"To reconnect the world with what is real." That's what Llewellyn Vaughan-Lee is saying on the tape this Saturday afternoon. There's a storm coming. Maine waits to see whether snow shovel or plow will be used. It has been a curious winter.

It seems everybody has an opinion about everyone else in the shop today. Must be the storm. I have no opinion. I have ears. And eyes. What comes in falls into an empty place. Beyond that, no opinion can reach.

Where is that?

The real way circulates everywhere;
how could it require
practice or enlightenment?
The essential teaching is fully available;
how could effort be necessary?
Furthermore, the entire mirror is
free of dust; why take steps to polish it?
Nothing is separate from this
very place; why journey away?
- Dogen (1200-1253)

I don't know where to go. So I opt to stay where I am...is.

Your storm raged, and the waters were piled high,
the flowing waters were a rampart, the sea-bed was exposed.

The enemy said: "I will follow and surround them;
I will divide their spoils,
have my fill of booty,
draw my sword and kill them all". (from Exodus 15)

There is so much concern about being recognized, about one's opinion, about being heard. Being heard is important.

Sonnet

I am in need of music that would flow
Over my fretful, feeling finger-tips,
Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips,
With melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow.
Oh, for the healing swaying, old and low,
Of some song sung to rest the tired dead,
A song to fall like water on my head,
And over quivering limbs, dream flushed to glow!

There is a magic made by melody:
A spell of rest, and quiet breath, and cool
Heart, that sinks through fading colors deep
To the subaqueous stillness of the sea,
And floats forever in a moon-green pool,
Held in the arms of rhythm and of sleep.
(Poem: "Sonnet" by Elizabeth Bishop from The Complete Poems: 1937-1971.)

What is real is being heard. Not any isolated separate self pretending their sound is the one sound, but sound itself, being, heard.

Bailey, the black poodle, wanders around shop. The fire has been uplifted on cinder blocks. Readers of poetry gather. Words encroach.

Punctuation looks for places to land, breath to find place to rest.

I, it would seem, would disappear. Recluses fade into what is taking place, longing to disappear into what is being said, wondering what becomes of us when, being heard, nothing remains but simple, profound stillness bordering on no opinion.

Truth, a zen master said, is easy to arrive at -- just drop all opinions.

In the Tao te Ching [chapter 20] there is a suggestion Lao Tsu was not always happy with his reclusive way of life and personality:

I alone am inert, showing no sign of desires,
like an infant that has not yet smiled.
Wearied, indeed, I seem to be without a home.
The multitude all possess more than enough,
I alone seem to have lost all . . .
Common folks are indeed brilliant;
I alone seem to be in the dark.

Like light, dark is a lovely place to be.

Between them, in the middle thin place we call awareness, we get to see what is, and no longer there.

The Irish fella rewires the junction box. We hold lanterns. Electricity finds way into walls. Heat comes back. Near zero tonite.

To detach oneself from the dust of the world,
This is no ordinary task.
Hold firmly to the end of the rope and go at it
With all your might.
Without undergoing a whole spell of cold
That bites into your bones,
How can you have the plum blossoms regale you
With their piercing fragrance?
- Huang-po

Cat gets treat at bedtime. We watch Spike Lee's "25th Hour," love letter to New York.

Is it for the dead that you perform your wonders?
Will the ghosts rise up and proclaim you?
In the tomb, will they tell of your kindness? (from Psalm 88)

Monty's father at film's end is saying: "This life came so close to never happening."

And there he is, in the car, badly beaten.

And here we are, each in our place.

Going on.

It is difficult for the certain folks to comprehend the chaotic folks.

To detach oneself from the dust of the world,
This is no ordinary task.
Hold firmly to the end of the rope and go at it
With all your might.
Without undergoing a whole spell of cold
That bites into your bones,
How can you have the plum blossoms regale you
With their piercing fragrance?
- Huang-po

Chaos ask us to keep the conversation going. Inconclusivity, along with being the sign of creative minds, is the playground of dialogue. We need more play.

