Flowers and So Much More

 “The flowers are losing their petals and all too fast they fade.”

Did Mahakasyapa smile at the flower in its peak, knowing that that was all there is, the peak of their existence? Or did he smile having been reminded fondly of a dream he once had that faded as he journeyed along on his pilgrimage through life?

When we are young, we have all kinds of dreams, all kinds of plans, paths to destinations unknown. The paths are familiar friends we carry along with us for a while until we find new paths, new dreams, new loves.

Perhaps Mahakasyapa smiled because the flower reminded him of someone in his past or some dream still yet to be fulfilled.

I do not think that flowers, blooming year after year, reflect all there is, but more of what can be. They speak of growth to come and are a harbinger of longevity and strength, the “green” of growing things. I think Mahakasyapa knew this and saw well beyond the impermanence of things into the permanence of all there is.

Perhaps Mahakasyapa saw in that instant the hope of humankind and smiled that the path ahead was illuminated by the whole plant projecting its beauty and life ahead of itself. Look! I am alive! And I will carry on!

What sign do we give as humans that is just as powerful? Just as sincere and true as that of the flower?

There is none, but a smile.

—Paul Causey

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—Kim Mosley

Cherry Blossoms

Pink, dainty, water-colored flowers, splashed against a white background, propped deliberately on brown, twisty vines that swirl around each other in an open embrace,

A dance that both connects and disconnects at the same time.

The small buds top a procession up the thin, brown surface, where more mature blooms sit, open and bright.

They reach, curved toward a sun-filled sky. Both the vines and blooms create a beauty that withstands time and brings me joy each moment I see them.

—Ivory Smith

A Cast Heron

A bronze bird, this heron belonged to my mother. 
It frowned at me from behind the lamp, 
the line of the eye slanting down to its long beak.
On my lap, its tail of three feathers dig into the soft of my hand. 
Clawed feet poke my leg.
It has never been a comfortable bird. 
Its cast metal feet teeter and make it crash,
but the artisan has taken care to make the feathers flow
over the curve of its body, stylized yet right for the breed.
Its legs curve, limber and strong, as if it could push off into flight.

Wiping the dust from its side, I find a tiny feather, 

cobweb light and grey, a magical thing,

as if this bird were trying to be more fully bird. 

My breath blows it away.

It’s a reminder of the heron we see from our living room window,
one of a long lineage, on the neighbor’s dock for forty years.
My mother’s bird. Turning it over, I see with a small shock
her name. D.Webb, written with careless marker on the belly.
The label must be from the nursing home, from her last days.
So much lost in the fog of time. It is old enough for white corrosion
where the solder joins the legs to the hollow body
and in spots between the wings on the back.

So like my mother—awkward and difficult but with her own beauty.

I run my handkerchief along the back. 

It feels like petting a cat.

—Sarah Webb

Let Me Know I'm Here

Let me know I’m here. I fumble 

in the morning dark. And, as familiar

as a grackle lighting on a sign, I light

upon the textured knob of the lamp, 

at my desk. On. It knows I’m here.

It reveals my last thoughts, actions, in-
actions before I went to bed. Chaos or
order, a to-do list, or tucks of days of 
forgotten solicitations, to which 
I’ve meant to respond, and haven’t. 

I finger for the braille patch, at the rear of
the computer screen, press it. On. It knows 
I’m here. Next, to the kitchen, the 
electric kettle filled with water, I push
down the tongue shaped lever. On. It
knows I’m here. 

I open the back door, step out on
the blue porch, look for the morning
star, the first hint of light. On. It knows 
I am here. 

Opening to the little joys of

morning rituals. I know I’m here.

—Martha Koock Ward

Things That Didn’t Get Put on My Resume

I too read the tales of Narnia and the Ring Trilogy as well as the Wheel of Time, the tales of the Dark Elf, Drizzt Do’Urden to name a few. I didn’t put them on my resume because there were other things more important.

Like bouncing my children on my knee while plowing a field in preparation for planting; or showing them how to lure crawfish out of their mud houses in the road ditch; or how to bait a hook with a worm or grasshopper. I didn’t put that on my resume either because there were other things more important for the job.

Like knowing how to put a band-aid on a skinned knee, or providing reassurance that monsters were not under the bed and later helping to mend a broken heart. Or taking care of aging parents, organizing medications, and coordinating doctor’s visits, or laying them to rest when their time had come.

But I did not put these things on my resume either because, well, it just seemed that employers didn’t really care about these things; those things that make us human.

Not that it matters now, but there were a lot of things that did not get on the resume. Things that I was good at; things I wouldn’t change for the world.

Maybe these things didn’t get on the resume because I didn’t want them to know who I really am.

—Paul Causey

Inspired by “Things You Didn’t Put on Your Resumé” by Joyce Sutphen

It's Always the Animals

There was a time when I used to know what the animals were thinking; what they felt and knew about our universe. There was a time when I felt a part of all there is, was and ever will be. It must have been in a previous lifetime; or maybe it was simply a dream.

The connection I once had is so tenuous now it seems hardly real. Every now and then, I'll watch a hawk glide over its domain in search of prey and feel like I can see forever. I feel the wind flow over and under my wings lifting me higher until the sticker in my butt brings me rushing back to earth.

Whatever happened to our connection must have been truly traumatic for the animals, for they have been skittish ever since. They must be wondering what they did to upset those humans so much that they have separated themselves from the rest of the universe; to isolate themselves from the source of what "is." I imagine that they are sad, for this world could be so much more with a little help from their lost brothers.

