My last ramble ended with us all having Buddha nature and the subsequent question:- does a dog have Buddha nature?
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| Mu |
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| An encircled Mu |
The answer, according to a zen master ( Joshu ) is "mu", which freely translated is "nothingness". At mention of nothingness the average mind will think of nihilism and perhaps find confirmation of the opinion that the "east" is a place of empty contemplation, of the Buddha in the lotus position, eyes closed, seeking inward resolution of the world's problems by not moving a muscle.
Maybe not. But at this point my own mind has remembered a poem by Billy Collins, one I have always loved. Here it is:-
Shoveling Snow With Buddha
In the usual iconography of the temple or the local Wok
you would never see him doing such a thing,
tossing the dry snow over a mountain
of his bare, round shoulder,
his hair tied in a knot,
a model of concentration.
Sitting is more his speed, if that is the word
for what he does, or does not do.
Even the season is wrong for him.
In all his manifestations, is it not warm or slightly humid?
Is this not implied by his serene expression,
that smile so wide it wraps itself around the waist of the universe?
But here we are, working our way down the driveway,
one shovelful at a time.
We toss the light powder into the clear air.
We feel the cold mist on our faces.
And with every heave we disappear
and become lost to each other
in these sudden clouds of our own making,
these fountain-bursts of snow.
This is so much better than a sermon in church,
I say out loud, but Buddha keeps on shoveling.
This is the true religion, the religion of snow,
and sunlight and winter geese barking in the sky,
I say, but he is too busy to hear me.
He has thrown himself into shoveling snow
as if it were the purpose of existence,
as if the sign of a perfect life were a clear driveway
you could back the car down easily
and drive off into the vanities of the world
with a broken heater fan and a song on the radio.
All morning long we work side by side,
me with my commentary
and he inside his generous pocket of silence,
until the hour is nearly noon
and the snow is piled high all around us;
then, I hear him speak.
After this, he asks,
can we go inside and play cards?
Certainly, I reply, and I will heat some milk
and bring cups of hot chocolate to the table
while you shuffle the deck.
and our boots stand dripping by the door.
Aaah, says the Buddha, lifting his eyes
and leaning for a moment on his shovel
before he drives the thin blade again
deep into the glittering white snow.
Shovelling snow, or "chop wood, carry water"
Where was I? Perfection - no, actually I wasn't but I started the blog with that word in mind so I will move on from hot chocolate and shovelling snow. The autobiography of Jung I mentioned in my previous blog was called "Wounded Healer of the Soul". The title suggests support for the words of Pema Chodron:-
Compassion is not a relationship between the healer and the wounded. It's a relationship between equals. Only when we know our own darkness well can we be present with the darkness of others. Compassion becomes real when we recognise our shared humanity.
you would never see him doing such a thing,
tossing the dry snow over a mountain
of his bare, round shoulder,
his hair tied in a knot,
a model of concentration.
Sitting is more his speed, if that is the word
for what he does, or does not do.
Even the season is wrong for him.
In all his manifestations, is it not warm or slightly humid?
Is this not implied by his serene expression,
that smile so wide it wraps itself around the waist of the universe?
But here we are, working our way down the driveway,
one shovelful at a time.
We toss the light powder into the clear air.
We feel the cold mist on our faces.
And with every heave we disappear
and become lost to each other
in these sudden clouds of our own making,
these fountain-bursts of snow.
This is so much better than a sermon in church,
I say out loud, but Buddha keeps on shoveling.
This is the true religion, the religion of snow,
and sunlight and winter geese barking in the sky,
I say, but he is too busy to hear me.
He has thrown himself into shoveling snow
as if it were the purpose of existence,
as if the sign of a perfect life were a clear driveway
you could back the car down easily
and drive off into the vanities of the world
with a broken heater fan and a song on the radio.
All morning long we work side by side,
me with my commentary
and he inside his generous pocket of silence,
until the hour is nearly noon
and the snow is piled high all around us;
then, I hear him speak.
After this, he asks,
can we go inside and play cards?
Certainly, I reply, and I will heat some milk
and bring cups of hot chocolate to the table
while you shuffle the deck.
and our boots stand dripping by the door.
Aaah, says the Buddha, lifting his eyes
and leaning for a moment on his shovel
before he drives the thin blade again
deep into the glittering white snow.
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| Shovelling snow, or "chop wood, carry water" |
But relating this to perfection, my own thought is that "perfection" can prove an awful idea. Often involved with the pursuit of perfection is judgement ( of other and oneself ), self hate, and obstructions to appreciating what actually is now and thus stifling gratitude. For me the heart of Reality is Mercy and Grace; how can that heart know itself within the demand for perfection?
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| Striving for perfection |
"A clearly enlightened person falls into the well. How is that so?"
So, "Your not OK, I'm not OK, but that's OK", or as William Blake said, "Mutual forgiveness of each vice opens the gates of paradise". I think now that seeking the "meaning of it all" is a red herring.
"Love has no why" ( Eckhart )
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| Love also has no colour, labels, border or religion |
Getting back to Jung, he said at one point that "nothing worse can happen to one than to be completely understood"
And.....
" The core of the individual is a mystery of life that is snuffed out when it is 'grasped' " ( a biographer of Jung )
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