My Little Paradise

I was recently reading a small book about Shinran, one of the ancient (12th century) fathers of Pure Land Buddhism. Apparently Shinran wrote that if we wished to study a spiritual path we needed to set ourselves apart and stick our head in a book (not quite the language he used, but near enough) whereas if we wished to actually walk the path, then there was no better place to start than where we found ourselves now. In fact, no other place to start. Buddhism, in some of its manifestations, also claims that a million Buddha's can be found in just one flower, and that to see the Buddha is to see the Dharma (truth/reality) So reality is everywhere, here and now, not some place other or beyond.

Anyway, flying somewhat in the face of such musing, I have my own little paradise which often stands out as special. Well, it sure beats sitting in a dentist's chair. It is the Record Department of my local Oxfam Store, where I spend every Tuesday afternoon, a volunteer on the tills. It has one of the biggest collections of vinyl records in the UK, as well as CD's and DVD'S, sheet music and other paraphernalia. I once picked up an old guitar there for a few pounds, the one I get out when the grandchildren invade our home (bless 'em), the one they can accidentally knock over or attempt to play as if a cello, leaving more expensive models safe.

Yes, it is paradise. I take along a few of my own CD's, and play them to my hearts content. I also take along my Kindle eReader. Occasionally a customer comes in and rudely interrupts my realm of peace and joy.......but that is a small price to pay. Yet many of the customers have a story to tell, or a point of view to discuss, even an opinion on the music playing (like "what the hell is THAT?") I've passed many a happy hour reminiscing about the Sixties, or the early career of Jerry Lee Lewis, and learnt a lot. I've learnt that all vinyl records are of a particular pressing, much like particular editions of books - there are those willing to pay a lot for the earliest pressing of a particular album - even if they own another copy already. For me I just concentrate on the music itself, but each to their own. If someone wants to pay £60 to Oxfam for a vinyl disc they already have who am I to argue?

Recently an old guy came in, bent over a little, perhaps with arthritis. He had the look of someone who had never had a life. ( Oh yes, I can be very judgemental at times ) He shuffled around the stock for quite a while, picking and choosing, and eventually came over and rudely interrupted my peace by wishing to purchase a couple of vinyl singles. I read out the label of one of the singles he had chosen, an old Fifties number. "Yes, I'll enjoy strumming along to that" the old guy said, " I used to play along to it in my younger days", then revealed that he owned two Stratocasters and two Les Pauls! Well, you never can tell! I asked him if he had ever played in a group and he told me that he had never been able to play in public, just too shy. Which is rather sad, yet in many ways I am able to empathise.

Just to add, and to make this particular blog more substantial, I posted something like this on a Discussion Forum. Such posts can amble about and leave the original ideas well behind, which is what I like about them.....(once I remember an original post that asked the question "Why are you not a Christian?" and within a few posts the subject had drifted onto the difference between the common English garden frog and the South American variety, which I found far more interesting) Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, on that other Forum the whole thing culminated in me posting a poem I have always loved, that I in fact first read on yet another Forum. The poem is about acceptance, of difference, of each of us being unique, even precious. And other things. You might have your own thoughts.



The Two-Headed Calf

Tomorrow when the farm boys find this
freak of nature, they will wrap his body
in newspaper and carry him to the museum.

But tonight he is alive and in the north
field with his mother. It is a perfect
summer evening: the moon rising over
the orchard, the wind in the grass. And
as he stares into the sky, there are
twice as many stars as usual.


Laura Gilpin

The Art of Translation and the Treacherous Sea of Language

My mind has drifted onto the art of translation, something that has long interested me. Obviously, to translate a noun, a word such as "dog", into another language, is simple. But translating thoughts, expressions (current and ancient) all subject to cultural influence, is an art, not a science.

A dog is a dog (or is it?)

This was brought home to me recently when I dipped into a new version of "The Narrow Road to the Deep North", a travelogue from the 17th century by the Japanese haiku poet Basho. In the Introduction was a short excerpt of about six different translations of the opening lines of the main text. Quite illuminating just how different each was, even the words "deep north" becoming in some the "interior". For Basho himself, one life, one journey - but what for those who read of it? Where does that journey take us?

Heading north - or the interior?

Here is Stephen Batchelor, a Buddhist writer, on the art of translation:- "It requires that one convey a peculiar configuration of sense, feeling, perception, anguish, desire, and understanding from one world and resurrect it in another......the translator is but a conduit through which a minor miracle occurs. The translation is inscribed in one's flesh; in the pulsing blood, sweat on the brow, spasms of dread or rapture that course through the nerves". This may seem a bit over the top, but maybe we would have to try it for ourselves?

