translation, presented as Cold Mountain, Columbia University Press, 1970.)

I have an instant crush on
Natasha, the 19-year-old Russian
salad chef. She tells me
Mr. Wadsworth screws
Mr. Graney’s wife
all the time,
and doesn’t bother
to hide it.

Colorado Springs, 1957

A counselor friend talks about the intersection between adolescence and “unmoored knowledge.”  Not completely unfamiliar knowledge, most likely; rather this is the moment when you begin to more personally “get” the knowledge (and it gets you).  There are miles to go, maybe decades, before the “mooring” is very firmly attached, and then, of course, you have to let it go if you want a truly mature relationship!  Anyway, this poem looks at several levels of adolescent introduction to awareness of the complexity and carnality of the world. 

As a so-called quad Scorpio, I’m still coming to terms with this.

Colorado Springs, 1957

Wikipedia will tell you that the Pachuco “youth movement” grew out of Mexico in the 1930s and 40s.  Think zoot suits and a whole life style.  Along the Mexican border, young Hispanics (as Pachucos) defended themselves from some of the white servicemen stationed in that area.  By the mid-fifties the movement had spread all through the Hispanic southwestern U.S.  It evaporated by the early 70s.

In Colorado Springs, us white kids were afraid of Pachucos, or “Chukes” (”They carry knives,” we told each other).  I suspect the local Hispanic kids–who hung together, looked different, and were not all angels–were more “wannabes.”  The homemade, commonly seen “cross and rising sun” hand tattoo was probably more of a cultural referent.  However, among whites, including the local small business community, it was the sure mark of a “trouble maker punk,” or worse.

It was only when I entered the “world of work” at 14 that the vastness, diversity, and often unfairness, of this beautiful, fucked up world began to touch me.

By the way, a “D.A.” was a “duck’s ass”, or “duck tail”, haircut. Long on the sides, coming together in a sort of V part in the back. Hispanics’ wavy dark hair looked just fine in a D.A. Some of the rest of us had less luck with this mid-50s style.