Jesus left that place and set out for the territory of Tyre. There he went into a house and did not want anyone to know he was there, but he could not pass unrecognised
( Mark 7:24 - 26)

He would not pass unrecognized today. He was a Semite. He would be seen as a suspected Islamic terrorist or Israeli provocateur. Everyone would be watching him.

It is too difficult to entertain for long the cynicism and pessimism on one side and the defeatism and psychosis of the other. People have gone mad with their certainty.

I prefer the chaos of a snowstorm.

I can understand the open ended wonder of intelligent uncertainty.

I welcome where dialogic inquiry leads us.

Don't tell anyone where you are.

Let them want to see.

Thich Nhat Hanh thinks there should be a Council of Sages in this country. They would listen. To suffering.

Mountain air is different from the world of people,
Mysteriously full of ancient times:
Cloudy trees put on a hue for each of the four seasons,
But the voice of the valley spring has only one tune.
Rain makes the warbler's robe heavy with dampness;
Warm breezes lighten the butterfly's sleeve.
Though we've written poetry till I'm an old man,
I have yet to astonish the spirits and gods.
- Ishikawa Jozan (1583-1672)

These days everyone seems to fall into being victim or accuser. Rare is the soul able to merely listen with compassion and understanding.

Jesus called the people to him again and said, "Listen to me, all of you, and understand. Nothing that goes into a man from outside can make him unclean; it is the things that come out of a man that make him unclean. If anyone has ears to hear, let him listen to this." (Mark 7:14 - 16)

No matter how duplicitous the rhetoric spoken at her, the listening sage would not hear the lies. The sage would hear the suffering and help ready the one suffering for liberation.

So much is false.

Ours is to hear.

What is true.

Long for what is. Observe what is. Become what is.

What if "what is" is what is called God?

The name "Three Teachings"
Was empty right from the start
Miss even one word and all goes wrong.
Looking inward or outward,
See there is no fixed self.
Break the front door,
If you want to enter your home.
- Dogen (1200-1253)

May all beings be happy. May all beings be safe. May all beings come to dwell in their true home.

No fixed self? Nothing to fix.

Longing to see all I am, dropping names and opinions, enters dawn with chimes, voicing wind.

Praise itself!

No front door.

Openness.

Intelligence is this moment revealing itself. No pattern, no ideology, no belief substitutes for intelligence. It is clarity of mind. It sees what is there to see.

When two blades cross points,
There's no need to withdraw.
The master swordsman
Is like the lotus blooming in the fire.
Such a person has inside of them
A heaven soaring spirit.
- Tozan Ryokan's 4th verse on the 5 ranks

Cabin woodstove warm tonight. We sat with a couple this afternoon listening to them. Just listening. They asked we listen as they spoke to one another about difficult things.

Is not man's life on earth nothing more than pressed service,
his time no better than hired drudgery?
Like the slave, sighing for the shade,
or the workman with no thought but his wages,
months of delusion I have assigned to me,
nothing for my own but nights of grief.
Lying in bed I wonder, "When will it be day?"
Risen I think, "How slowly evening comes!"
Restlessly I fret till twilight falls.
Swifter than a weaver's shuttle my days have passed,
and vanished, leaving no hope behind.
Remember that my life is but a breath,
and that my eyes will never again see joy.
-- Job 7:1 - 7

For J. Krishnamurti, "the observer is the observed."
The listener, then, is what is listened to.

We are what is looking for, listening for, itself.

A lovely integrity.

Six read from Peter Anderson's First Church of the Higher Elevations. Five watched Richard Russo's Empire Falls. Three pieces of pizza remain.

Rujing said: "Studying Zen is dropping off body and mind. Without depending on the burning of incense, bowing, chanting Buddha's names, repentance, or sutra reading, devote yourself to just sitting."
Dogen: "What is dropping off body and mind?"
Rujing said: "Dropping of body and mind is zazen. When you just sit, you are free from the five sense desires and the five hindrances."
- Dogen (1200-1253)

It seems too warm with fog for toboggan nationals in the morning. Hosmer pond is soft with slush after a day of downpour. Tonight the sky is clear with stars. Mild.