I wonder if the animals remember the ark and the rain and the floods and were afraid. I wonder if they are afraid now whenever it begins to rain. I've got to go now. It's starting to sprinkle.

—Paul Causey

Inspired by “It Was the Animals” by Natalie Diaz

Frogs Estivating

Breathe. In. Out. Become love. 

The frogs once singing loudly their love and adulation of living are silent now. They did not fail
even though I knew their singing would not last. They have gone underground, buried beneath
layer upon layer of Mother Earth's love. Hibernating perhaps, or maybe estivating if it's in their
nature. I like to think they are meditating deeply and have become one with the universe. I wish
that I could meditate so deeply, so peacefully and become one with —who? Myself?

They say that God is love. Do the frogs become one with God and do they know what love is? I
don't think love fails or fades away. I think love is always with us; surrounding us, and we simply
stop breathing. We forget who we are and sometimes, it takes a while to
remember. Sometimes we have to become frogs so that in the spring, we can sing our joy for
living and loving and simply being.

Breathe. In. and Out.

—Paul Causey
Inspired by “Failing and Flying” by Jack Gilbert and by a discussion about frogs

Inside the Grass Hut One Year Later

—Kim Mosley

The Screen

They…the ubiquitous ‘they’…say to 

wake and sleep and go through the

day with my mind like a white screen

that life can be clearly projected on.

Is that even possible?

On waking, dream images continue

to drift in and out—last night, it was

the satin dress I was required to wear

in my role of counselor/realtor to a 

woman with an aviary.  It was filled 

with what she insisted were doves,

though they were striped and dotted 

in every extravagant color.

Then come thoughts of breakfast.

    NO!  NO!

Say blessings first! Give thanks!

I give thanks for the thought of

a soft-boiled egg, a creamy yellow

center, a dab of butter and strong

black coffee.  But the dog comes

first.  He does his yoga stretches

and wags happily as I reattach

his green collar that jingles.  He

is one proud Chihuahua…a dog

of strong preferences and a sense

of protectiveness.  Later at the park, 

he growls, snaps at the Great Dane

who tries to befriend him.

And so it goes all day long:  breathe in 

and banish the movies of what to do 

after the park:  grocery shop, write the

holiday letter, pine to travel to 

the sea.  Notice long gray moss 

hanging in the live oaks.  Notice

the reflections in Shoal Creek 

and the presence of fall colors 

on the winter solstice. Breathe

in the golden light and note to 

self:  how lucky, how lovely to 

breathe deeply when so many 

around us struggle.  How lovely

to see the giant tree invite me to

climb, recline on her long

stretching limbs.  

And for a moment, that moment,

the screen is not a screen but 

only blue sky

with a blue heron 

soaring,

flapping away into her

indigo

future.

—Beverly Voss

Screen

If it’s true

(could it be?)

that we reveal to others

only a fraction of all

that goes on inside

our minds—

with untold millions of thoughts

flitting at random

in a blur of impression—

and untold millions more

processing

assessing

undressing

obsessing—

if it’s true

just who are you

anyway?

—Marilyn Duncan

Projection

Dim the lights,

take a breath,

strike a pose,

hold the blink,

project serenity, 

exude equanimity,

breathe in silence,

breathe out insolence,

toss the vanity,

check the mirror,

smile.

—Marilyn Duncan

A Death by Covid

  Everday life is like a movie …

Have a pure, white screen.  — Sunryu Suzuki

The mind is white and silent.

Then we fill it with our baby lungs, our searching eyes. 

We scream or coo to bring us what we need.

From the start we add, I want, I need. 

Joy. Despair.

The e mail informed me of his death.

I read it to my friends as we sat with lowered tea cups. 

When I opened my computer, there it had sat: 

unexpected, final. No more chances.

They knew him too, had worried 

what might happen at his release, coming soon.

We couldn’t believe it. Dead. 

Two days before his sentence ended.

The statement to the news gave no name. 

It could have been any prisoner, any cause.

Any of us, any day, any cause. 

One site linked to a photo: 

long, graying beard, erratic and sparse

on a face that had always been smooth,

eyes dim and blinking.

I wondered how far he had sunk into himself.

He did not seem to see out of those eyes.

And was it him?

The boy who wandered alone past midnight on dirty streets, 

whose breath choked as he scratched and flailed

against classmates piled heavy on top of him, 

the man who raged against the fate that trapped him,

who feared his failure, who drew a woman close

and loved—or tried to love—

was that man there, that boy?

The reds and blacks of his mind could fade to white.

I saw it in his photographs: a flame of ice

melting on basalt, a girl—his sister in a tweed coat—

spinning between track lanes that led to different futures.

He had it in him to be still, to let the screen pale to white,

to see that clearly.

Years ago and in a different country. I cannot know

the mind inside the man.

Nor do I know if it whitened at his death.

Did he go into silence then?

And can he take a breath now?

Some time, some place, can he begin again?

—Sarah Webb

Fire

I said the other day that I don’t like curriculums. I seem to be going through a period of not liking things. I suppose I could figure out what I really don’t like, so that the other stuff wouldn’t have to suffer. But that isn’t in the cards for today. Suzuki Roshi talked about turning on a pure plain white screen. In meeting others, whether it be an individual or a group, that seems to make so much sense. Another Zen teacher quoted or misquoted Buddha saying “Gaze upon your thoughts with kindness and remain still.” As we gaze either upon ourselves or others, with stillness and presence it is hard to be anything but kind. The next nugget from the Zen teacher was this phrase, “without manipulation or judgement.”

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