There was a Christian theologian, John Dunne, who wrote a book called "The Way of All the Earth", which spoke of passing over into the world of another Faith, of seeking to walk in another's shoes, of seeing the world through other eyes. Having done so, then to return to ourselves - and to see what has changed, if anything. It does seem that a good translator would have to be able to do this. The whole thing requires empathy.

We all seem to have our very own way of seeing and this can lead to closing our hearts to others, who often see with different eyes.

W. H. Auden wrote in "The Shield of Achilles":-

That girls are raped,that two boys knife a third,
   Were axioms to him, who’d never heard
Of any world where promises were kept,
Or one could weep because another wept.

Auden

To be locked into a world of our very own axioms can be stifling, even if not unethical.

All this involves what has been called "The Treacherous Sea of Language", a sea where the word becomes the thing itself and the "thing itself" different for everybody.

Caught in a treacherous sea

But I think I'm beginning to waffle..............

So goodbye.

Related Quotes:-

HUI YUNG (4TH–5TH CENTURY) 

Translating Holy Books

We go unwinding the woof from the web of meaning.

Words of the sutras day by day come forth. 

Head on, we chase the mystery of the dharma.

A Growing Trend

In my own neck of the woods there is a growing trend. For a Humanist Funeral Service.

The days of "wear something black", of some member of the clergy who never knew the deceased speaking of "the resurrection and the life" and calling all to prayer; of the embarrassing low drone as a couple of hymns are sung; all seem to be on the wane. (Perhaps I give the game away when it comes to my own bias!)

Instead we have, for instance, "please wear something pink" because of support for the breast cancer charity, the beat of Chris Rea as the throng walk in, perhaps Bob Dylan or Frank Sinatra as they walk out. And between, a resume of the life lived, sometimes spoken by one who knew and loved the one now gone.....deceased......passed over....is no more ( whatever, but we are not talking here of dead parrots ) Maybe a favourite poem or two that encourages not grief, but perhaps hope, fond memories and community.

I have been to a few now. A growing trend. One poignant moment stays with me, of the partner of the now gone (after 60 years of sharing their life) walking across to the coffin, kissing it and touching it with love.

And I still remember another moment, when the service was over and the final emotionally stirring words were said, introducing what was anticipated to be a deeply moving piece of music - and along came "Hey Big Spender"! Well, that particular ladies spending days were behind her...........yet who knows?

Frank Zappa "Watermelon in Easter Hay"

Here is Frank Zappa, always an outspoken guy who was also a great musician. Tragically, he died when quite young ( just 53 ) from prostate cancer. To be honest I'm not over familiar with his music and when I hear most of it it comes across as pretty way out - perhaps an acquired taste! But I do love this. There are many versions of it and the actual album track is longer - and which also contains what are termed "explicit lyrics". But here, live, shorter, just the music. I love it. Thanks Frank. 

All is One ( or maybe not )

Those unfortunate enough to be familiar with Buddhist Discussion Forums would be aware of the dreaded words "non duality" and also of what I have called the "Non Dual Thought Police", those who patrol the various discussions and jump upon any thought or idea expressed in simplistic dualistic language from a great height. 

What is "non duality" the innocent may ask, maybe thinking of the old joke "what did the Buddhist say to the hot dog seller?" Answer:- "Make me one with everything".

So maybe non duality is that "all is one" and perhaps to support this the line concerning the Buddha's death from Sir Edwin Arnold's poetic rendering of the life of the Buddha, "The Light of Asia", would be quoted and offered in support, i.e "the dewdrop slips into the shining sea". 

 However, the reality seems more that the shining sea slips into the dewdrop, and not so much that all is one, more that all is not two, another thing entirely.  The unique and precious individual is not lost in a murky nowhere land but finds themselves, hopefully, a friend of all, undivided by judgement, by creed or by colour.

 (This is supported by Pure Land symbolism, where gold represents the undifferentiated nature of enlightenment, while the lotus flower symbolises the unique individual - depictions of the Pure Land often display almost infinite golden lotus flowers blowing in the wind) 

Well, what has this got to do with anything? One wag once said:- "There are only two kinds of people in the world. Those who divide the world into two kinds of people and those who don't". So, in an ethical context, non duality supports the idea of a common humanity, one where we share more with others than anything that might divide us.

This itself is supported by various Buddhist texts, texts that speak of "one truth", a truth that can nevertheless find expression in infinite variety. Here are a few examples from the Mahayana scriptures:-

The Lord speaks with but one voice, but all beings, each according to their kind, gain understanding, each thinking that the Lord speaks their own language. This is a special quality of the Buddha. The Lord speaks with but one voice, but all beings, each according to their own ability, act upon it, and each derives the appropriate benefit. This is a special quality of the Buddha.