The Lord is near to those who call on him,
to all those who call on him in truth.
For those that honour him,
he does what they ask,
he hears all their prayers,
and he keeps them safe. (From Psalm 145)

We pray for the safety, happiness, and homecoming of all around. Jon arrives from Chicago. No electrical outage this evening.

We love what we love, is what a character said in the film.

Yes, we do.

In prison this morning, we spoke of the Epic of Gilgamesh.

We love the conversation.

The circle of consideration and responsibility widens. The lives of animals must be considered. Our awareness now wonders: they too are alive; they too share this earth; they too bring forth new life and care for it.

So, neighbor Bob and I, standing around old cedar tree on which climbed Central Maine Power troubleshooter, talked about penguins caring for their egg as Robert (up tree) spliced power line and moved it between wide branches from trunk.

Meditating deeply upon Dharma
Reach the depth of the source.
Branching streams cannot compare to this source!
Sitting alone in a great silence
Even though the heavens turn and the earth is upset,
You will not even wink.
- Jakushitsu Genko Zenji (1290-1368)

Mu-ge purrs on my stomach, tail flicking as these words wrap around him. Cesco and his companion have gone to Ellsworth for other work. Something scratches in ceiling. Water drips in sink. Wood in stove gives itself to fire. Blowing air from registers up from furnace sounds into kitchen now that Robert found corrosive connection at power pole on Barnestown Road.

Why are the nations in a ferment? Why do the people make their vain plans? (From Psalm 2)

In Catholic calendar today used to be the Purification of Mary, Mother. Now it is the Presentation of the Lord. So too, it is Groundhog Day. There will be a funeral mass for Mary Sullivan at Our Lady of Good Hope in a half hour. I'll be with a student doing critical thinking.

The ferment is a battle -- not for land, nor oil. It is not a battle for democracy nor for tyranny -- (these are only means to something else). The battle, I submit, is the struggle into consciousness, into an evolving consciousness that widens the circle of compassion and responsibility, of consideration and inclusion.

Vain plans try to make this and this mine, that and that (of little value)-- yours.

When awareness is purified, when light and revelation of truth is presented -- we are blessed and bothered by new awareness that begs for our attention, for our right action.

We will include animals when we include humans. We will include humans into our circle of consideration and compassion when we include ourselves. We will include ourselves when we see and include the source and origin of life, of being.

Finally, we will cease our turmoil when we open to the realization there is no further inclusion necessary because nothing has been excluded or categorized into inferiority by the mind.

No inclusion, no exclusion -- only things and beings as they are -- and we, we attend each and every -- one -- with lovingkindness.

We will come to practice deep listening and loving speech. And we will no longer know from which direction the sound comes from.

We will be centered in the circumference of original sound.

Until then, and as we encircle openly, six more weeks of winter.

I'd rather think about the birth of Thomas Merton this date in 1915. I'd rather not think about the dress-up in Washington DC tonight.

No dependence upon letters or words,
But direct pointing to the source of human mind!
No stepping up any ladders,
But mounting straight to the Buddha-land.
- Bodhidharma (d. 534 )

Words in Washington are straw in wind. They are dollar signs looking for a wallet.

I am lonely as a pelican in the wilderness,
as an owl in the ruins,
as a sparrow alone on a rooftop:
I do not sleep.
All day long my enemies taunt me,
they burn with anger and use my name as a curse.
I make ashes my bread,
I mix tears with my drink,
because of your anger and reproach –
you, who raised me up, have dashed me to the ground.
My days fade away like a shadow:
I wither like grass.
(from Psalm 102)

The psalmist laments the kiss of God. The poet laments the squalor of words used to pretend something noble is happening what what is happening is power rutting penury.

Although tyranny...may successfully rule over foreign peoples, it can stay in power only if it destroys first of all the national institutions of its own people.
~Hannah Arendt

The man doing dishes said he'd rather bamboo inserted under finger nails than hear the voice of the man delivering the State of the Union.

Only fools seek power, and the greatest fools seek it through force.
~Lao Tsu

I don't think the man delivering the speech is a fool. It is far more serious than that. Some say the fools are them that hear his words but do not comprehend where they lead. He knows where he goes. Most have no sense where they're led.

