Calm Mind, Calm World

I first came across this poem last year, and was grateful to see it come up again in my email. Learning to befriend all is a worthy endeavor to begin in Lent and to continue for as long as we live - maybe even longer.  I particularly like the phrase, "make the mind your friend."  There really is no other way to calm the mind without first befriending it.  A calm mind can help everyone and everything around us be a little calmer.  And then calmness can continue on its beautiful journey.  

Fear cannot lead us home. It does not know the way.     

"Full of trust you left home,

and soon learned to walk the Path—
making yourself a friend to everyone
and making everyone a friend.

When the whole world is your friend,
fear will find no place to call home.

And when you make the mind your friend,
you’ll know what trust
really means.

Listen.

I have followed this Path of friendship to
its end.

And I can say with absolute certainty—
it will lead you home."

~ Mitta

From The First Free Women: Poems of the Early Buddhist Nuns

   

image:  Lake Chabot   

Revisiting

 On Wednesday, I was poking around one of my bookcases again, in search of a poem. Every Wednesday, two friends and I gather. I read a poem, and we then meditate for about 20 minutes, and then I read the poem again. The discussion that follows is always enriching.  

In yesterday's search, I came across a small publication, Sacred Journey, The Journal of Fellowship in Prayer, Spring 2011, vol. 62, no. 2.  I pulled it out, and noticed a bookmark. As I opened the marked page, I remembered that I had a poem published in that publication. I was re-discovering my own poem.    

As I read it, I smiled. The same question I was pondering then, I am still pondering.  What I wrote then I could write today.  I remember writing it in the predawn. I was sitting in the same place I am now. I am writing this not quite as early in the day. I am moving more slowly because of  a case of Covid. This morning there is no rain; the sun is shining. Yet the question remains after all these years. 

I know I shared this poem after I wrote it because first of all that is what I do, and secondly, I remember a friend's written one word response. Her physical health had deteriorated considerably by then, and her one word then, and now seems generous. Her "Wow" still reverberates through the stillness of time. 

*** 

By what name do I call God? Neither this question nor the poem may be completed in my lifetime. This morning it is enough just to love the beautiful light.  

  

This morning I call God Essence

and I call God Rain  

and I call God Coffee, 

strong dark and fortifying 

and Apple, 

the sweet harvest.  

   

I call God Candle, 

that lights my way 

from slumber. 

  

I call God the Book of Meditations 

that calls my heart to the 

Heart that yearns to call us Home. 

   

As I wonder what to call God this morning, 

I hear the answer, 

   

Everywhere. 

***  

   

image was taken in San Leandro, August 2023

   

If you are interested in joining us for Wednesday's lectio, please send me a message.

Grounded

 I came across the poem below in my Facebook memories. It is definitely worth reading again, especially in a week when I have not felt particularly well, even to the point of losing my voice. Losing my voice happens once or twice a year, and by now I can simply take it as a sign to rest. There was a time when I would panic. "What if my voice never comes back?"  Well, yes, that could happen. However, one of the things I appreciate about preaching in my 70's is that I am aware that my preaching time is finite, even if I never lose my voice again.  

This week the San Lorenzo church joined the Eden UCC Church for Ash Wednesday in Eden's Pioneer Chapel that we rent from them for our Sunday services. For me, it was a rich time of connection to those who approached me for private prayers, as well as to the anthem that the San Lorenzo church sang. I also found myself giving thanks for my singing friend who suggested that when tears threaten to interfere with my singing to simply smile. I used that strategy through most of the anthem, and I made it through without a complete collapse.  

It is a blessing to sing in that small chapel. It has beautiful acoustics, and gives me the sense that our choir is larger than we appear. I attribute that to not only thoughtful architecture (it was built in 1867), but to angels and others who happen to pass by.  I try to leave the door open when we are there on Sunday mornings. I would not want to miss anyone. Yes, it does get a little noisy sometimes, but the tree across the street tells me to know deep in my being that we are all connected. In that message is the encouragement to stand firm and let my roots grow.      

 

"It Is Enough"

To know that the atoms

of my body

will remain

to think of them rising

through the roots of a great oak

to live in

leaves, branches, twigs

perhaps to feed the

crimson peony

the blue iris

the broccoli

or rest on water

freeze and thaw

with the seasons

some atoms might become a

bit of fluff on the wing

of a chickadee

to feel the breeze

know the support of air

and some might drift

up and up into space

star dust returning from

whence it came

it is enough to know that

as long as there is a universe

I am a part of it.

~ Anne Alexander Bingham

First Sip    

  

image:  This is not the tree across the street from the chapel. I believe this photograph was taken a few years ago during a hike in the Morgan Territory outside of Livermore. 

