In Place 36

Atop her desk, "one who listens

to the cries of the world" rests

in emptiness, yet serves to salve 

inner and outer wounds 





A friend donated a statuette of Avalokiteshvara, or Guanyin (Jp. Kannon), the bodhisattva who “hears the cries of the world.” It’s evidently a mass market copy of the great (2m height) Song Dynasty Guanyin currently on display in the National Museum of China, Beijing. The pose is Royal Ease, and Guanyin appears to be teaching while holding a lotus-flower wish-fulfillment jewel. Above the statuette on the wall there is a framed copy of the Heart Sutra; to the left there is a framed enso or empty circle from one of the series of the “Ten Ox-Herding Pictures (Ox and Ox-Herd Both Gone Out of Sight)." To the right is a framed photograph of the memorial statue of Mugai Nyodai (1223-1298), first abbess in Japanese Zen, who is said to have burned her face with a hot iron in order to be accepted to live and study among male monks.

With nothing to attain, a bodhisattva relies on prajnaparamita, and thus the mind is without hindrance. Without hindrance, there is no fear.
-- Avalokiteshvara in the Heart Sutra.

 

In Place 35

Sun slants across the room

differently each day; sometimes her

young friend (who points to the earth) shines

but sometimes darkness holds him





Sun strikes the young man on the altar mostly in winter. At the height of summer he reposes in shade. There is no hindrance; light and its absence require each other to make one universe.

In darkest night it is perfectly clear; in the light of dawn it is hidden.
It is a standard for all things; its use removes all suffering.
Although it is not constructed, it is not beyond words.
Like facing a precious mirror; form and reflection behold each other.

-- Dongshan, "Song of the Precious Mirror Samadhi" in Taishō shinshū daizōkyō (1924-33) reprinted in Hongzhi, Cultivating the Empty Field, 2000, tr. Leighton and Yi Wu

 

In Place 34

The waterfall that runs in Autumn

runs, fills the hut with white noise;

to air dark corners, old woman

slides a window open -- bang!





The waterfall’s music begins usually in late October or early November and in late May or early June it stops; though in 1993 it ran all year.

So many years spent idly contemplating
The immense white layer on the mountains;
This winter, all of a sudden,
I see it for the first time as a snow-mountain.

-- Dogen (tr. Stephen Heine)

In Place 33

 Snow seals heat within;

she steams white rice,

tea and veg to have with

scenes of falling white

The snow helps dampen road noise from nearby civilization. She sits, then gets up to muck about. Before long, thoughts creep in that leave her feeling defeated. "If in sitting one finds no distinctions, where do all these distinctions come from to crowd in as soon as I rise to pour tea?"

Snow besieges my plank door I crowd the stove at night
although this form exists it seems as if it doesn't
I have no idea where the months have gone
every time I turn around another year on earth is over

-- Han-Shan Te-Ching (tr. Red Pine)

In Place 32

In a snow year, break trail

to brew tea and read, 

or make nine bows as incense 

drifts toward drafty walls






A hat, gloves and coat make a fine robe for morning service.

One who is drinking water knows well enough if it is cold or warm.

-- Huang Po (after Blofeld, tr.)

 

In Place 31

She loves to hear rain

on leaves, on grass and stones;

when rain falls on desk and books

she does roof work






The hut, built from scraps, is approaching the end of its third decade and maintenance is on the increase. She muses that rain and work are both excellent ways to observe the universal as the particular and vice versa.

Not engaging in extensive deliberation,
When sowing the fields you must work diligently.

-- Dogen, Eihei Koroku 445 (tr. Leighton and Okamura)

In Place 30

Everything within reach,

including the broom:

spring cleaning is quickly done

in a room eight by ten






"Allow no dust to cling." Plenty of dust remains after nearsighted Old Woman sweeps.

When the old woman wants to read a book, she extends her arm; when she wants tea, she extends her arm. Pretentiousness? Contrivance? Of course! But the genuine is never absent; it's up to her to notice.

Sweeping away mist and clouds, the purity of the universe is revealed, As, together with the wooden man, we all enjoy a spring of great peace. 

-- Zukui Jifu in Eminent Nuns, 144 (Beata Grant)

 

 

In Place 29

 From the end of this pasture

she looks back: if there were

suddenly no hut, there would still be

grass, trees, stones and stream





Pasture with the little dog, late May.

Everything here is exactly as it is.



The body and mind of the Buddha way is grass, trees, tiles and pebbles, as well as wind, rain, water and fire.

— Dogen (tr. Tanahashi)

In Place 28

The young-old monk, watcher
over infants and mad crones,
gets a late spring offering —
handful of vinca blossoms





Jizo once greeted visitors to the homestead, but lost his head more than once as water hoses were hauled around the garden. In his new location at the hut he is a hermit, but has never left off his practice. The stone behind him was raised from the dry creek bed the preceding summer.

Firmly based on steadiness, it can't be surpassed.
A shining window below the green pines --
jade palaces or vermilion towers can't compare with it.

-- Shitou, "Song of the Grass-Roof Hut" in Taishō shinshū daizōkyō (1924-33) reprinted in Hongzhi, Cultivating the Empty Field, 2000, tr. Leighton and Yi Wu

 

In Place 27

Winds from the river by day

winds from mountains at night

sing to cottonwood branches:

cottonwood branches clack back






Though the old woman has a cot in the hut and naps there often, she has seldom slept in it overnight. But she does lie long abed in the afternoons, attending the rustling leaves or rattling twigs.


The dharma does not rise up alone—it can’t emerge without reliance on the world. If I take up the challenge of speaking I must surely borrow the light and the dark, the form and the emptiness of the mountains and hills and the great earth, the call of the magpies and the cries of the crows. The water flows and the flowers blossom, brilliantly preaching without ceasing. In this way there is no restraint.

— Ziyong Chengru in The Hidden Lamp: Stories from Twenty-Five Centuries of Awakened Women, Caplow and Moon, 241