(Vimalakirti Sutra)



Just as the nature of the earth is one
While beings each live separately,
And the earth has no thought of oneness or difference,
So is the truth of all Buddhas.

Just as the ocean is one
With millions of different waves,
Yet the water is no different:
So is the truth of all Buddhas.

Just as the element earth, while one,
Can produce various sprouts,
Yet it's not that the earth is diverse:
So is the truth of all Buddhas.

(Hua-Yen Sutra)



I bring fullness and satisfaction to the world,
like rain that spreads its moisture everywhere.
Eminent and lowly, superior and inferior,
observers of precepts, violators of precepts,
those fully endowed with proper demeanor,
those not fully endowed,
those of correct views, of erroneous views,
of keen capacity, of dull capacity -
I cause the Dharma rain to rain on all equally,
never lax or neglectful.
When all the various living beings
hear my Law,
they receive it according to their power,
dwelling in their different environments.....
..The Law of the Buddhas
is constantly of a single flavour,
causing the many worlds
to attain full satisfaction everywhere;
by practicing gradually and stage by stage,
all beings can gain the fruits of the way.

(The Lotus Sutra, "Parable of the Dharma Rain")

Anyway, if anyone has actually got this far, to finish with a video that I have always loved, and laughed at, where an Aussie broadcaster attempts to tell the "make me one with everything" joke to the Dalai Lama (in this case it's a Pizza Shop rather than a hot dog seller).......

 

The Nembutsu (the Heart of Pure Land Buddhism)

Namu-amida-butsu!

I have actually been trying to understand for myself what the nembutsu is but often I think such a task is much like asking of life in general "what's it all about?", which can scramble the brain.  Be that as it may, for over 15 years I have been trying with varied but strictly limited success. 

The nembutsu is the heart of Pure Land Buddhism, which is often called the Buddhism of Faith, this being contrasted with a Buddhism more associated with the intellect, with meditation and even the monastic tradition.

The nembutsu:- "Namu-amida-butsu". Or alternatively, as translated by some:- "My foolish self is held within infinite compassion; grasped, never to be abandoned." A very loose translation but maybe worthy of reflection.

"Grasped" Just who, or what, is doing the "grasping" in Pure Land Buddhism, a faith that, despite some appearances, shares the fundamental non-theistic approach to reality of mainstream Buddhism?

There is a wide spectrum of understanding within Pure Land Buddhism, between Amida being him ( or her ) "up there" - or out to the West - who comes to collect us when we die to escort us to the Pure Land; and of Amida as a personification of Reality-as-is and the Pure Land as being HERE, now, when seen with new eyes. And all points in between, as the devotee moves between simple belief and the actual realisation of the path.

The Pure Land (out to the West)

Just an added note on Amida being "him or her", a few words of explanation from D T Suzuki (a man known in the West more for his writings on Zen, but who also had allegiances and insights into the Pure Land path) :-

.....we believe in Amida Buddha as our Oya-sama, or Oya-san, as it is sometimes called. It is the term used to express love and compassion. Oya means parent, but not either parent, rather both mother and father; not separate personalities, but both fatherly and motherly qualities united in one personality. The honorific san is the familiar form of sama. The latter, Oya-sama, is the standard form. In Christianity, God is addressed as the Father - "Our father who art in Heaven" - but Oya-sama is not in Heaven, nor is Oya-sama Father. It is incorrect to say "he" or "she," for no gender distinction is found. I don't like to say "it," so I don't know what to say. Oya-sama is a unique word, deeply endearing and at the same time rich with religious significance and warmth.

Amida Buddha (Buddha of Infinite Light)

So Suzuki does not really know what to say, which perhaps says it all. But getting back to the nembutsu, to say it - out loud or silently - is not to chant, nor is it a mantra. Rather it is simply to say it and then trust that things will be "made to become so of themselves", beyond our calculations. Myself, to begin with, it was simply a way of mindfulness, to keep my mind from straying and thrashing about like a fish out of water. It then became a habit, and morphed over time into "thank you", gratitude in all circumstances. It has had an undoubted effect and that is all I can say. In Zen, a master has said that if we wish to know the truth we should cease to cherish opinions. Maybe feeling some sense of gratitude in all circumstance has much the same effect - if by "truth" we mean life itself, the actual living, and not some assertion, belief or claim of the intellect.

Anyway, as usual I am waffling and perhaps making little sense. I will finish with a short passage from the book "Tariki: Embracing Despair, Discovering Peace" by Hiroyuki Itsuki. The book is semi-autobiographical and in the opening chapters Itsuki speaks of his early life as a refugee, of times where he woke hoping the human being sleeping beside him had died in the night so that he could profit from their death, being able to take their clothes and what little food they had. 

