the monks make a long soft rustling

 From inside pocket of brown wool sports coat that's been hanging in front closet, this folded piece of paper with poem from last time I wore it, printed out on 5/2/15, 12:35pm, probably for invocation given at University College UMA Rockland graduation gathering. Although I'm unsure now of its context or relevance:

Pine

BY CHASE TWICHELL

The first night at the monastery,

a moth lit on my sleeve by firelight,

long after the first frost.

A short stick of incense burns

thirty minutes, fresh thread of pine

rising through the old pine of the hours.

Summer is trapped under the thin

glass on the brook, making

the sound of an emptying bottle.

Before the long silence,

the monks make a long soft rustling,

adjusting their robes.

The deer are safe now. Their tracks

are made of snow. The wind has dragged   

its branches over their history.

(--poem, “Pine” by Chase Twichell from The Snow Watcher published by Ontario Review Press. © 1998 

I wear my old Harris Tweeds in the morning now. Surely an accoutrement of senility, not unlike mala or rosary in hand, or vacant thought under peaked hats sitting in new chair by picture window across from mountain, snuggling cat under altar, other cat on lap, snoring dog by waiting (but not yet used) hospital bed between chair and TV in corner. 

It's like being in a play that nears its run. Costuming so familiar folded over backs of dining room chairs. As well as hanging from any door hook. Contrarily and casually passing by, like a New York City yellow cab with toplight aglow.

Stepping off curb.

Opening rear door.

Sliding in.

Unable to remember any address to give the cabbie.

rien, nichts, nulla, niente

nobody reads

what I write

hence

I am free

writing

rien, nichts, 

nulla

niente

that wearied by sin they may / desire virtue

Words from American historian Heather Cox Richardson: 

Russian operatives told Manafort that in exchange for a promise to turn U.S. policy toward Russia, they would work to get Trump elected. They wanted Trump to look the other way as Putin took control of eastern Ukraine through a “peace” plan that would end the war in Crimea, weaken NATO, and remove U.S. sanctions from Russian entities. 

 

According to a 2020 report from the Republican-dominated Senate Intelligence Committee, “the Russian government engaged in an aggressive, multifaceted effort to influence, or attempt to influence, the outcome of the 2016 presidential election…by harming Hillary Clinton’s chances of success and supporting Donald Trump at the direction of the Kremlin.”

(-- Heather Cox Richardson, Letters from an American, https://substack.com/home/post/p-158498602?source=queue) 

Republicans toy with us as they fawn over the misdirection of White House and assorted operatives.

It is now exquisitely serious.

I have opened my closet and dusted off my uni-commitment, booking transport to overt antagonism, loading my thought-chamber with bulletins and amulet-stunning casings, funneling field reports to sleepy minds and distracted bodies, and firing cold hearts with wood stove heat to stave off the detritus of chilling mendacious propaganda.

Before getting started I might have to take a nap.

After looking out at fog currently obscuring Bald Mountain and promising to keep us dull and subservient to that which we cannot see nor sense.

Meditation and contemplation have been rendered useless by the pragmatic, dogmatic, and transactional smirks of our religiously right-leaning spineless pilotfish swimming around the elusive, erroneous and deceptive leaders occupying our government these days. 

Luckily, from France:

Hymnus:

1. Qua Christus hora sítiit,

1. The hour when Christ thirsted 

Crucem vel in qua súbiit,

Or submitted himself to the cross, 

Quos præstat in hac psállere

When he grants those who sing 

Ditet siti justítiæ.

This hour to be enriched with a thirst for righteousness. 

2. Simul sit his esúries,

2. At the same time may they hunger 

Quam ipse de se sátiet,

That himself might fill them with himself, 

Crimen sit ut fastídium

That wearied by sin they may

Virtúsque desidérium.

Desire virtue. 

3. Charísma Sancti Spíritus

3. May the gifts of the Holy Spirit 

Sic ínfluat psalléntibus,

So pour down upon those who praise you 

Ut carnis æstus frígeat

That the heat of flesh may grow cold 

Et mentis algor férveat.

And cold souls might become fervent. 

4. Christum rogámus et Patrem,

4. We ask Christ and the Father 

Christi Patrísque Spíritum,

And the Spirit of Christ and the Father, 

Unum potens per ómnia,

One power through all things, 

Fove precántes, Trínitas.

