I leave the bookstore,
not knowing what
to make of this performance.

Walking toward a bus stop,
I cross a side
lane, where a driver waits to enter
North 45th Street. Thinking he sees me,
I step in front
as he accelerates.
I leap onto his car hood,
screaming. He brakes, and I land
safely on my feet.
He speeds away.

I have just the strength
of the utility pole I lean against,
my breath,
and the cool night
air.

(No. 94 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

As Han-shan puts it, “Only when the mind is free of care/can the light of understanding shine/in every corner.”

(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.)

Big Quil watershed, Olympic Mountains, October, 2000

(No. 69 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

There is no better water on the planet than that which flows so purely from The Source, located near Camp Mystery, just below Marmot Pass, in the northeast Olympics. A poet friend, who knows the area well, calls this little spring The Mother of All Waters.

The day started clear and warm. We ate a late lunch, took a long nap, woke in heavy fog. We could not find our way down the ridge, simple as it seemed. After drifting way off course, and finally realizing it, Dane and I spotted, hundreds of feet below, a trail segment through a brief opening in the fog. We took a quick compass reading and, in last light, eventually emerged from a steep, wooded hillside precisely at The Source.

The focused attention, relief, exhilaration and deep appreciation of this experience are with me to this day. Kwan Yin (Sanskrit: Avalokiteshvara– “She who hears the cries of the world”) was listening.  Isn’t she always?

Or, as Han-shan says, There it is, in the midst of Nothing!

(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.)

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. 82):

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.)

*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.)

The mountain itself—
unchanging.

(No. 82 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

Mt. Ellinor is in the southeastern Olympic Mountains, another favorite of us locals. It’s a steep climb, but there’s an improved trail to the top which makes it accessible. On this holiday a dramatic shift in weather occurred, catching many visitors ill-prepared.

Cold Mountain No. 82 (Burton Watson translation) is one of the most familiar of Han-shan’s poems:

People ask the way to Cold Mountain.
Cold Mountain? There is no road that goes through.
Even in summer the ice doesn’t melt;
Though the sun comes out, the fog is blinding.
How can you hope to get there by aping me?
Your heart and mine are not alike.
If your heart were the same as mine,
Then you could journey to the very center!

More than almost any of Han-shan’s poems, this one should probably be approached as a koan, a sort of Zen teaching story that typically puts you between a rock and a hard spot, a box canyon with no way out. So a Zen teacher might demand, “Show me Cold Mountain!” As ever, it is right beneath your feet–even as you get the hell off Mt. Ellinor while the getting is good!

(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.)

Fingers brush my left hand—
a question I lightly
answer. We forage a silent path
within deep woods,
curl around each other,
nurture ourselves
with minute movements.
Forever.

When we must rise
I kiss her ear, Thanks—
and let go.

(A response to Zen Master Ikkyu’s 15th century Poem Presented to My Friend Ako at the Hot Spring)

It was the penultimate day of 2007–no better time to unlimber Gabrielle Roth’s “5 Rhythms” to dance out the old year and welcome the new one. On that dance floor dojo and in the delicacy of that hand I experienced a reawakening.

Here’s that old rascal, Ikkyu:

Poem Presented to My Friend Ako at the Hot Spring

It is nice to get a glimpse of a lady bathing–
you scrubbed your flower face and cleansed your lovely body
while this old monk sat in the hot water,
feeling more blessed than even the emperor of China!

(trans. John Stevens)

(No. 79 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

You might well ask why a fellow with Buddhist inclinations even had a nearby can of hornet and wasp spray. Perhaps because I’m practical, or maybe for the same reason the Polistes fuscatus has repetitive stinging capacity. In short, I don’t know.

But in much the same way that Poe’s fisherman was saved from a giant Atlantic vortex (in A Descent Into the Maelstrom) by his sense of the whirlpool’s beauty and awe, here was a moment of complete, eye-level realization of the exquisiteness of another species.

(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.)

Once I offered
this truth as a quilt
patch, a blessing
for my Zen teacher,
who was getting married.
Her husband proved
to be alcoholic,
and the marriage
soon ended.

Years later,
my bowl
of oatmeal
remains
a comfort,
but a hug
surely would
improve its
taste.

I would not have believed myself likely to be a single old feller at this stage of life. But we are offered an endless series of opportunities to change and grow, and this is my current hand.

Once, I put aside my regular koan study with this teacher, a former nun, and dealt with a series of relatively rare sexual koans. It was an unlikely arrangement, but well worth the detour. During this process, I had discussed the homily in this poem with her. The quilt patch simply portrayed a heart and a steaming bowl of oatmeal. The resulting quilt, a gift project organized by our sangha, was colorful and covered the waterfront of topics.

Each facet of the crystal mediates
his thoughts and feelings
about himself, family, others.
He surveys the zeitgeist,
adjusts his attitudes,
offers a palette of caring
colors to relieve
the stress of others.
He believes this makes
the world a better
place.

Although the prospect
of death is worrisome,
his vague sense of Buddhism
and healthy constitution
allow him to hold such
thoughts at a distance.
He may still believe that he
will live
forever.

This is one of my many selves. He has a counterpart in a more childish, emotional side that desperately longs for everything to be OK. Both entities have a huge investment in avoiding basic fears and various primordial oozes. Fortunately, these are all embraced by yet another fellow who helps steady the ship with love, integration, and relationship.

Good grief.

My friend Tatsuda told me
I should make a list
of fifty things I want to do.
She mentioned this because we’re
getting older, and, besides,
she has a friend with prostate cancer.
He’s an engineer who only
came up with twelve items.

Build a Habitat house; visit France.
Practice yoga; learn a language.

At first I was reluctant.
Too technique-y. Afraid of failure;
of success. Would I have to do each
thing perfectly, the first time?

Learn to fly an airplane; read history; visit the Galapagos.
Read the Koran; own a Harley; visit Cold Mountain in China.

I started.
Just to humor Tatsuda.
Now I can’t stop. So what
if I never do most of them?
Measure this man by his intentions,
not just his deeds.

Study natural history; make love with an opium suppository; kayak; get a dog.
See a Broadway play; hike the Southwest deserts; own a hybrid car; die consciously.

I was having a hard time getting going on the list of 50 items. And then, a couple of weeks later, I was at a week-long zen retreat. After 3 or 4 days of silence, the initial list of 50 poured out in 10 minutes. Ah, the value of silence!