Such suffering - so the passage I quote should not be dismissed as words of sentimentality or superficiality, but more of hard won experience. 

Itsuki speaks more of "Tariki" ( Other Power ) than of Amida, and in Japanese this word is contrasted with "Jiriki" (self power).....

The Other Power (Tariki) derives from the true and full acceptance of the reality that is within us and surrounds us. It is not a philosophy of passivity or iresponsibility, but one of radical spiritual activity, of personal, existential revolution. Its essence is the spontaneous wondrous force that gives us the will to act, to "do what man can do and then wait for heaven's will." Importantly, Other Power is a power that flows from the fundamental realization that, in the lives we live, we are already enlightened. This enlightenment does not come easily. It is born of the unwelcome understanding that, despite our protestations, we are insignificant, imperfect beings, born to a hell of suffering that defines human existence. But in this hell, we sometimes encounter small joys, friendship, the kind acts of strangers, and the miracle of love. We experience moments when we are filled with courage, when the world sparkles with hopes and dreams. There are even times when we are deeply grateful to have been born. These moments are paradise. But paradise is not another realm; it is here, in the very midst of the hell of this world. Other Power, a power that transcends theological distinctions, avails us of these moments. In the endless uncertainties of contemporary life, Other Power confers upon us a flexibility of spirit, an energy to feel joy, and the respite of peace.

Coming Home (2)

We spent a few days in Kathmandu, during which we hired bicycles and pedalled our way out of town and to the famous Monkey Temple where the giant all-seeing eyes of the Buddha gaze out over the rolling hills of the Kathmandu valley.

The Monkey Temple

Next I obtained a Trekking Permit and took the bus to Pokhara, the starting place of one of the most well known trails. Our route took us up past the great Annapurna mountain range with its huge glacier and on to the tiny township of Jomosom, close to the borders of Tibet.

Dookie thought he was standing up straight. A local lad looks on bemused. (Annapurna in the distance)

One of the many highlights of the trek was a morning spent at Ghorapani,  a place that was no more than a few huts situated about 9,300 ft above sea level. We rose early in the morning to witness the sun rise from the top of Poon Hill, another 1000 ft above us. There was almost an 180 degree arc of the Himalayan mountains around us and we watched in awe as that "lucky old sun" brought the dawn. 

A selection of photos of the trek, the last with some trekking mates

In all the trek took 15 days and covered well over 120 miles. Eventually leaving the yaks, donkey caravans and Buddhist prayer wheels behind us, it was back to Kathmandu to catch the bus into India. 

Kathmandu

The route through India was via Raxaul, Patna and onto Benares ( now Varanasi ) the Holy City of the Hindus. Here we took a river trip down the Ganges in what was the largest boat manned by one oarsman I have ever seen. 

Benares ( now Varanasi)

The trip was fascinating, almost surreal, with Holy men washing their sins away in one place while further down river the local women were busy with their washing. In one or two places cremations were taking place , the smoke from the fires drifting up and over the skyline. 

Dookie in Khajuraho, trying not to blush at the carvings (see below)

Then it was on to Khajuraho, a town noted for its many temples covered all over with highly erotic carvings. Strangely enough my main memory of Khajuraho is not of the carvings, but of the incident of the "Great Chapati Snatch". Our group had negotiated with the owner of a local hotel to provide us with a meal at 3 rupees a head. The deal included "as many chapatis as you can eat". Provisions are very hard to come by in India and you could often travel for hours without finding anywhere to buy food, so when the first plateful of chapatis arrived we took our opportunity. Once the waiter turned his back we dived in. Chapatis disappeared up skirts, trouser legs and jumpers and in no time at all the plate was empty. Another plate load followed before the owner became suspicious and the supply dried up. Nevertheless, we all ate well for the next day or two.

NOT the hotel owner seeking to recover his chapatis

Our stomachs full of chapati, we carried on to Agra to see the Taj Mahal, then Fatehpur Sikri, Jaiper (the Pink City) then New Delhi. At New Delhi I visited the memorial gardens created in honour of the great Hindu saint Mahatma Gandhi. From New Delhi it was on up to Amritzar, site of the Golden Mosque, then into Pakistan to the city of Lahore. Across Pakistan by third class railway sitting in the corridor with my rucksack as a pillow, arriving battered and very weary at Peshawer early in the morning.

A day here was followed by a bus ride through the Kyber Pass into Afghanistan, arriving in Kabul in the late afternoon. I remember being surprised by the sight of snow capped mountains on the horizon - I had just imagined sand dunes for as far as the eye could see.

Tourist shop in Kabul

Passed quickly through Afghanistan via Kandahar and Herat. A feature of bus travel in Afghanistan was the frequent halts at Islamic prayer times. Without notice the bus would stop in the middle of nowhere and everyone would tumble off, the pious to one side to kneel towards Mecca to pray, while on the other side of the bus the possibly poor in spirit would stand (or squat) relieving themselves.

