broadcast 10.2004--winterzweige

winterzweige

“And then too there are the winterzweige (winter branches)… You know how branches look pretty dead in the winter, but in the sky of spring the branches burst forth in blossoms and subtle shades? Sometimes a lineage looks dead or dormant through several generations, yet it may still be transmitting the entire sap of the teaching. And then in auspicious circumstances the lineage may visibly blossom in some disciple. Well, each of us needs to be the spring for some teacher. If you nourish a lineage, if you nourish the teachings with your life, everything blossoms. Its much better to be in for this long learning curve, because so much of Buddhism is only absorbed through incubation. You learn it over a period of time with somebody, maturing the conditions for enlightening states of mind and being. Suzuki Roshi is still the main companion I have today…”

(Richard Baker Roshi, ibid)

What you probably don’t know – and what makes that last line so beautiful – is that his teacher Suzuki Roshi died more than twenty years before this interview took place…

Fresh snow up on the high mountains. I’ll be out of here before it falls beneath my feet.

Now, as I walk down to class in the afternoon, each time the mountain path curves into shadow the temperature drop is noticeable. But my regular morning walk up to trijang rimpoche’s stupa is still baked in sunshine, and sometimes on the way back I sit and read for an hour on a little rock which I now call the moon-viewing seat.

Up on the roof of lama’s house, walking in circles in the late afternoon sun. My shadow skips off the edge of the roof and onto the trees about twenty metres away. Each leaf a pixel of memory, flickering on and off with the passing shadow. Suddenly I have the feeling that language is with me, and I have the feeling that I could say anything – make the simplest sentences – and you would understand completely and even be here with me. “when your body is only just beginning…” I wonder how long this language will last. Maybe I should make prayers to the goddess of sentences.

A friend tells me that Jacques Derrida died recently. For years this man’s language has been my own emerging language. I can say that this is the first death of a friend. I think of him not so much as a philosopher but as the greatest love poet of the twentieth century. When I return to England I will read his essay ‘telepathy’ and write in its margins - to him, to everyone - one last time. Please, everyone – if you come across any beautiful pieces about him over the next few months can you save them for me?

I leave tushita in five days, but this time not just for a couple of weeks but for a four month spin that should take me to Thailand, south India, north India and Nepal, through airports and train platforms, roadside restaurants and simple hotel rooms with satellite tv – teachings, retreats, ceremonies, re-unions… some long, long journeys (at least one of the train journeys is 36 hours long) before I end up back here for the next six months of study, march to august next year.

During the picnic lunch at the end of the last course a student took some photos and gave me a cd copy, so I finally have some photos to send you. They should be attached to this email.

But a request to my English friends: if anyone has access to a photo printer could you print out a sheet and send them to my mum? She doesn’t have access to a computer. The first person to reply saying they can do it I will send my mum’s address to you. Thanks.

shenyen