Once a month a silent retreat
with sangha, otherwise
every day no other sound
than wind, or rain, or creek.
The old woman's current community meets monthly at a rural home an hour's drive from her farm, to spend the day in group zazen and a few other practices. She's torn between her habitual hut practice and the notion that Buddhism requires company -- what even are precepts for in the middle of nowhere, alone? But every beloved poem by Han Shan, or Stonehouse, or Ryokan convinces her she's doing real work. As does the rain, as does the moon behind clouds.
Movement isn’t right and stillness is wrong
and the realm of no-thought is confusion
instead the Patriarch didn’t have no-mind in mind
any thought at all means trouble
a hut facing south isn’t so cold
chrysanthemums along a fence perfume the dusk
as soon as drifting clouds start to linger
the wind blows them past the vines
-- Stonehouse (Shiwu) tr. Red Pine
Web site of part-time Soto Zen hermitary in Eugene, Oregon