Kandahar 

Kandahar again

Another feature was the lack of tachometers on board. Five hours after the completion of our 16 hour virtual non-stop journey from Kabul to Herat we spotted the very same driver back in his seat facing the opposite direction for the drive back.

Isfahan, Iran

Then it was across the border into Iran and on to the capital Tehran. We travelled down to Isfahan, a famous town of many mosques and bridges. Then back up to Tehran and into Turkey, past Mt Ararat ( scene of Noah's great escape in his ark) and through central Turkey down to the Mediterranean coast. At one point our coach slid into a ditch and, unbidden, a group of locals appeared with tractor and ropes and salvaged the situation. 

A helping hand

We followed the coast line up to the capital, Istanbul, where my money and strength gave out.

I booked a fare on the "Orient Express" to Paris and London and flaked out in the seedy looking carriage, together with another Englishman, a Turkish guy and 5 people from Bangladesh. Found out to my horror that there was no buffet car - rather strange for a journey lasting over two days. What little food we had was shared around and a tea trolley did appear at one point, but it was a hungry trip.

At Belgrade, Robert (the Englishman) and myself leapt off the train, ran to the Bureau de Change, turned our pounds into the local currency, then rushed to the nearest Burger Bar to buy as many hot dogs as possible with our money. As we turned away from the food stall we saw our train pulling away! I can see Robert in my minds eye now, leaping down the platform, a hot dog in each hand, gesticulating furiously like a demented orangutan, crying out "Paree! ? Paree! ?" to any local unfortunate enough to be within earshot. Luckily our train was merely being shunted between platforms and we were soon reunited with our rucksacks.

Without further mishap, after almost 5 months of travel, I arrived back on English soil, drawing strange looks from some in my coat of many colours from Kathmandu and floral trousers from Bali. The last entry in my little diary was:- "Never realised just how beautiful England was until now."

Coming Home (1)

I believe it was Andy Warhol who once said that everyone would be famous for 15 minutes. Well I enjoyed my 15 minutes in my now distant youth when I was interviewed on Radio Essex. It seems that the radio station was running through some old news stories from the early seventies and had picked on one concerning a "Derek Ward, who had returned to England from Australia, travelling through 16 countries." The story had appeared in the Essex Chronicle. I was asked to contact the station to have a chat with the DJ, Anton Jarvis. As I never listen to BBC Essex (I was listening to Breeze at the time, a fact that dismayed Anton) I missed the story, but others heard, passed the request on to me and I contacted the station. My brief moment of "fame" followed!

One consequence of all this, then, was that I was made to realise just how few people knew of my travels. As one colleague said:- "I never knew you had been anywhere but here!" So here I relate the story for anyone interested to read.........

The trip was booked through the "San Michele Travel Agency", a rather grandiose name for what was no more than a one man band operating from an office near the Sydney Harbour Bridge. Little did I know it, but the guy had gone bankrupt a year or to before and went bankrupt again a few months after I reached England, leaving a host of travellers in mid-Asia without a prayer. I was mercifully ignorant of this at the time otherwise I might have had a few sleepless nights.

The idea was that you paid the agent in Sydney your full fare to England and he gave you your ticket to the next port of call, in this case Darwin. On arrival there you contacted a specified Travel Agent, presented your San Michele Pass, and they would give you your ticket onto the next destination. It carried on like this until you reached England (or didn't, whatever the case might be) There was no time limit, all the major cities were covered, but if you wanted to roam about within any particular country you had to make your own way.

The coach to Darwin

Having received my ticket I was off to Brisbane and then on through Queensland and into the Northern Territory to Darwin. There we caught a flight to Portuguese Timor (now East Timor), a small island just above Australia. This was followed by a rocky ride by local lorry to the capital Dili where we stayed at the "Hippy Hilton", a bus shelter like structure situated on the beach.

Dookie close to the Hippy Hilton

From Dili we island hopped to Bali in an old DC3 troop carrier that had obviously seen better days. The runway at Dili seemed to consist of stones and gravel, at the end of which was a clump of palm trees. I presumed that if the aircraft failed to lift off you could gather a few coconuts on your way to the Promised Land. Fortunately - after 6 attempts to start the engines - our aircraft jolted forward and sailed up and over the trees and into the wild blue yonder.

We landed safely at Bali in Indonesia and I spent the next couple of weeks at Kuta Beach, about six miles from the capital of the island, Denpasar.

One of the locals on Kuta
 Beach

There was nude bathing on Kuta Beach but I kept my trunks firmly on, not wishing to shock the locals. I had a couple of trips around the island, visiting various Hindu temples, including the Monkey Temple where I had a narrow escape.

