Desolation Sound, British Columbia, 1978

(No. 48 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

Sometimes the context in which you must ask, “What way from here?” moves fast, may sometimes entail choosing among competing dangers or unknowns. You just act. And there is life, right in that moment. When everyday time resumes, that moment may be followed by a big smile, the shakes, or just a heartfelt, “Thanks!”

(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.)

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.)

Is now.

What vast sweep
this feeling has,
how rich with fear!
I let the waves tumble
and tumble
me into the sand.
Finally,
cast ashore,
I rise
naked
in the sun.

Anyone having the opportunity to body surf quickly discovers that the way to deal with a botched ride is to relax into the wave. I initially found this counterintuitive, tending to keep my neck and back stiff, head above water–resulting in my being repeatedly smacked against the bottom, breath knocked out or worse. This experience rapidly improves one’s technique, and yields a metaphor of value in surfing other waves.

Always something of a slow learner, it took me a long while to realize that the direct, sensory experience of suffering is a safe, sure portal to the soul.

We yell, stomp
our feet, haul
the catch of fish
and smile
at our children,
who dance and hoop
the sea’s energy.

For years I have enjoyed playing with a world rhythm band called “The People’s Rhythm Party.” We regularly perform at Seattle’s annual Northwest Folklife Festival, one of the largest such festivals in the U.S. This past year we were joined by “The Echo Chorus,” which is what the Seattle Japanese Choral Society calls itself.

We blended strong West African rhythms and melodies with a stirring rendition of “Soran Bushi,” an old fisherman’s work song which has been performed in musical theater in Japan for many years. It was well received with a vast amount of energy from the audience. A contingent of Japanese American young people danced in front of the crowd, and my own daughter led a small contingent of performance hoopers.

It was a fine day.

Orcas Island

It took me dedades to discover the cleansing, transforming value of tears. Not the tears of self-referential pain, but rather those stemming from sure knowledgde of the pain I have caused others, and myself. With time, this seems to lead to a grace of genuine sorrow.

Still, I dream,
and know the chaos
of not
knowing.

The sparrow
may sing
at any
moment.

(No. 6 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

Or, as one of my teachers (Robert Aitken) says, “a single spark can light your dharma candle”. Since such experiences always happen by accident, about the best we can do is make ourselves accident prone. Despite our steadfast resistance to accidents and unplanned experiences!

(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 lived just up the hill,
and I’d find him whenever I came looking,
on the beach or by his wood stove,
in year ‘round coveralls, sweater, wool hat.
He plied me with questions elders ask,
and I listened to stories of long-ago Iowa winters,
of a large German family, of manhood, marriage.
Of children, learning, teaching,
and the core
of Einstein’s science.

In the summers we’d sit by a beach fire
and sing. When he felt just right,
Schmitty would croon
Sigmund Romberg barbershop tunes.
Often he added the voices of
water-tuned beach bottles,
and, if inspired, would end
with a yodel. I’d laugh, shout, clap my hands.
He’d chuckle, smile.

As Schmitty’s emphysema worsened,
our visits helped free his mind
from laboring lungs.
When alone, he solved
quadratic equations just
to keep breathing.
Then he began telling me about
the curtain. Today,
today, I almost saw beyond
the gossamer curtain.
He spoke of it with increasing knowledge,
yet still the way
eluded him.

One day he told me
he had seen.
At last,
how simple,
how obvious:
The way through the curtain
is with song!
When I pass through
those gossamer folds,
I’m going to circle your place
and sing you a parting song.

I was young, and
couldn’t quite believe it,
any of it.

A few nights later a storm
leaned into Yeomalt Point.
Bushes scrabbled the sides
of my old cabin, maple branches
crashed onto the roof,
and the wind’s voice rose.

In the morning Schmitty’s body sat still
in his favorite chair, his wool hat
cocked over one eye,
a smile on
his creased face.

Here’s the beginning of a poem about Schmitty, an old German who was like an adopted grandfather to me, Therese (my wife at the time), and a selection of hippie flotsam who lived on Bainbridge Island in the mid-70s. It’s hard to overstate how influential he was to this motley crew of young friends. One of my favorite early pictures of Schmitty showed him walking down the beach with Therese (who was playing a recorder). Schmitty maintained that anything which washed up on the beach was a holy offering. He built funky little homes and shelters (the “inner sanctum”, the “round house”, his “wicki,” on the beach) at Yeomalt Point from these relics.

There is so much I could say about this man, but thirty years later, I see he taught me as much about dying as about living. I guess they go together!

When above and below the heavens,
only I am the world-honored one,
having nothing to do with myself;

When flowers appear on the earth,
the time of singing has come,
and the voice of the turtle dove is heard
in our land;

And when the time I am most attracted
to my mate is when
she is loving
herself;

Then, at last, I make haste to
my beloved,
and am like a gazelle
or young stag
upon the mountains
of spice.

Not to set the bar too high, but it seems to me that a healthy relationship has more to do with developed skill and spiritual development than with “love”, good sex, or any number of other things.