Peace demands the most heroic labor and the most difficult sacrifice. It demands greater heroism than war.
~Thomas Merton

There's no sense we're being led to peace. War, for these leaders in Washington, is a permanent platform. There's something eerie about the grin and gleam when posturing with war-words and war-bucks.

Heroic labor is what we need.

Difficult sacrifice is what is called for.

We will not go shopping; we will not buy more gasoline and oil from Exxon-Mobil. And we will not pretend any longer these men in Washington speak for the rest of the country.

We need a greater heroism.

We need real saints. Someones to lead us out of the dark and endless deception of war and plans for war.

"The only tragedy," the novelist Léon Bloy wrote a century ago, "is not to have become a saint."

Is there still time?

e.e. cummings, in "six non-lectures" wrote: Better Worlds are born, not made, and their birthdays are the birthdays of individuals. Let us pray always for individuals; never for worlds.

So, we pray!

God within.

Being born.

Tommy called. Mary S. died this morning.

Two days ago, walking by her house, stopping to bow to her. She sat in front room. I was in dark street. Bowing goodbye.

What is of all things most yielding
Can overcome that which is most hard,
Being substanceless, it can enter in
Even where there is no crevice.
That is how I know the value
Of action which is actionless.
But that there can be teaching without words,
Value in action which is actionless
Few indeed can understand.
- Lao Tzu (5th century BC)

Death is substanceless. The inner energy invigorating outer form lets go and goes on.

I don't know what happens when people die.

But for the prayer.

Being said now.

Once said, silent.

Stick with what is known. What is known is what is taking place at any given moment.

The Hidden Singer
The gods are less for their love of praise.
Above and below them all is a spirit that needs nothing
but its own wholeness, its health and ours.
It has made all things by dividing itself.
It will be whole again.
To its joy we come together --
the seer and the seen, the eater and the eaten,
the lover and the loved.
In our joining it knows itself. It is with us then,
not as the gods whose names crest in unearthly fire,
but as a little bird hidden in the leaves
who sings quietly and waits, and sings.
(Poem by Wendell Berry)

The battle isn't between words or silence; nor is it between thinking or feeling. The crux of our discontent and disillusionment is getting caught in the snare of egoistic narrative -- the narrative of isolated, separated self. That's what was said at table during practice. When the fog horn sounds, it gives itself to any within hearing. It might be saying, "Here I am, stay away;" or, "Here I am, hear me on your way through."

Cesco, our dog, is deranged monk again during zazen. He is idiorhythmic practitioner biting at stuffed toys, barking sharply as if carrying stick to wake up drifting meditators.
Elsewhere it is written:
Two monks and/or nuns assist in zazen. The first is the jikijitsu, who is in charge of the meditation hall, and is thought of as the strong leader, like a father. The jikijitsu has a two-fold role. First, he or she keeps track of the time spent in the zendo. He or she rings the bells to signal the beginning and the end of each sitting. Secondly, the jikijitsu keeps order in the zendo. If, during zazen, a participant is making noise or moving, the jikijitsu will remind him or her to be still, either with words, or by use of the keisaku, or encourager, a wooden stick used to strike the shoulders, usually at the request of a participant made by bowing to the jikijitsu. The jikijitsu also leads the meditators in and out and leads walking meditation. (From Mount Baldy Ritual)

Cesco, our old Border Collie, serves us well in this role.

It snows. Fog horn sounds from harbor. Joanie will leave in the morning for new home south of New England.

Two Haiku
(for Joanie)
1.
Home away from home?
This is your passport: Hereby
Admit one… dear friend!
2.
No one can replace
Your inimitable face –
Go… return… with grace!

(We sign it "With all our love, the meetingbrook irregulars." She aways.)

What would we be without words? We try to be the words with which we say ourselves.

Even if a cherry tree bears no cherries, it holds snow on branches during winter drift.

What do we hold as we drift?

The very fact of one another!

Lloyd brought a book in 1912 donated to the Bangor Library on The Intellectual Life.

He said he likes coming to Poetry Tea & Literature on Saturdays.