Heart o the Matter

 I have mentioned before how grateful I am for the book Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer. Kimmerer's book has taught me to walk a little more gently and leave things as I found them. (In other words, don't turn everything I can pick up into a personal souvenir.) She also has taught me about lichen, something I have never paid much attention to. I have learned that they are not a plant, but rather a combination of an algae and a fungus. Here in Northern CA, if our air is healthy (clean air critical for lichens) we often see them on rocks or tree bark. They do no harm to either, but they provide food for many creatures, including humans. I have no interest in eating lichens; I munch my way through the world enough as it is. Yet, what I love about them is when we see them we have reason to celebrate. Lichens are not alone in requiring clean air, so when we see a nice healthy patch we can gratefully take a deep breath in. While I was cropping the attached photograph, I realized that the shape of a heart was appearing. I feel like I am passing on a message from the lichens reminding us to love this world.

Another thoughtfully written book has come into my hands, The Comfort of Crows, a Backyard Year by Margaret Renkl, wonderfully illustrated by Bill Renkl, her brother. Even the paper is beautiful. The book contains a devotion for every week of the year. In her devotion for week 2, Renkl advises that according to birding traditions, the first bird you see on the first day of the new year sets "the tone" for the next twelve months. While I can't remember the first bird I saw that day, more than likely it was either a house sparrow, crow, or a scrub jay. They tend to be out early. I will just go with the trio since seeing and hearing those birds are everyday occurrences that gives me delight.

We are in Week 8 of this year. Tomorrow is not only Valentine's Day, it is also Ash Wednesday.  Neither is mentioned in Renkl's devotional. I am okay with that. There is no shortage of writings dedicated to them both. Today I find myself yearning for another viewpoint. Fortunately, life seems to always be willing to provide just that as long as we are willing to try to learn how to both look and see. 

   

"We were never cast out of Eden. We merely turned from it and shut our eyes. To return and be welcomed, cleansed and redeemed, we are only obliged to look."  

Margaret Renkl  

 

Image is from the Huckleberry Botanic Regional Preserve Trail in Oakland, a truly wonderful place that has been lovingly tended to.  A valentine for us all. February, 2024

    

   

      

Not a Book Review

 

"Creaking to the post office 

on my rusty bike 

I saw one purple iris 

wild in the wet green 

of the rice field. 

I wanted to send it to you. 

I can only tell you 

it was there.  

 

Maura O'Hlloran 

  

This poem is from the epilogue of one of the most captivating books I have read in quite some time: Pure Heart, Enlightened Mind, The Zen Journal and Letters of Maura "Soshin" O'Halloran.  While traveling in 1979, this young Irish-American woman found her way (or the way found her) to a Buddhist monastery in Tokyo. In the three years she was there, she received the transmission of her roshi. Six months later, on a circuitous route to return to the West, she died in a bus accident in Thailand. I believe she was still in her late 20's.    

  

I have not yet finished reading this book. So many thoughts keep coming up, and I am not quite ready to try to form something cohesive. Yet, this morning, I decided to read the epilogue, and this poem is indeed the last word of Patricia Dai-En Bennage's afterward.  She also wrote, "Maura's practice was formed from both these halves - of zazen and Bodhisattva Way, meditation and sacrifice. Her journals are a poignant record of this practice and will make Maura's unique understanding available for the benefit of others. The Buddhadarma as lived by an Irish American female monk is now a part of modern Zen history." As I reread these lines, I am filled again with gratitude for Maura's writings. They are honest, moving and inspiring, even if one is not Buddhist. In her journal she wrote, "I want to be a Zen master." And she became one, even in a male Japanese speaking monastery with no other women. She was, and is much loved. 

  

This eloquent afterward, which I read in the pre-dawn hours, brought tears to my eyes. I was reminded of the importance of paying attention to our journeys, trusting who we are, and for me, the importance of writing. I do not believe it is a coincidence that after reading Bennage's words, I set the book down and walked outside. In the clear dark sky I could view the waning crescent moon. When the sky is clear, one can see not only the sparkling crescent, but also the faint outline of the new moon, or I often call it, "the moon that is coming." 

  

This book has changed my way of thinking about my own struggles with fear and discipline. I now realize that these struggles are universal, even for Zen masters. Standing in the clear darkness this morning, I knew that at the end of my own story, fear would not have the last word. Until that last word is known, I shall keep writing. I hear Jesus' words from last week's  lectionary text: "That is why I have come (Mark 1:38)." 

    

I am grateful for Maura Soshin's words, and for those who decided to share those words with the wider world. Thank you.  

        

image:  No, not from a rice field, but from my neighbor's fence where flowers have been planted every year since sometime in the 50's when Sally and Dean moved into their house down the street. They both have passed on, but a daughter keeps the tradition of greeting those walking by with flowers along the fence.   

  

I am grateful for it all.       