Dookie outside a Hindu Temple on Bali

Just after Christmas Day I left Bali for Java, the main Indonesian island. We arrived by ferry in Surabaja, then travelled on to Jogjakarta where I made a side-trip to see the huge Buddhist monument at Borubudur.

Borubudur, Java

Then to Bandung ( a place no better than the name suggests ) then to the capital Jakarta where I heard the locals celebrating the New Year. From Jakarta I travelled on to Merak to catch the ferry to the island of Sumatra. Then on through Sumatra via Palembang and Padang to Samosir Island on Lake Toba. This island provided my first real culture shock. We stayed at the Mongoloid's Hut, a traditional style Indonesian house built on stilts beneath which the cows, goats, chickens and dogs roamed at will. No alarm clock was needed here, the farmyard noises waking you long before the dawn. 

The Mongoloid's Hut, Samosir Island

The only toilet on the island was an open air cubicle hung with old curtain drapes. The area had a resident pig, a huge black sow that patrolled about with evident curiosity. For anyone who dared use the facilities the idea was to hurry and finish the job before the thick slimy snout prodded the curtains aside to find out just what was going on; not surprisingly, you would often hear cries of anguish and the scamper of running feet coming from the vicinity.

We soon left Samosir Island for Belawan to catch the ferry to Penang in Malaysia. The ferry turned out to be a cargo boat and we sat on top of the hold praying to the local gods for a safe passage - lifeboats not appearing to be a fixture on board.

On board the ferry to Penang

A week in Penang and then up the coast of Malaysia to Bangkok. During my stay there we visited the Wat Po Temple, site of the gigantic Reclining Buddha, a religious figure close to my own heart (always being one to favour the reclining position, especially if avoiding work) I then took a coach trip up into Northern Thailand to the city of Chiang Mai, where I went on a jungle tour led and organised by a Mr Moo. We stayed overnight at a couple of the hill tribes, sharing our sweets with the local children, before returning to Chiang Mai, then back to Bangkok to catch the flight to Rangoon in Burma (now Myanmar)

One of the locals, Northern Thailand

There were no land routes open into Burma and the authorities had only just begun to issue 7 day visas instead of the normal 24 hour ones. The extra time allowed us to leave the capital and travel inland. We spent one day in Rangoon, seeing the magnificent Shwedagon Pagoda with its golden dome and precious gems, before heading up to Mandalay on the "express train"

The Express Train to Mandalay. Still remember vividly how a fellow traveller, a local Burmese guy, insisted on sharing his meal with us. 

We spent the night in Mandalay on the floor of the local Baptist Church before being given a guided tour of the famous town by a new Christian convert. This young lad insisted on calling everyone "my dear brother" (including the girls!) and he had a strange liking for the local cigars, giant slug-like monstrosities that judging by the pungent odour of the smoke billowing up around him were made of a cross between yak dung and straw. 

Our Mandalay tour guide, cigar in hand

From Mandalay our group caught the paddle steamer for the journey down the Irrawaddy River to Pagan, site of the great Burmese Empire of the 12th and 13th centuries. 

Down the Irrawaddy

The area consists of over 15 square miles of ancient Buddhist temples and shrines, all in various stages of ruin. We spent an atmospheric couple of hours on top of the biggest temple watching the sun set over the winding Irrawaddy, creating crazy shadow patterns around the hundreds of ruined temples. 

Pagan (1)

Pagan (2)

The following day we made a mad dash across country by various means of transport to catch the train back to Rangoon. At one point I found myself perched on the roof of one of the crowded buses, waving and shouting at the laughing Burmese people who roared by in the opposite direction. Had they never seen a mad Englishman before?

Mad Dogs and Englishmen!

We reached Rangoon safely before our visas ran out and then flew on to Calcutta, an over night stop, then on up to Kathmandu in Nepal. Three tyres burst on our plane as we landed in Kathmandu and one of the many slides I took shows the treacherous skid marks across the runway.

(To be continued on "Coming Home (2)")

When a Scholar is Born

For about twenty years I have been pretty active on various Discussion Forums. Often one element of this is to have a "signature", some short quote or whatever that is automatically placed at the end of every post you make. One that I often used was about birds and books, i.e. "If the bird and the book disagree always believe the bird". Whatever may be thought of that, quite recently I tired of it (perhaps far too many books with no sound of the birds) and therefore I changed it.

To announce the change I made the following post on the Forum, which may or may not be worth repeating. But someone, somewhere, may think so. So here it is.......



