Galaxy in the garden
Wolf moon up above
-Preston
-Lancashire.
Sitting with
relatives
slippers, cake, tea
TV.
All posts by Mugo
What it Means to Live
Hirshfield published her first poem in 1973, shortly after graduating from Princeton as a member of the university’s first graduating class to include women. She put aside her writing for nearly eight years, however, to study at the San Francisco Zen Center. “I felt that I’d never make much of a poet if I didn’t know more than I knew at that time about what it means to be a human being,” Hirshfield once said. “I don’t think poetry is based just on poetry; it is based on a thoroughly lived life. And so I couldn’t just decide I was going to write no matter what; I first had to find out what it means to live.” “Her poetry speaks to the central issues of human existence—desire and loss, impermanence and beauty, the many dimensions of our connection with others and the wider community of creatures and objects with which we share our lives”.
The New York Times
Thanks go to Julius for finding the author of yesterdays poem and to a Reverend here too who enjoys her work. Jane Hirshfield is prolific, her book titled Nine Gates: Entering the Mind of Poetry sounds promising. Might look into that. I tend to think poetry is something other people do and my short-line efforts are…just playful ramblings with rhythm added.
A Cat Sized Hole
January at Throssel is a time, for monks, of rest and reflection. Extra formal meditation and a time to turn out drawers, cupboards and boxes, discover, ponder. This is made possible by an evolving team of guests here to do the cooking and generally keeping the wheels of the monastery turning. Much gratitude for their dedication.
While turning out some drawers today I found a card from a dear fellow monk sent in June 2018 for no particular reasons, save wishing me good health. Enclosed with the card was a ‘merit necklace’ she had been given post-surgery. It’s basically a cord with lots of knots in it, simple, full of compassion and an inspiration – actually it’s the monk who is inspirational. Can’t say more than that. Each knot marks a recitation of a scripture – The Litany of the Great Compassionate One. Lots of knots, lots of recitations. At the moment it is looped around the Buddha on my private altar. I love it.
This image is on the card, the poem handwritten inside. The card was designed by a chap who has three Maine Coon cats. Perhaps this is one of them. Ronnie, Gipper or Bojangles? My vote is for Bojangles.
A Small- Sized Mystery
by Jane Hirshfield
Leave a door open long enough,
a cat will enter. Leave food, it will stay.
Soon, on cold nights,
you’ll be saying “Excuse me”
if you want to get out of your chair.
But one thing you’ll never hear from a cat
is “Excuse me.”
Nor Einstein’s famous theorem.
Nor “The quality of mercy is not strained.”
In the dictionary of Cat, mercy is missing.
In this world where much is missing,
a cat fills only a cat-sized hole.
Yet your whole body turns toward it
again and again because it is there.
Getting Out of My Own Way – Guest Post
I have been reflecting on my Zen journey quite a lot over the past few weeks. It’s hard to believe that I picked up my first batch of second-hand Zen books from a bookstore about a quarter of a century ago. At the time I didn’t even know why I was buying them. They just seemed interesting and, honestly, kind of exotic. I certainly didn’t expect them to send me off on a lifelong journey – but here we are.
I suppose I was somewhat fortunate that the original owners of those books bought well. Those first few finds were modern classics and translations of the masters. And despite not understanding 75% of what I was reading something stuck. The pursuit was intellectually stimulating but the subconscious attraction that propelled me forward was driven by the recognition of something running much deeper. Zen had the same unexplainable magnetic pull on me that the ocean has had on humanity throughout our history. I didn’t understand the mystery but I also couldn’t turn away from it. This is all much clearer now, with hindsight, than it was at the time.
That period of frantic exploration passed some time ago. There was a period of intense doubt and questioning along the way too. That passed as well. Now I mostly seem to have quiet conversations with myself. I read less and when I do it’s usually a return to Master Dogen. Life and death, almost 1,000 years, and language do not separate us. Ultimately, nothing can. Reading Dogen is a conversation with a dear friend.
I have been thinking a lot about ritual, form, realization, and actualization. The inter-relatedness of these concepts; the different but complimentary purposes that they serve and the ways that they play off of each other are so interesting. My relationship with each of them continues to evolve in complex ways. And despite all of the intellectual observation that is necessary to consciously navigate the world, it is clear that all of this stuff floats on an ocean of great simplicity and great perfection. There is really nothing left for me to do except get out of my own way.
By John
When a Smile is All
It’s odd!
A streaming cold
emptied in-box.It’s odd!
to feel sick
and energeticIt’s odd!
I said
I’m dyingShe said
‘we are’
I smiled.
Yes, it is odd to be caught in this in-between world within the community. Taking care not to spread the cold; we take a lot of care. Not mixing, eating alone, not joining in kitchen clean-up, sanatizing hands, handles etc. At least we can share a smile. I’m not dying but it feels that way sometimes. My sympathy goes out to those who are actually and actively dying. Human, animal, the earth.