O Trinity, cherish those who pray to you. 

Amen

Amen

--Neumz, Sexta

insistence on telling the truth

This by Anne Applebaum:  

In the Atlantic, I wrote about the immense shock felt in Europe, not just because of what that scene said about the war in Ukraine, but because of what it said about Americans: 

In just a few minutes, the behavior of Donald Trump and J. D. Vance created a brand new stereotype for America: not the quiet American, not the ugly American, but the brutal American. Whatever illusions Europeans ever had about Americans—whatever images lingered from old American movies, the ones where the good guys win, the bad guys lose, and honor defeats treachery—those are shattered. Whatever fond memories remain of the smiling GIs who marched into European cities in 1945, of the speeches that John F. Kennedy and Ronald Reagan made at the Berlin Wall, or of the crowds that once welcomed Barack Obama, those are also fading fast.

Quite apart from their politics, Trump and Vance are rude. They are cruel. They berated and mistreated a guest on camera, and then boasted about it afterward, as if their ugly behavior achieved some kind of macho “win”… 

These are the actions not of the good guys in old Hollywood movies, but of the bad guys. If Reagan was a white-hatted cowboy, Trump and Vance are Mafia dons. The chorus of Republican political leaders defending them seems both sinister and surprising to Europeans too. “I never thought Americans would kowtow like that,” one friend told me, marveling.

Europeans also find it troubling that so many Americans now live in Trump’s alternate reality, one that is profoundly shaped by Russian propaganda: 

Part of the Oval Office altercation was provoked by Zelensky’s insistence on telling the truth, as the full video clearly shows. His mistake was to point out that Russia and Ukraine have reached many cease-fires and made many agreements since 2014, and that Vladimir Putin has broken most of them, including during Trump’s first term.

But Trump and Vance are not interested in the truth about the war in Ukraine. Trump seemed angered by the suggestion that Putin might break deals with him, refused to acknowledge that it’s happened before, falsely insisted, again, that the U.S. had given Ukraine $350 billion. Vance—who had refused to meet Zelensky when offered the opportunity before the election last year—told the Ukrainian president that he didn’t need to go to Ukraine to understand what is going on in his country: “I’ve actually watched and seen the stories,” he said, meaning that he has seen the “stories” curated for him by the people he follows on YouTube or X.

(--from The Brutal American, A new stereotype is emerging, by Anne Applebaum, substack, 6mar25

Rude, cruel, and boastful.

This is not the leadership, nor the moniker, we want for America.

I cannot believe that even the most grinning sarcastic and enthralled rightwing republican diehards want such people in their household, much less their country.

כֵּן

 yes

the only

prayer

כֵּן, khen

worth

saying

yes

shema

 crossing sanctuary, bow,

with dignity, but not holding 

onto it, a graceful honoring

like touching mezuzah, hear

O Israel, the Lord is One, 

Alone, kissing fingers metal

slanted truth on doorjamb 

meandering here, trickling there

Reading Son of Hamas, A Gripping Account of Terror, Betrayal, Political Intrigue and Unthinkable Choices, by Mosab Hassan Yousef (2010).

A part of the world embroiled in disturbing conflict and never-ending mistrust.

Disturbing conflict and never-ending mistrust.

And here, now, in America? 

What rough beast slouches?

What new rhetoric of dominance, repression, subordination?

What practice intercedes?

What healing journey of heart?

Be soft in your practice.
Think of the method as a fine silvery stream,
not a raging waterfall.
Follow the stream, have faith in its course.
It will go its own way, meandering here,
trickling there.
It will find the grooves,
the cracks, the crevices.
Just follow it.
Never let it out of your sight. It will take you.

Sheng-yen (1930-2009)

slowing energy into matter

 this lent

I am giving up humanity

fast, faster, fastest

little ball into hole in ground, chicanery

 these warriors on blades of grass

walk up to tee and green, shoot

for numbers on small score cards

silly game

 Tennis players hit the ball

Back and forth back and forth

Point after point after point

let it rain

 yes, rain

midweek

I can hear it

how remarkable

a b c

 man sips coffee

in bakery, on forehead

thick ash cross

remember, we're told

you are dust and will

be again, and again

my church this morning

walking streets of Rockland 

harbor, with dog, damp mist

noche oscura del alma

 it was night

I was born

It will be night

I'll die

In this dark night

I'll live until then

stemwinder

 Great Mardi Gras 

speech-giver pretends his words

mean something -- they don't

when things get very chilly

I look around for a sign.