What We Need Is Here
Geese appear high over us,
pass, and the sky closes. Abandon,
as in love or sleep, holds
them to their way, clear
in the ancient faith: what we need
is here. And we pray, not
for new earth or heaven, but to be
quiet in heart, and in eye,
clear. What we need is here.
(Poem by Wendell Berry)

There was some talk about names after readings.

No name is more interesting than the names we call ourselves.

The one we call "God" has no name.

And no address other than nameless presence.

Go ahead -- call on God.

Call again.

A Warning To My Readers
Do not think me gentle
because I speak in praise
of gentleness, or elegant
because I honor the grace
that keeps this world. I am
a man crude as any,
gross of speech, intolerant,
stubborn, angry, full
of fits and furies. That I
may have spoken well
at times, is not natural.
A wonder is what it is.
(Wendell Berry)

See first. Speak later, reluctantly.

Fear is the monster blocking the threshold. Beyond it is what we cannot understand, what we cannot control.

The whole great canon of spiritual teachings spoken by Buddha are expedient means to point out the inherent enlightened nature of all people. Although the expedient means are many, in essence they teach of the Pure Land of mind and Amitabha of inherent nature. If mind is pure, then the buddha-land is pure. If reality-nature appears, then the buddha-body appears. This is precisely what the scriptural teachings mean.
- T'aego

The monster isn't real. Walk to it. Walk through it. Beyond it is the other side.

When you take them away, they will be nothing but a dream;
like the grass that sprouts in the morning:
in the morning it grows and flowers,
in the evening it withers and dries.
(from Psalm 90)

No need to fear the terrors of the night, nor the arrows that fly by day.

You cannot be concealed or contained.

Without fear. Beyond fear.

You are released.

Go on. Step.

Through.

When Paul saw he was not alone, everything he was -- just fell away.

To illuminate this mind is called being a buddha.
To speak of this mind is called the scriptural teachings.
- Anon

When he heard the voice asking him who he thought he was -- persecuting and torturing, he went blank with startling comprehension.

The most important thing of all to him, however, was that he knew himself to be loved by Christ.
(From a homily by Saint John Chrysostom, bishop)

There are no rotten men. Only rotten ideas followed by deluded minds.

Paul's war ended this day on that day on his way elsewhere..

Book a plane for George to Damascus.

Riding stationary cycle looking out dooryard window, reading seven threats to ethics, listening to Gregorian chant

When the master
Without a word raises his eyebrows
The posts and rafters
The cross beams and roof tree
Begin to smile
There is another place for conversing
Heart to heart
The full moon and the breeze
At the half-open window.
- Muso Soseki (1275-1351)

No masters hereabouts. Only dog and cat, man and woman, snow and topfen kuchen after kohlrabi on rice. Evening becomes night, dog barks at door, let in, settles in as we too will do. It is January. Winter.

Lord, I do not puff myself up or stare about,
or walk among the great or seek wonders beyond me.
Truly calm and quiet I have made my spirit:
quiet as a weaned child in its mother's arms --
like an infant is my soul.
(from Psalm 130)

At shop, mother and daughter attend "Maybe Zen, Maybe Not" conversation. Joanie's daughter is up from New Jersey. They're packing up to return there. Joanie looks tired.

There were over 23 people for Sunday dinner over shop in harbour room. They had turkey.

Tide came in. Tide went out. As does Tuesday.

Driving snowy roads to Bangor, to Lincoln, cars off road in ditch in morning skid, in evening skid, roads greased with white.

Like a broken gong
Be still, be silent.
Know the stillness of freedom
Where there is no more striving.
- Dhammapada

Silenzio was the sign in video on Francis of Assisi. The tone of the twenty five minute paean little pious, but nice.

Tonight, readying sleep, every fact only a fact. Every sight just that, Every moment merely a prayer of passing presence.

Snow slows. Returning home, noodles, feta cheese, grape tomatoes.

Safety for all.

Notturno! Silenzio!

Grazie!

Presente!

Who'd have guessed neither church nor state would inspire the world in its need?

Reality, in fact, is always something you couldn't have guessed. (C.S. Lewis)

Hard ground in dooryard. Cold air through barn. Fragrance from soup at practice climbs last step on stairs.

