broadcast: april 9, 2006--from canada to new mexico
"later on
i went and captured
all the forest deer -
all the objects of the universe..."
- from 'verses for memorisation at the tantric college', by the first panchen lama.
he wakes up in an apartment that has begun to feel like home... his sleeping bag rolled out on the floor in the centre of a large rug, and around him a soft arc of books, art magazines, a simple buddhist altar, CDs, papers, little toys (marvin the martian peering over the 'postcard shoulder' of an angel greeting mary in a renaissance painting), a mini dvd player, photographs, bookwraps and bits of clothing. stripped of furniture, the room shines. for only the second time on this trip - and only the sixth time in the last seven months - he's been in the same place for more than two weeks. when there's time and space to unpack there's time and space for silence. otherwise he has to hop the freight-trains of language all day long. time and space, too, for memorisation. its in this room that he memorises dogen zenji's prayer, 'arousing the mind of enlightenment':
"I vow with all beings, from this life on throughout countless lives, to hear the True Dharma; and upon hearing it no doubt will arise nor will I lack in faith; that upon meeting it I will renounce worldy affairs and maintain the Buddha Dharma; that in doing so the great earth and all living beings together attain the Buddha Way.
Although my past evil karma has greatly accumulated, indeed being the cause and condition of obstacles in practising the Way, may all Buddhas and Ancestors who have attained the Buddha Way be compassionate and free me from karmic effects, allowing me to practice the Way without hindrance. May they share their compassion which fills the boundless universe with the virtue of their enlightenment and teachings.
Buddhas and Ancestors of old were as we; we, in the future, shall be Buddhas and Ancestors. Revering Buddhas And Ancestors we are one Buddha and one Ancestor; awakening Bodhi-mind we are one Bodhi-mind. Extending their compassion freely and unlimitedly, we are able to attain Buddhahood and let go of the attainment. Therefore the chan master Lung-ya said: 'Those who in past lives were not enlightened will now be enlightened. In this life save the body which is the fruit of many lives. Before Buddhas were enlightened they were the same as we. Enlightened people of today are exactly as those of old.'
Quietly explore the farthest reaches of these causes and conditions, as this is the exact transmission of a verified Buddha. Repenting in this way one never fails to receive profound help from all Buddhas and Ancestors. Revealing and disclosing one's lack of faith and practice before the Buddha, the power of this revelation melts away the root of transgressions. This is the pure and simple colour of true practice, of the true mind of faith, of the true body of faith."
sometimes all he has is fiction which which to describe the emergence of a new reality. or rather something that doesnt recognise the dicotomy of fact and fiction, a new kind of writing that allows biographemes to float free, illimitable, discreet, almost nothing. the new language: i you he she.
his journeys are beautiful fractal curves, visible from outer space: to meet his teacher in new york city he leaves india and curves through thailand, japan, sweden, england and canada. to meet him again in the desert he will curve out of new york city back into canada, down into new mexico and then finally into arizona. but i'm sure plants turning to face the sun have the same sense of achievement.
once the buddha was walking across a field accompanied by some gods when he suddenly says: "this would be a good place to build a sanctuary." one of the gods plucks a piece of grass, places it back into the ground, and announces "the sanctuary is built." the buddha smiles.
i know how it is: your body, already broken, yet untouched by human hands. the years of indifference, the lakeside visions, the language that they sold you which didnt work in real life situations... there are parts of the body that still have no name after centuries of looking and touching. there are korean monks who climb up into caves behind huge waterfalls and scream for hours when the pressures of their training get too much. you ride city buses in silence and come home each evening to piles of white envelopes, like last year's snow. i see you everywhere: quiet athlete from an unknown country, standing on the podium of everyday life wearing your gold medal of unanswered questions. your national anthem: sadness. this is more than simply the end of biography, this is the spirituality of fact and fiction. i would like us to walk together in silence, side by side, for precisely one hundred steps. (a quantum angel would do the counting - we would just be the lovers of language walking in the nonlocality of love.) and at the end i would like you to realise that language hasnt even started yet on this planet. then i would like to return to the 14th century. there: now you know how the mind of a soft logic monk works...
a poem by saint john of the cross:
IT IS GOD WHO SHOULD ASK
With all humility
I say,
it is God who should ask for forgiveness,
not we, Him.