Then, right there.

a sad and lonely man

 Finish All Or Nothing by Michael Wolff, How Trump Recaptured America"(2025).

What an uninspiring tale of an uninspiring man intent on self aggrandizing and bullying, attracting sycophants and uninspiring pilot fish to his garbage dump hill of dominance and foul smelling money pouring to him like sewage polluting a stagnant river with dead fish floating on surface.

I don't recommend him or his story. One can only take so much of whining grievance and mindless antagonism resulting, as we now again see, in a failure of imagination and leadership.

Hey, but that's just this hermit's newly uninformed take on an evolving disaster. 

I might not have hope, but I do have a sense of unparalleled doom and embarrassing failure.

As the Trappist monk, now deceased, said to me years ago, "Cheer up, Bill, things are only going to get worse."

…

Postscript after Tuesday Evening Conversation, four hours later: (8:17pm)

Damn! I’m the one who is uninspired and uninspiring.

I’m the one sad and lonely.

I am worse and worser.

And matter is slowed energy falling into dust — from which we come, to which we shall return.

morning numbers

sunshine seeps windowsill

drape pulled to side, pillow rests

on bed, dog and cat 

festina, lente

make haste, slowly

hurry up and slow down

run like hell, but take your time

Do not dowse with gasoline 

Do not strike match

Do not sacrifice your self 

no no no

no no no

noli sit nothi tere te deorsum

ma la ro sa ry

 Beads pass through fingers

I hope they know how to pray

I don’t

before eating the soup

 I can't quite grasp the rapidity with which the United States seems to be devolving into a sidekick of Russia, an aggressor-invader of the sovereign country of Ukraine.

I read about Donald Trump in books. I read the newspapers. I watch news programs. All indications point to his decimating the protections of both domestic and foreign agencies and the elimination of programs and aide organizations for the poor, sick, and those in harm's way.

The perplexing part of all this is the seeming lack of recourse to counter the plethora of decisions made by one or two men that affect our standing in the world and the well-being of so many here and abroad.

It is maddening.

But there is precedent. The feeling begins to feel familiar. 

The Germans

These men belonged to the Germans

the way a mule belonged to the Germans

and the Germans stood watching

their hunger and then their deaths,

watched them as if they were dead trees 

in the wind, and waited for them to fall,

and some of the men did. They sank

to their knees like children begging

forgiveness for sins they couldn’t recall,

or they failed to rise when the others did 

and were left in the wet gray fields 

where the Germans watched them 

and the Germans stood watching

when the men who were still hungry 

came back and lifted the dead men 

and carried their thin bones to the barn, 

and buried them there before eating the soup

that wouldn’t have kept them alive.

The Germans knew a starving man

needed more than soup and more than bread

but still they stood and watched.

                                                        (--poem by John Guzlowski) 

 Don't be too attached to the fact that it speaks about "the Germans."

Perhaps substitute 'the Russians.'

Even, more and more, 'the Americans.'

It is a state of soul, not just a national or geographical reference.

I feel it surrounding my soul.

It wants to leave the barn and punch someone in the face. 

Someone has to do something to divert the slog to destructive decimation some very stupid people are forcing us to set out on.

that longing entered time as this body

 In prison today we read Li-Young Lee.

I Loved You Before I Was Born 

 

                 (-Li-Young Lee, 1957-) 

 

I loved you before I was born.

It doesn't make sense, I know. 

 

I saw your eyes before I had eyes to see.

And I've lived longing 

for your ever look ever since.

That longing entered time as this body. 

And the longing grew as this body waxed.

And the longing grows as the body wanes.

The longing will outlive this body. 

 

I loved you before I was born.

It doesn't make sense, I know. 

 

Long before eternity, I caught a glimpse

of your neck and shoulders, your ankles and toes.

And I've been lonely for you from that instant.

That loneliness appeared on earth as this body. 

And my share of time has been nothing 

but your name outrunning my ever saying it clearly. 

