When Zen master Fa-ch'an was dying, a squirrel screeched on the roof.
It's "just this" he said, "and nothing more."
Fire
So you walk into the classroom. If you were a boy scout or a sailor, you’d wet your finger and see which way the wind was blowing. That’s starting with a pure, plain white screen. You certainly can have a topic but curriculum seems to bind you to a particular approach to the topic. Suppose you approach the other as a pure white screen. At first you notice how they walk into the room, and then you notice how they are when they sit down. Are they ready for wonder and curiosity, or are they preoccupied with what happened last and how are we might be perceiving their constructed colorful screen?
When we sit in meditation we can construct the same pure white screen. We might have pictures on the wall, but we can pull down the screen and start there. When you clear your mind, what appears? What have you been obsessing about that is on your screen. You walk into the zendo? You bow to the zafu and then you bow to the room. Finally you are sitting and physically still. But where are you? Did you remember to even open the door? Did you get out of your car? What is on your screen?
You don’t have to worry about being bored. The whiter and purer the screen the more it will reflect the space around you. You’ll see everything in the room, including yourself. You’ll see your mother who hit you. You’ll see your father who deceived you. You’ll find your childhood pet who licked you on the face. The challenge is simply to watch the movie rather than to be in the movie. Typically you have nothing to add to the old stories. But you do have the opportunity to watch these thoughts as you might watch birds playing in a spring puddle, without “manipulation or judgement.”
—Kim Mosley
Buttoned Up
While sipping
the last of the pinon coffee,
and wondering when
my order for more would arrive,
I recalled my grandmother
saving coffee grounds
as nourishment for her garden.
She saved
everything.
She reused
the tin fruit cake container
as a button collection canister.
“My button box,” she called it.
I see
myself reverently empty the contents
onto her bedroom rug, sit cross-legged,
carefully considering each button:
celluloid, mother of pearl, glass
bone, silver, ivory, brass
I wondered
what they had held together
like memories and imaginings
now fastening me securely---
past relinquished---- future forming,
buttoned up in my center,
safely sealed together
in my soul.
—Judy Myers
Training Wheels
Training wheels cradle my ride
breaking my fall as I pump & glide
rocking from side to side, glide,
side to side, glide.
I put these wheels back on again
seeing how I was about to spin
out into fantasy land where I’d
fallen before and scraped my
shin, red ripped my skin, not
quite getting the art in my story,
falling apart.
Just when I thought this gradient
was stable and I wise, more than
able, then gears, cogs and bolts
went into a wobble. It was only
an illusion I’d cobbled from my
imagination, “if only” enabled.
Old view looking for new, expanding
horizon, while looking inward, inward,
inward, too. Perfect timing, with Covid
and all, to see what I can get to stick
to my future self wall. Not too late to learn
a new language … “Brute, et tu?”
—Martha Koock Ward
Ran
It is not what we see
in the bright shapes of the day--
a crinkled gold of sunshine
on flowers and steps,
a pond we walk by catching the sky
a watered lawn the right green.
These are there, of course,
and true in their way,
as is the gray of concrete,
rainy morning duty
where we rise with not enough sleep
and drink our coffee, shake our arms,
our shoulders, to rouse ourselves.
Look at the sunshine creeping
under the blinds, we say,
You can do this—get out there!
But behind all that—the sun catching
rainbow on the drops from the sprinkler,
the paper we draw from our briefcases—
lies an ocean that sun and paper
float in, a dark they rise out of, like islands.
An antelope runs the plain.
It leaps the absence,
the gap,
the lightless fjords between the known.
Its body—not-body—is a black possibility,
a night that turns into the face of day
that turns into so many things—faces
and oranges and isthmuses,
crowded onto our mainland of the real.
Beyond it float fragments and wires
of the ungraspable,
an island of fog
where the unnamed and the unnameable
rub against each other in the mist
and the broad water beyond it all,
the deep below things and their names,
the black of everythingalltogether
not yet born
ready to rise.
—Sarah Webb, 11/16/20
Meteor
Ooh, coming right at us
the slam!
It
hurls us upside
down
and sideways
splashes a thousand
ponds
into the clouds
steams us
wrings us
topples
buildings to house-
shapes
under the sand
walls
the archaeologists can puzzle over—
why?
Oh, why not?
mutter lava
and melted coins
A tree stands here and a
segment of
brook
Maybe a mountain range
can make it through
a child
a deer
or two.
Sarah Webb 11-2-20
Teeth
Lively, happy, the Earth.
Passage
Dilruba Amedq, “Bring Now the Angels”
Vultures, blackly elegant, glide across the lake,
making their way home along alleys of cloud.
We swivel below, craning to see their loose ranks pass over.