I have recently changed my signature. Walking into town I was thinking of this and now I'm seeking to recapture the line of thought. I suppose the idea of "living in the moment" means that I should have been looking at the gardens as I passed them by or at least making sure that a HGV didn't knock me flying. But in the "moment" of walking into town my mind was wandering. The story of my life. What price "mindfulness"?

Thinking back, I remembered again a long dead wordsmith by the name of Malcolm Muggeridge. I think, once his libido had weakened somewhat he became a Catholic convert, inspired by an interview he had with Mother Teresa, which he called "something beautiful for God". Anyway, Mr Muggeridge was someone I admired in my late teens. As I say, a wordsmith; he had a way with language, and I read one or two of his books.

At school, poetry had bored me. In those days there seemed to be no Children's Poetry as such, not like today, and the only poems we were introduced to were hoary old nonsense of historic British valour, Trafalgar and Agincourt and suchlike. So I left school with no love of poetry. But Malcolm Muggeridge often quoted a couplet or two of William Blake in his own books, and these always took my fancy. Then one day, while browsing in a bookstore I spied "The Portable Blake". It was cheap so I bought it. The section that really caught my attention was Blake's "Songs of Innocence and Experience", simple poems that yet held profound meaning, like "The Tyger" (which up until then I thought was about the river, not knowing about Blake's eccentric spelling)

Well, the love of Blake led me towards other poets, those who until then - if I thought about them at all - I saw as old fogies sitting at desks in musty old garrets, waffling on about the Western Wind ("thou breath of autumns being") and other such irrelevant nonsense. One day I drifted into the British Museum and there was an exhibition on, I think of the Romantic Poets. I remember idling along the exhibits and a small notebook caught my eye. It was the actual notebook of Percy Shelley and was opened at the page where he had composed the poem beginning "When the lamp is shattered." My own mind was shattered, to see the actual notebook that had been on the desk where Shelley sat, the ink on the page that Shelley had put there - there were crossings out where better words had come into his mind, better expressions, and it shocked me into knowing Shelley as a human being, alive, vibrant, just like myself. Seeing that exhibition led me to the love of biographies, biographies of literary figures of the past, Wordsworth, Keats and so forth.

Shelley

Eventually I found myself picking up the biography of Wilfred Owen, known for his poems of the First World War, of his experiences on the Western Front. This led to Seigfried Sassoon and Isaac Rosenberg, two other poets associated with WW1. Up until then the subject of war, any interest in it at all, had not been part of me. But after this while browsing in the local library I came across a little book that was the diary kept by a soldier during his time in the trenches in WW1. Not a literary figure at all, but I read the book with relish. Which in turn led me to others on the Great War and the experiences of the soldiers who had fought and died in it. Of the terrible fate of many in the so called "Pal's Battalions" of Kitchener's New Army. The promise had been that if you joined up together you would stay together. And fight together. And die together. On the first day of the Somme one sweep of a machine gun and all the men of a whole road (or whatever) were swept to their death. Which by then, reading about it, made me think of a poem by one of my favorites, Philip Larkin, "MCMXIV", which among other things speaks of the death of innocence, of how the Great War swept away so much.

There are poems of WW1 that dress up the soldiers as virtual people of a world apart - I suppose much like my own idea of poets in musty garrets - and they are spoken of as almost ethereal beings as in the lament of Wilfred Gibson:-

We who are left, how shall we look again

Happily on the sun or feel the rain

Without remembering how they who went

Ungrudgingly and spent

Their lives for us loved, too, the sun and rain?

A bird among the rain-wet lilac sings - 

But we, how shall we turn to little things

And listen to the birds and winds and streams

Made holy by their dreams,

Nor feel the heart-break in the heart of things?

​​All well and good, but I prefer to think of those men as marching along singing some of the more down to earth songs, such as "Do Your Balls Hang Low?", apparently sung often by the men of the Great War. (Just looking it up, once General Douglas Haig heard the song being sung and immediately rode to the head of the column to remonstrate with the battalion commander, only to find the Colonel singing as heartily as his men)

Which almost brings me to my point, and where my musings and thinking had led me. That the full beauty of this world is open to the very "lowest" - a "little child shall lead them" as the Good Book says; and as G K Chesterton once said, "great things are seen from the valleys, only small things from the heights". The instinctive love of a mother for her child can trump all the books on ethics. This is not sentimentality. It, at least for me, is ingrained into the fabric of reality. Once, some time ago now, not long after my own mother died of dementia, I was suffering from a couple of years of depression. It was Christmas Eve and I had been running around the town buying the last things for Christmas. I knew I needed a little sketch pad for my daughter, then six, which I had promised to get. But my pockets were empty and those were the days when Credit Cards were quite new, and to pay with one involved machines, signatures, and "tut tuts" in the queue behind you. I picked up a pad and lined up in the long queue and looked with trepidation at the very harassed looking young lady who was serving. Eventually it was my turn......."Sorry, I have no cash left, can I use my credit card?". If that young girl had snatched the pad and looked at me with enmity, in the state I was in then, who knows? How deep can depression go? Where does any road end? But no. She took the pad and smiled, a beautiful smile, and said "I think we are all out of cash now". Even now, thinking back, it almost reduces me to tears - of gratitude. I have always remembered that smile. Which cost nothing yet was worth everything.