Someday you will know this.
A saint could explain.
he's reading a novel by richard powers, 'the time of our singing': an endlessly emerging description of the beauties of singing and music set against a wider history of twentieth century america. sex, riots, relativity theory, your mom trapped in a burning building - all seen in terms of music, seen as music, not as metaphor but as a newly translated natural language. he writes: "i could send you the chapter titles alone, or an occasional sentence or open-ended paragraph, on postcards sent once a month for three years, and you wouldnt feel distant from me:
"december 1961", "my brother's face", "easter 1939", "my brother as the student prince", "my brother as hansel", "in trutina", "a tempo", "december 1964", "my brother as aeneas", "bist du bei mir", "my brother as orpheus" ... "he feeds off his sister's instruction, the seed that will form his lifelong taste for the small and the light..." "misunderstandings seemed always to leave the harmed one strong enough to comfort the harmer..." "in his line, people keep studying until they die. and maybe even night school, after that..." "he spends his days in feverish activity. he listens to the radio. he took walks, or sat motionless at the music library at columbia. he was trying to race backwards by standing still. a decade later , he'd tell an interviewer that those were the months that turned him into an adult singer. 'i learnt more about how to sing by keeping silent for half a year than i ever learnt from any teacher.' except the teacher from whom he learned even silence..." "she floats into the next lesson beatific. she crosses the room and kisses him on the forehead, in neither forgiveness nor apology. just life in its inexplicable fullness..."
i've only made it through half the book and now its time to move on, but i know it will re-appear one day in another country, like everything else does..."
he's moving through people's lives so fast it feels like time travel. he has five days on average for a place to become home, for the distance between the door and the window to travel back through time, touch childhood and return, 'confirmed', before having to start again in a new place. he grows up overnight in his three day old neighbourhoods and he owns the streets outside his 'home' in the simplest way he knows: a dreamy appreciation. a quiet, unexpectant amazement wrapped in a certain interiority. but in the midst of all this he is nurturing his buddhist universe. he's reading nagarjuna, st teresa, "the fabric of the cosmos", "the time of our singing". buying songs off the internet to offer to the buddhas. a gardener tending his garden, imagining tantra, re-imagining tantra, always arriving.
two weeks ago i was invited to stay a few days at grail springs, a spa in northern ontario, to teach a little and in return enjoy the amazing hospitality of the place: snowshoeing through silent forests and listening to the sound of a stream permeating through a semi-acoustic blanket of snow, enjoying saunas and hot tubs under the stars, mud wraps and massage treatments from the sweetest angels, and amazing raw food dishes by a visiting californian chef. slept in a bed with so many mattresses i had to climb up into it. forget to draw the curtains and wake up looking out over a frozen lake that was just beginning to melt. the owner is a woman with a deep faith in the legend of the holy grail and its fundamental credo of 'i serve'. she wants her guests to have more than just a wonderful time, she wants them to have time itself, now and for evermore... it was wonderful to be there and now its already gone, disappearing at the speed of light. somebody talks about michael ondaatje's 'billy the kid' and then i fly diagonally across the continent to find a guidebook to new mexico on the coffee table of my next apartment, and on one of the pages a picture of billy the kid. "maybe i should re-read 'billy the kid'? maybe billy the kid will help me to understand geshe michael, st teresa, neils bohr?" ... i think i'm finally beginning to understand what the 'homeless' life means. right now i'm in the midst of a high speed spin through five or six different places in two weeks before arriving at diamond mountain. from there, another high speed spin back into and through india. dont imagine i'll have computer access in the desert... so... until next time...
much love.
shenyen
i went and captured
all the forest deer -
all the objects of the universe..."