      

image:  No, not from a rice field, but from my neighbor's fence where flowers have been planted every year since sometime in the 50's when Sally and Dean moved into their house down the street. They both have passed on, but a daughter keeps the tradition of greeting those walking by with flowers along the fence.   

  

I am grateful for it all.       

Viewing

 Early this morning I had a dream that took place in a church building. In the dream I am the pastor, and while in the dream we were not in our current location, I see people from the congregation I serve today. There were also several new people coming through the front door. I could hear the choir rehearsing, and in my waking life I do sing with the choir. In the dream I am thinking that while I should be rehearsing, I felt it was my responsibility to greet the visitors. I talked to each one. There was a young man and woman who were married, and several men who arrived separately. 

The young woman mentioned that she had never been baptized. Baptism to her meant that there were all sorts of rules to follow. I wanted to talk to her more about that, but just then I looked up and I could see a full moon through an overhead window. The moon appeared large and very close. I then realized that the moon was tilted on its axis, so I was viewing the "bottom" of the moon - a view we never see. For a few moments I was captivated by this tilted moon that seemed to be just outside the window. There were sparkles emanating from it, and the moon itself was a beautiful navy blue color with some other colors swirling around it, somewhat like Jupiter, but with colors that were darker and richer. I could see craters. Sparkles were flying everywhere, but did not seem to land on earth.  

I gasped and asked the young couple if they had seen the moon. They, rather matter of factly, replied that they saw it on the way to church that morning.  I then realized that while yes, it was Sunday morning, the sky I was looking at was a nighttime sky with a very large, tilted and energetic moon.   

This morning I woke up thinking of the dream, and also thinking of Lent. Even now, it  is easy to get caught up in the idea that Lent is just one long slog.  Yet, it can be a time of freedom. We can let go of a habit that holds us down, or we can explore something new. We can give away possessions that we really don't need, but someone else might. Just as there is no rule about how one should live into their baptism, there is no rule (I guess my Protestant roots are showing) on how we approach and move through Lent. 

May we all find a way to give us a new view of who we are in relationship to ourselves, one another, and the universe that surrounds us. That universe, which I understand to be God, is also within us. Lent gives us time to do some excavation and tidying up, so we can give God a little more room to move. I sense there are many surprises in store.  

            

     

    

image: I do not have an image that comes anywhere close to what I saw in the dream. A photograph of what looks to be a silver ocean will just have to do.  Light is a wonderful thing. Santa Cruz, 2019    

Not Lost

 I am a woman in search of a poem. Yes, that thought got me out of bed at 4:30 this morning.  I had just awakened from a happy dream. In my waking life, I take yoga at our local community center. It is an austere environment. However, the teacher of Iyengar yoga is methodical and caring, and some of my fellow students and I enjoy taking classes together. Across the street from the center is a busy park where students play baseball and other sports. Dog walking is also practiced there. In the dream, I cross the street, and walk through the park. In a back corner I discover a Japanese garden in need of attention.  

In the dream I am standing in front of a chain link fence with tall plants growing alongside it.  However, the plants had not been pruned well or regularly, and I could see a tennis court through the plants. I thought it was sad that the plants did not fully cover the fence. 

As I continued to stand there, a male employee walked up to me. We talked about how the garden needed attention. In just moments, I was given a green button down short-sleeved shirt, a badge declaring me a volunteer for the garden, and a key - to what I do not know. What I did know was that I was happy. I drove home in our truck and delightedly showed Tyler what I had been given.  

When I woke, I thought of a poem that had sustained me in my early days of seminary. I could remember only the first line: "Cut brambles long enough". I was concerned that I might have lost the poem. Fortunately, I could sort of remember part of the poet's name. That was enough, and I found the poem in a book, The Flowering of the Soul, edited by Lucinda Vardey. The book is a collection of poems and prayers written by women through the ages. This particular poem has no title, but it was written by Sun Bu-er, a female Taoist sage who was born in 1124. The date of her passing is not known. My New Testament professor, who also had a fondness for poetry, told me that there are those who believe that she did not actually die, but rather ascended. 

I am grateful for the reminder to return to the practice of tending to brambles. That is what writing does for me. It seems that is where my happiness resides. Perhaps that is both the key and the door.  

    

"Cut brambles long enough, 

Sprout after sprout, 

And the lotus will bloom 

Of its own accord:

Already waiting in the clearing, 

The single image of light. 

The day you see this, 

That day you will become it."   

 

Sun Bu-er  

    

When I pulled the book off the bookshelf, I was transported to the bookstore on the SFTS campus, where I purchased it. Both that bookstore and the one on the GTU campus were closed decades ago. I am grateful I was able to peruse both bookstores many times. Among their shelves I often found solace and inspiration to continue my studies all those years ago. This morning I sip oolong tea in celebration of it all. 

 

The image was taken a few years ago on a happy day with friends at Butchart Gardens in Victoria B.C.  

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