I suppose I can say that my life now is to try to give that smile back to others in my own small way.

So, "When a scholar is born they forget the nembutsu".


(Which was my new Signature, and maybe I will add a blog soon on exactly what the nembutsu is - but for now, simply put, it is gratitude and the realization that the very best things are gifts of Reality-as-is, given, not attained)

Zen Poems (2)

  Apparently "death poems" are a particular genre of Japanese poetry, although Basho did say once that EVERY poem he wrote was a "death poem" (which makes you think if you are that way inclined)

Basho

Basho was the haiku poet and itinerant traveller, famous for his travel journal "The Narrow Road to the Deep North". It was in his own introduction to this that I first read that "the journey itself is home". Basho goes on to say that from the very earliest time there have "always been those who perished along the road", which brings me back to death poems.

Just to continue with a little bit of name dropping and to demonstrate just how cultured a Pure Land Buddhist can be, here are the thoughts of an ancient Roman, Seneca:- 

"There exists no more difficult art than living...........throughout the whole of life, one must continue to learn to live, what will amaze you even more, throughout life one must learn to die"

Whatever we think of that, it remains to be said that the "Death Poem" is an art form among the Japanese. Here are a couple of examples.......

Empty-handed I entered the world
Barefoot I leave it.
My coming, my going —
Two simple happenings
That got entangled.

And......

Bury me when I die
beneath a wine barrel
in a tavern.
With luck
the cask will leak

The latter appears to demonstrate that our Japanese friends have a sense of humour.

Perhaps enough on this subject. But just to assure you that I am not making this all up, here is the cover of a book on the subject:-

(Available from all good bookshops)

Zen Poems

After zen gardens, zen poems. Zen is often described as being beyond words and letters but here are the words from an inscription on a Chinese stone figure of the Buddha, dated 746:-

"The Highest truth is without image.
If there were no image at all, however, there would be no way for truth to be manifested.
The highest principle is without words.
But if there were not words at all, how could principle possibly be revealed?"

(Well, my grandaughter, when not quite three, is not to be fooled by words. After a year or so of "grandad's special pizza" she saw through the whole thing.........."THAT'S not pizza, that's cheese on toast". And Grandad, chastened, retired to the kitchen to lick his wounds)

To add to the "not in words" conundrum, the great Japanese zen master Dogen (13th century) taught that there was always the correct word for everything, but only for that particular moment. Which, perhaps getting in a bit too deep, reminds me of the response of another master, Yun Men, when he was asked what were the teachings of a whole lifetime. "An appropriate statement" he answered. (Just to add that as far as Pure Land Buddhism is concerned, we don't go much on "masters" - we are extremely egalitarian, and know that much can be learnt from - for instance - grandchildren) 

Anyway, where was I?  Oh yes, zen poems. Words.

Here we have Sogi (1421 - 1502):-

To each thing, its own

true deepest inner nature:

water does not think

of itself as consort

of the bright moonlit it hosts.

(Translation from the Japanese by Sam Hamill)


Moving on, Jane Hirshfield writes of great art and great poetry that it is "a truing of vision.........a changing of vision. Entering a good poem, a person feels, tastes, hears, thinks, and sees in altered ways................by changing selves, one by one, art changes also the outer world that selves create and share."


Another zen poem.......

Although the wind
blows terribly here,
the moonlight also leaks
between the roof planks
of this ruined house

​(Izumi Shikibu)


Jane Hirshfield comments that in Japanese poetry the moon is "always the moon" yet is also an image of Buddhist awakening. She adds that the poem reminds her that "if a house is walled so tightly that it lets in no wind or rain, if a life is walled so tightly that it lets in no pain, grief, anger, or longing, it will also be closed to the entrance of what is most wanted."

Not a zen poem, but the Persian poet Rumi seems to seek to convey the same insight......

The Guest House

This being human is a guest house

Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meaness,

some momentary awareness comes

as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!

Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,

who violently sweep your house

empty of its furniture,

still, treat each guest honourably.

He may be clearing you out

for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,

meet them at the door laughing,

and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,

because each has been sent

as a guide from beyond

Anyway, perhaps enough for now. Just a final little haiku...........

For those who proclaim
they've grown weary of children,
there are no flowers.

​​(A Haiku translated by Sam Hamill, poet unknown)