- from 'verses for memorisation at the tantric college', by the first panchen lama.
he wakes up in an apartment that has begun to feel like home... his sleeping bag rolled out on the floor in the centre of a large rug, and around him a soft arc of books, art magazines, a simple buddhist altar, CDs, papers, little toys (marvin the martian peering over the 'postcard shoulder' of an angel greeting mary in a renaissance painting), a mini dvd player, photographs, bookwraps and bits of clothing. stripped of furniture, the room shines. for only the second time on this trip - and only the sixth time in the last seven months - he's been in the same place for more than two weeks. when there's time and space to unpack there's time and space for silence. otherwise he has to hop the freight-trains of language all day long. time and space, too, for memorisation. its in this room that he memorises dogen zenji's prayer, 'arousing the mind of enlightenment':
"I vow with all beings, from this life on throughout countless lives, to hear the True Dharma; and upon hearing it no doubt will arise nor will I lack in faith; that upon meeting it I will renounce worldy affairs and maintain the Buddha Dharma; that in doing so the great earth and all living beings together attain the Buddha Way.
Although my past evil karma has greatly accumulated, indeed being the cause and condition of obstacles in practising the Way, may all Buddhas and Ancestors who have attained the Buddha Way be compassionate and free me from karmic effects, allowing me to practice the Way without hindrance. May they share their compassion which fills the boundless universe with the virtue of their enlightenment and teachings.
Buddhas and Ancestors of old were as we; we, in the future, shall be Buddhas and Ancestors. Revering Buddhas And Ancestors we are one Buddha and one Ancestor; awakening Bodhi-mind we are one Bodhi-mind. Extending their compassion freely and unlimitedly, we are able to attain Buddhahood and let go of the attainment. Therefore the chan master Lung-ya said: 'Those who in past lives were not enlightened will now be enlightened. In this life save the body which is the fruit of many lives. Before Buddhas were enlightened they were the same as we. Enlightened people of today are exactly as those of old.'
Quietly explore the farthest reaches of these causes and conditions, as this is the exact transmission of a verified Buddha. Repenting in this way one never fails to receive profound help from all Buddhas and Ancestors. Revealing and disclosing one's lack of faith and practice before the Buddha, the power of this revelation melts away the root of transgressions. This is the pure and simple colour of true practice, of the true mind of faith, of the true body of faith."
sometimes all he has is fiction which which to describe the emergence of a new reality. or rather something that doesnt recognise the dicotomy of fact and fiction, a new kind of writing that allows biographemes to float free, illimitable, discreet, almost nothing. the new language: i you he she.
his journeys are beautiful fractal curves, visible from outer space: to meet his teacher in new york city he leaves india and curves through thailand, japan, sweden, england and canada. to meet him again in the desert he will curve out of new york city back into canada, down into new mexico and then finally into arizona. but i'm sure plants turning to face the sun have the same sense of achievement.
once the buddha was walking across a field accompanied by some gods when he suddenly says: "this would be a good place to build a sanctuary." one of the gods plucks a piece of grass, places it back into the ground, and announces "the sanctuary is built." the buddha smiles.
i know how it is: your body, already broken, yet untouched by human hands. the years of indifference, the lakeside visions, the language that they sold you which didnt work in real life situations... there are parts of the body that still have no name after centuries of looking and touching. there are korean monks who climb up into caves behind huge waterfalls and scream for hours when the pressures of their training get too much. you ride city buses in silence and come home each evening to piles of white envelopes, like last year's snow. i see you everywhere: quiet athlete from an unknown country, standing on the podium of everyday life wearing your gold medal of unanswered questions. your national anthem: sadness. this is more than simply the end of biography, this is the spirituality of fact and fiction. i would like us to walk together in silence, side by side, for precisely one hundred steps. (a quantum angel would do the counting - we would just be the lovers of language walking in the nonlocality of love.) and at the end i would like you to realise that language hasnt even started yet on this planet. then i would like to return to the 14th century. there: now you know how the mind of a soft logic monk works...
a poem by saint john of the cross:
IT IS GOD WHO SHOULD ASK
With all humility
I say,
it is God who should ask for forgiveness,
not we, Him.
