Meditating on Life
“It's "just this" he said, "and nothing more." a squirrel on Zen master Fa-ch'an’s roof.
I sit, eyes closed softly,
Mind drifting on a lazy river—
A thought, drifting by,
“Why do my thoughts seem to drift faster than me?”
I let it go, but here comes another one.
This thought is trying to catch up with the first one, complaining about being left dangling, uncompleted—
I tell myself, “Let it go, release it, let it dangle.”
Briefly I open my eyes—"oh no, I let in more thoughts, which one do I tend to first?”
New thought—"I know, I’ll close my eyes and start again. I’ll let them all go back, where?
Somewhere. But why do I want to know where my thoughts go?”
And I answer myself because I knew I would. As a child I would ask my parents questions, as all children do, and when they tired of them, or could not give me a satisfactory answer, they would simply say “because” as if that explained life in a nutshell.
Now that I am older, I’m not necessarily any wiser, but I sit and try to let go of the questions I cannot answer, to let go of my thoughts so I can see with clarity what is and is not. The river is still murky, but the thoughts drift a little slower now and are a little less intrusive.
When I open my eyes now, and my children ask me why I meditate, I simply say “because.” Then they close their eyes and catch random thoughts of their own drifting on lazy rivers and think their father is only a fish swimming upstream.
Oh, another thought…. were my parents truly wise beyond their years? Were they trying to tell me that “because” is another way of saying “just this, nothing more?”
—Paul Causey
Affection for the Way
i was not in the fire of the Zendo
but i did see the moonlight
through the roof of my small hut
seeking the way amidst the deep mountain paths
we meet for tea
for that moment
my heart softened
walking far
all the way to the sea
observing the curve of the earth
the vast horizon
that night i slept but
awoke in the darkness hearing
the stars weeping
mourning on the beach
i had become a pile of ash
waiting for the wind
—Bruce Linton, MFT, Ph.D.
Misnamed
“love is less always than to win
less never than alive
less bigger than the least begin
less littler than forgive” ee cummings
I misnamed you in my
misunderstanding of what
absence and silence meant.
It is more than words.
I always advanced toward some
star, in another galaxy, aboard
a wobbly ship, sails filled with
the surreal, sailing away from
your silence.
Now we come together where
words may not mean much.
We are held in a body of mystery,
where what Is is shrouded.
No way to know what’s
what.
I find I’m embraced not embarrassed
to feel I am beginning anew ~
nothing lost, much to be gained
under this sky of blue. I’d like you
to embrace it, too.
—Martha Ward
Just This
Just this moment
Radiant change
A sigh
I sleep in humid rain
with petal soft eyes
like a pause
Empty darkness
Suffering and strength
Like up and down
Like heads and tails
Like you and me
Open aware
Engaged
The silence
Echoes signs of knowing
The universe vast love
What’s there?
Notice
Who’s there?
Name it
Hold me gently
For just this moment
Then let me go
—Annecy Báez
What is a Mouse Good For?
a little brown mouse
nibbled on my book cover
in the night
his little teeth marks
and claw scratchings
were distinctive
do we call an exterminator?
what are mice for?
i mean, what do they do in this world?
a small warm animal
covered in fur
a long scaly tail
nobody likes mice…
except other animals
who eat them
or scientist who
put them to use
in experiments…
for you know who
i am starting to think more about mice
they are quiet and alert by nature
they are very quick and quiet
they can run and jump
they are often scared
they too are trying to live their lives
find food
feed their families,
protect their children
be warm and safe
i feel less like calling the exterminator now
let’s look on the internet…
well, it turns out that this seemingly little useless house invader is
“the most important herbivores in the eco system. In forest, fields, farmlands and backyards, mice sustain predators of all sizes. They link plants and predators in every terrestrial ecosystem.”
WOW!
reading further it turns out these little critters are trying to save humanity!