So many!
Where have they come from
in the far trees, the dark beyond the water?
where are they headed?
And do they leave us soon?
Is that why they have gathered in their great flock
finding each other for comfort in a long journey?
We see the birds above us, starting
south or deep, or simply fading,
the air holding their imprint for a while.
A day or so ago we watched a skein of white
a V that unraveled and re-formed
against the pale, blue-white of sky,
the rubbed stain of cloud.
We stilled to watch them as they passed.
Leaving, so many are leaving,
the warmth and movement of their mutual bodies
holding them aloft, giving them strength:
pines drying on mountain slopes, long
ranks turning red and then gray,
teeming water turned turbid and still
and schools of silver fled out in currents
that lead them who knows where.
It is said the skies of the continent
filled and darkened with the passage of birds,
the ground shook with running hooves.
Where are they going, our great ones,
our innocents?
A bird hops over the flagstones outside my screen door,
his tail perked high.
Will you go too, little one?
And can you ever return?
The Dream
We tuck our dreams into broken
walls. Each seeds a prayer, sprouts like
a moonbeam, vining toward outposts
for the living.
Bring the healer, the howler, the
listening ear, to break the spell
keeping us here, wreckage on
the path to hell.
Weave a nest spinning gold
for all the birds of passage.
The shuttle waits to bear us away from
the pain of disdain, and sword-eaters
who swallow fire, show us a new flame.
We test our pulse as we sleep.
Dreams bring divine messengers
who summon the grace needed to
transform those buried, burnt,
tied to stones, to be bound
hence forth by love alone.
No longer slaves, we embark
beyond this grave where hatred,
fear & lies held sway.
We rise, rise & sing, joyously sing,
wisely, remembering everything.
—Martha Koock Ward
Angels Among Us
We wish to see.
Angels all, we yearn to be.
And when we look
Both near and far,
We find that some
Already are.
—Paul Causey
Did the Angels Ever Come?
Who will be left standing?
When the sun sets for the last time on humanity,
Who will grieve for our loss?
Who will be left to tell our story?
And will the angels remember what we've done?
My Butterfly Song
I was growing and changing.
Sometimes I had to struggle to adapt
to my changing size and shape, my wants and needs.
The changes seemed natural.
Some happened outside of my control.
Limitations of money, of location, of mobility, of age,
could all be overcome or shape my adaptations.
I slumbered, nourished and protected.
When I entered the world of the caterpillar everything changed.
I had changed.
Now danger and death had become part of my world.
There was no way to go back to sleep again
and expect to wake up where I was before.
There was no “do over.”
My responsibilities were to survive and manage
the changing challenges of each new day.
To meet each new revelation:
inequality, systemic racism, selfishness, corruption.
I have no map or time table for my journey.
My brain and my body must find my path;
I am in survival mode.
Who could have imagined this new life?
Who could have prepared us?
We need a whole new set of skills as we adapt.
Reading and listening,
Now must include finding and evaluating the sources of information.
Mathematics
Now must include evaluating how the numbers are being manipulated
to spin the conclusions.
History
Now must include recognizing “the facts” which are included and excluded...
Social Studies
Now must include an understanding of the assumptions
about people, justice, freedom and happiness
on which they are based.
The Arts
Now must have a valued role in everyday life.
I approach this new feast as a guest.
I will be moderate and grateful
as I visit each flower
trying out my new wings.
—Laura A. Smith
Dancer
—Martha Ward
H.E.R.O.N
Today I swam, silent, behind my daughter
through cool water, the wind a touch,
riding low waves, green and silver,
following the signs she is teaching me
in my new deafness: H.e.r.o.n. D.o.c.k. Come.
Her head bobbed, a dark seal, past Jean's dock
and submerged rocks, out onto the open lake
and the rougher waters of the drowned river channel,
Tim's pier then and the neighbors' past, and there, See.
A gray shape under the silver Xs of the pipes,
stilt-legged, slow. The heron.
And my daughter tracking him.
She turned to point and I bobbed my fist to say, Yes.
Yes, I see him. Yes, I see you. You have led me to a good place.
She raised her camera in its pouch,
head and camera blending in the bright of the water.
He stepped along the shore, and she followed.
Brown against brown, I saw her take her shot,
shadow stepping into light, the jab for fish,
then, tall against blue and cloud, head lifted,
iconic bird of water and rock and sky.
Heron and girl fixed in my gaze.
I saw her glide to the bird through the silver, close,
so close she looked up to see him and I marveled he did not take flight.
And I took my own picture, having no instrument but my heart
to say, Look and remember: here is the one I have loved in this life
learning to see, learning to live.
—Sarah Webb
—Heron by Amanda Webb