Someday you will know this.
A saint could explain.
he's reading a novel by richard powers, 'the time of our singing': an endlessly emerging description of the beauties of singing and music set against a wider history of twentieth century america. sex, riots, relativity theory, your mom trapped in a burning building - all seen in terms of music, seen as music, not as metaphor but as a newly translated natural language. he writes: "i could send you the chapter titles alone, or an occasional sentence or open-ended paragraph, on postcards sent once a month for three years, and you wouldnt feel distant from me:
"december 1961", "my brother's face", "easter 1939", "my brother as the student prince", "my brother as hansel", "in trutina", "a tempo", "december 1964", "my brother as aeneas", "bist du bei mir", "my brother as orpheus" ... "he feeds off his sister's instruction, the seed that will form his lifelong taste for the small and the light..." "misunderstandings seemed always to leave the harmed one strong enough to comfort the harmer..." "in his line, people keep studying until they die. and maybe even night school, after that..." "he spends his days in feverish activity. he listens to the radio. he took walks, or sat motionless at the music library at columbia. he was trying to race backwards by standing still. a decade later , he'd tell an interviewer that those were the months that turned him into an adult singer. 'i learnt more about how to sing by keeping silent for half a year than i ever learnt from any teacher.' except the teacher from whom he learned even silence..." "she floats into the next lesson beatific. she crosses the room and kisses him on the forehead, in neither forgiveness nor apology. just life in its inexplicable fullness..."
i've only made it through half the book and now its time to move on, but i know it will re-appear one day in another country, like everything else does..."
he's moving through people's lives so fast it feels like time travel. he has five days on average for a place to become home, for the distance between the door and the window to travel back through time, touch childhood and return, 'confirmed', before having to start again in a new place. he grows up overnight in his three day old neighbourhoods and he owns the streets outside his 'home' in the simplest way he knows: a dreamy appreciation. a quiet, unexpectant amazement wrapped in a certain interiority. but in the midst of all this he is nurturing his buddhist universe. he's reading nagarjuna, st teresa, "the fabric of the cosmos", "the time of our singing". buying songs off the internet to offer to the buddhas. a gardener tending his garden, imagining tantra, re-imagining tantra, always arriving.
two weeks ago i was invited to stay a few days at grail springs, a spa in northern ontario, to teach a little and in return enjoy the amazing hospitality of the place: snowshoeing through silent forests and listening to the sound of a stream permeating through a semi-acoustic blanket of snow, enjoying saunas and hot tubs under the stars, mud wraps and massage treatments from the sweetest angels, and amazing raw food dishes by a visiting californian chef. slept in a bed with so many mattresses i had to climb up into it. forget to draw the curtains and wake up looking out over a frozen lake that was just beginning to melt. the owner is a woman with a deep faith in the legend of the holy grail and its fundamental credo of 'i serve'. she wants her guests to have more than just a wonderful time, she wants them to have time itself, now and for evermore... it was wonderful to be there and now its already gone, disappearing at the speed of light. somebody talks about michael ondaatje's 'billy the kid' and then i fly diagonally across the continent to find a guidebook to new mexico on the coffee table of my next apartment, and on one of the pages a picture of billy the kid. "maybe i should re-read 'billy the kid'? maybe billy the kid will help me to understand geshe michael, st teresa, neils bohr?" ... i think i'm finally beginning to understand what the 'homeless' life means. right now i'm in the midst of a high speed spin through five or six different places in two weeks before arriving at diamond mountain. from there, another high speed spin back into and through india. dont imagine i'll have computer access in the desert... so... until next time...
much love.
shenyen
posted by . . . at 7:46 PM
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