They will see the face of the Lord, and his name will be marked on their foreheads. There will be no more night: they will not need sunlight or lamp-light, because the Lord God himself will shine upon them. (Apocalypse 22:4-5)

Night quiets hillside. What light there is resides inside.

Up on.

Each.

Face.

God.

Watched "Control Room," the film about Al-Jazeera, the Arabic news agency. It made me wonder about the ability of all ordinary people to listen through the propaganda (both the US and Iraq versions) and hear literal truth, see factual reality in the theater of war.

The sage looks at the unity which
Belongs to all things,
And does not perceive where
They have suffered loss.
- Chuang Tzu

It is frustrating not to be able to discern truth -- it is so cleverly hidden.

At morning prayer I note the second half of the "Glory be" prayer:
...as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end.

I am repulsed by the mind that believes innocent lives are disposable. I detest the mind that pretends war is exactly what should put one political party again in the driver's seat. I sorrow at stupidity and laziness of mind that manipulates emotions and puts smiley-faces on human suffering in a time of war.

Why is it so hard to stop war criminals? Where has decent and just courage gone?

Theologians, politicians, educators, and religious leaders stumble on the issue of war, terror, and national patriotism. Their deference is ambivalence. I want no part of rationalization.

War is wrong. This war against Iraq was wrong. This war against terror is a wrongly used triumphal tool to advance political agendas too large to be detected. The country, as I see it, is in trouble.

Why are we so hesitant to see the problem? How is it so few men can cause so much suffering.

Pray for mystics! Write away for them. Import them if need be.

A poem:
Escaping for Sight
The mystic sees the world as it is;
"As-it-is" sees the world through mystics' eyes --
Close them. Open us. See ya...
(poem, wfh, of a Saturday objection seeking conscience)

The lovely is lovely. The unlovely is unlovely.

Our task is not to confuse them -- not to call the lovely unlovely and the unlovely lovely.

It is time to pray.

Time to see.

Film, "Three Days of the Condor," thirty years later, chills.

A soaring endlessly curving path,
every few miles we have to rest.
I look around for my friends.
They've vanished in the wooded hills.
Rain floods the pine trees
and flows hushed among the rocks.
There are silent words deep in hill water,
a long whistle over the summits.
When I look at South Mountain
the sun floats white through the mist.
A blue marsh is luminous and clear.
Green trees are heavy shadows, drifting.
When I am tired of being closed in,
suddenly I come upon a clearing,
and the mind is at peace.
- Wang Wei (699-759)

Oil. And games. Disregard of innocence.
What has changed?

Is it for the dead that you perform your wonders?
Will the ghosts rise up and proclaim you?
In the tomb, will they tell of your kindness?
Will they tell of your faithfulness in the place of the lost?
Will your wonders be known in the darkness,
or your righteousness in the land of oblivion?
(from Psalm 87)

In prison, Pat and Joe talk about Holocaust and Slavery. They are alight with insight and passion.

I opt for insight and passion.

Damn the games.

Full mind intent!

Dwell between hope and guilt.

Avoid both.

Hold intention.

I finish application to satisfy the Nameless One we call God.

"Wait," the One says, "and see."

I gaze on myself in the stream's emerald flow
Or sit on a boulder by a cliff.
My mind, a lonely cloud, leans on nothing,
Needs nothing from the world and its endless events.
- Han Shan (early 9th century)

Who knows what God wants? Who knows anything about God? Or even if there is a God, or gods, or only our longing there might be one?

When we speak of Christ's priesthood, what else do we mean than the incarnation? Through this mystery, the Son of God, though himself ever remaining God, became a priest. (From a letter by Fulgentius of Ruspe, bishop)

The incarnation seems right. Here we are, all abodied, wondering why, and wherefore, whither, and what the hell?

The good fellow of Ruspe centers in on incarnation. We know of which he speaks. And we are all priests, being sound and body, with God as source.

A Native American prayer says we are the one we are waiting for.

We are ministers of earth. We try to honor, save, and resurrect that from which we come, on which we stand, to which we shall return.

Earth.

God.

(A pair of ducks.)

Waiting for, encircling, one and another.

(Just ducky, eh?)