“ The mouse genome is very similar to our own, making mouse genetic research particularly useful for the study of human diseases. ... Mice are extremely useful for studying complex diseases, such as atherosclerosis and hypertension, as many of the genes responsible for these diseases are shared between mice and humans.”
People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals is the largest animal rights organization in the world, with more than 6.5 million members and they say, “Friendly and highly intelligent, mice are just as smart as dogs and can even recognize their names and respond when called.”
WOW, WOW!!!
you who chewed on my copy of “The Way of the Bodhisattva” by
Shantideva was no other than a Bodhisattva too!
invading my house as a pest
you were a visitor of great consequence
in your simple way, without intention
you are my brother (or sister)
certainly part of my family,
your DNA proves it
I only hope my life may be
as meaningful as yours
I gassho,
homage
to the great bodhisattva
little brown mouse
—Bruce Linton
Companionship
this morning
a strange leaf
turned out to be
a small lizard
sunning himself
i wished him a good day
walking on
three stones sat like buddhas
by my Bay
I sat with them
i rested on a bench
two seagulls flew overhead
one landed on the end of my bench
he looked at me with his dark black eye
i looked back
human companionship
may be overrated
—Bruce Linton
I want to be
I want to be the tremor of petals
when a bee comes to sweep up pollen.
I want to be the pause between phrases
of a mourning song, listening for the
heart to beat, feeling the lung inflate.
I want to be the butter melting across
the corn rows of a summer supper on
the porch.
I want to be the hand holding someone’s
head as it is gently laid to rest on a pillow.
I want to be the utmost leaf on the tallest
tree, behind my house, to catch the sun
as it sneaks into my yard.
I want to be a baby’s breath as it laughs
at magic no one knows.
And, now I see I can be each of these
Poetry says so.
—Martha Ward
Here & Here
Launching into the blackest night
my body drops away, I take flight
and soar through stories & and tales
of who’s fabrication I cannot tell and
still I soar, then alight at the edge of
my bed just before dawn's light, weighted
with the whole of me, losing hold of
where I’ve been and what I’d seen…
My chair sits midst the lawn, my feet
naked against the silky slips of grass,
toes dozing letting the earth cradle them,
and be found to be a part of that sacred ground.
Earth, enter my feet, take away pain
that keeps me from sleep.
Walking in the middle of the street,
the day’s heat is held back behind
the bank of pecan & cottonwood trees.
There is a breeze that kisses my brow,
brings a hum to my lips, and my eyes
linger on the long-limbed mimosa
flowers swaying above the creek.
—Martha Ward
Prodigal
Like scaring up chickens off their roosts,
squawking loudly across the yard, I dusted up
a scene to take me away from my home,
to wander into experiences of other homes
and homeless feelings, to learn that I wanted
back on my home roost.
The ease of being missed and missing wanes
& waxes. Distance increases and the
need to fill what had always been provided.
It takes the reins of my days, determines my direction.
I was exposed to caring for children, managing
animals, caring for an old man infirm by a heart ailment.
Traveled into histories made before I ever was, and tied up
from neglect in knots of opportunities taken by others.
Halls of stained glass rained colors, a pathway for
my steps across the cathedral, tending to preparations
for the next event, celebration, funeral, arrival of a
dignitary, a queen.
Skies of another place had me tethered by the heart
and I landed hard on my return, embraced by a known
firmament. The belonging took longer to reemerge,
prodigal all the same.
—Martha Ward
Archipelago
I never wanted a future.
Never dreamed of bridal gowns or
Baby cheeks or making
My place in the world.
I desperately desired to plant
Sweet potatoes in Cuba at 21.
I was bound to swim
With dolphins in the ocean.
I fell in love with singing
Brazilian music. I craved
Myriad makings of art.
I have longed only
For unique immersions
In aliveness.
I dived deep into each
invigorating idyll, each
Oubliette of anguish
And despair.
My life is an archipelago
Of these intense expansions
And contractions, each
Isle separate from the rest.
Pearls on a strand,
A knot between each one.
—Geneve Gil
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