[AUDIO AND TEXT]
I was reading an article in the summer issue of Tricycle magazine (the Buddhist journal, Vol. 32, No. 4, pp. 84-86). The article, by a man named Douglas Penick, is about the journey of old age, and it cites the poetry of Basho, the 17th century Japanese master. It’s a beautifully written piece, just a couple of pages long, and it contains much that resonated with me. In particular, following lines lingered after the reading was complete.
As we age, Penick writes, things begin to seem unfamiliar and become unstable. He says:
There is no resolution to our progressive instability. Much that we have relied on comes apart, and we find ourselves in a terrain increasingly unknown. … We cannot say where we are going or what we are seeking, yet mind never stops.
Yes: “a terrain increasingly unknown.” These lines led me to recall a koan, which (believe it or not) often happens in the midst of my daily living. Here is Case 20 from the Shoyoroku, the Book of Serenity:
Jizo asked Hogen, “Where are you going, senior monk?” Hogen said, “I am on pilgrimage, wandering with the wind.” Jizo said, “What is pilgrimage?” Hogen said, “I don’t know.” Jizo said, “Non-knowing is most intimate.” Hogen suddenly attained great enlightenment.
[Webmaster’s note: the recorded sound improves here.]
I think most of us here this evening can relate to the questions and responses suggested by the lines in both of these passages. We are all wandering an unknown road – a pilgrimage of youth, through change, and on to old age and death – oftentimes a two-steps-forward-one-step-back sort of journey. Things arise out of nowhere around and within us, and we can’t say where we’ll end up. It’s the Buddhist principle of uncertainty, the Zen mantra of “I don’t know,” again and again, spiced up with a little taste of “Just this.” And it may be the “just this” that enables us to put our foot forward to take the next step.
All of this led me to a passage I first encountered many years ago in Thomas Merton’s book, Thoughts in Solitude (© 1956, 1958 by the Abbey of Our Lady of Gethsemane. Pub. Farrar, Straus, and Giroux. NY. See p. 83.). I’m told this passage is familiar to those in twelve-step programs. Of course, the context is different, but it seems to match up with both the contemporary and the 17th century expressions:
My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so. But I believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire. And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road, though I may know nothing about it. Therefore I will trust you always though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. I will not fear, for you are ever with me, and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.
Once again, we have the “I don’t know” of it all. And here, we have the added feature of trust in the true nature of being. The “just this” of it all.
All of us are traveling this road, whether racing or rambling. It’s a beautiful road, and a joyous journey. Twists and turns, smooth or bumpy, it’s our common road through all our lives. And through it all, as Douglas Penick writes, “mind never stops.” And as Merton writes, God never stops. We have the comfort of knowing that we are accompanied always by that which has no beginning and no end. What a gift!
To finish up this offering, I’ll read one more passage. This is the verse that follows Shoyoroku Case 20 (in my copy of the koan, at least). It seems to express what we might all want to bring to mind in our last moments – or even at sharp turning points along the way. Here:
Now, having practiced to the end, it is just like as it was at the beginning –
Having rid yourself of all intricacies, you reach the non-knowing.
Let it be short, or let it be long – you ease pruning and patching;
Follow the high, or follow the low – it levels by itself.
Richness of the family or its scarcity – you use it according to the occasion;
You walk leisurely around in your land, you go where your feet lead you.
That you set out on pilgrimage thirty years ago –
How clearly it ran counter to the fact of your two eyebrows!
That is, whether or not you traveled the road in the way you wanted to, or thought you wanted to, your journey was as sure as the fact of your being on the road in the first place. And, in Merton’s telling, you never walked alone.
Thank you.
EMPTY CLOUD ZEN 