But for tonight, maybe I’ll just
cut one lovely stem
to cheer my dinner table.

________________________________

This red-osier dogwood is really something special.

I’m trying to write my way to healthiness in relationship with her, but may be in need of some green man, neo-paganism counseling.

(No. 67 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

Recently I chose to retire from my day job–well, OK, a career of many years in public transportation. Though daunting in some ways, this opportunity provided a chance to reflect deeply on the work and heartfelt sense of community that happens when one is fortunate to pursue “right livelihood” with a collection of bright, soulful people.
Before leaving, I interviewed an array of folks I have worked with for years, came to see more clearly how we have deeply and permanently affected each other. What a gift!

And now, the journey continues–further up and further in.

(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. 43 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

With luck and determination, one of the rewards of aging is learning from past relationships–which may occur through a sequence of partners, or with one person over time. Such learning leads inexorably to the challenge of fully showing up, being present to someone in a truly relational way. This takes everything you’ve got–all defenses put on exhibit, crying out to be known and managed.
For me, coming to more completely understand sexual loving is an important part of this relational journey.

(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.)

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)

This spring
families of bark beetles,
potato bugs, small spiders
are hard at work in their new
home.

Life giving phallus? Marauding cock? Both? Figuring this out has proven to be a lifetime’s work for me. And for many men.

By the end of this poem, it’s fair to ask, “what’s next?” a question for which I have no immediate answer. However, in the short run it looks like a pretty good deal for the bugs.

Moving the totem was interesting. It made for a protruding pickup load. I briefly considered entering it as a float in the local “Grand Old 4th (of July)” parade, but decided against it.

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.

For comment, let me offer a recent poem from Mary Oliver (who says, “In my sleep I dreamed this poem.”):

The Uses of Sorrow

Someone I loved once gave me
a box full of darkness.

It took me years to understand
that this, too, was a gift.

(No. 60 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

It’s odd, being single at my age. Full of all kinds of learnings, thanks to the insights of age. But there are those times like the one described here. Meanwhile, I am a slow adapter to technology. My daughter, like so many her age and younger, is a relatively early adapter. So, when her message showed up, I was delighted but clueless.

(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.)