Your face fleeing my ever

kissing it firmly once on the mouth. 

 

In longing, I am most myself, rapt,

my lamp mortal, my light 

hidden and singing.  

 

I give you my blank heart.

Please write on it

what you wish. 

(--From The Undressing: Poems by Li-Young Lee. Copyright © 2018) 

The great delight in it. 

The strong conversation. 

The original musical composition made of it by one of the men.

The longing surrounding!

like an old run down hermitage

 Two folks visiting Japan attend across the world Sunday Evening Practice during which the poems of Ryōkan were presented.

Their responses:

the advantage

of not being --

attractive

(-LS)

    2.

so many years

looking for the hammer

that will crack this nut

(-TP)

nightly ritual

Wood fire smoke fills yard

Sidling through 8° air as dog

Sniffs way to woodpile

maintaining perspective

 the day is bright

sun on snow under blue sky --

nothing to grasp, everything to love

the word is stronger than the bullet

I think that a University of Southern Maine student at Maine State Prison (who attends weekly Meetingbrook Conversations) and is studying World Ethics might be interested in article in The Journal of Religion. I send it to him.

This excerpt:

He invoked the story of the boy and the oppressive king in Surah al-Burūj.  The boy was a believer, and the king tried to kill the boy to dissuade the people from believing in his God. Every time the king would try to kill the boy, he did not die because of God’s will. 

The boy then said to the king, “You will not be able to kill me until you do as I order
you. And if you do as I order you, you will be able to kill me.” The king asked,“And
what is that?” The boy said, “Gather the people in one elevated place and tie me to
the trunk of a tree, then take an arrow from my quiver and say: ‘In the Name of Allah,
the Lord of the boy.’ If you do this, you will be able to kill me.” So, the king did this,
and placing an arrow in the bow, he shot it, saying, “In the Name of Allah, the Lord
of the boy.” The arrow hit the boy in the temple, and the boy placed his hand over the
arrow wound and died. The people proclaimed, “We believe in the Lord of the boy!”
Then it was said to the king, “Do you see what has happened, that that which you
feared has taken place? By Allah, all the people have believed (in the Lord of the
boy).” So he ordered that ditches be dug at the entrances to the roads, and it was
done, and fires were kindled in them. Then the king said, “Whoever abandons his
religion, let him go, and whoever does not, throw him into the fire.”51
Talı̄ma was not alone in using “The story of the boy” as justification for
hunger strikes in particular and nonviolent self-destructive acts of resistance
in general. 

The late Muslim Saudi intellectual ʿAbdallā h al-Ḥā mid—who
went on a hunger strike twice and died in 2020 in prison as a result of med-
ical neglect—theorized hunger strikes as part of the nonviolent prison resis-
tance that he advocated. 52 In his book Al-Kalimah Aqwā min al-Raṣ āṣ (The
word is stronger than the bullet), he argues for the importance of what he
calls “civil jihād” as more noble than violent forms of resistance.53 He stated
that “they [state-aligned scholars] consider that when a civil mujā hid goes
on hunger strike—demanding his rights or the rights of the ummah [com-
munity]—he is a sinner. And if God grants him martyrdom as a result of
his hunger strike, they would consider him to have committed suicide. He
does not enter paradise as a result and is not buried in the burial place of
Muslims. Sharı̄ ʿa and Muslims are cursed with these scholars of despotism.”54

(--in Carceral Fiqh and the Battle of the Empty Stomachs: Debates on the Permissibility of Hunger Strikes*

by Walaa Quisay / University of Edinburgh, The Journal of Religion, Volume 104, Issue 3, July 2024, Pages 257-420) 

There is haram against suicide. But if the fast is intending to evoke justice and humane treatment, the goal is not death, but righting of wrong.

A reasonable case can be made that extreme acts of resistance in the face of intolerable circumstances or impenetrable conditions -- intent on rectifying what is clearly wrong, without harming any other beings, or overt destruction of property, is a meaningful way of expressing one's interest in contributing to a clarifying and sanctifying correction that might benefit all beings.

I might not immolate my body. I might not starve my being. But I will commit to the elimination of the harmful and reintroduction of the helpful into the midst of this current creation.

I oppose hatred and unkindness. Especially within myself.

I propose love and compassion. Especially for all beings in all categories and realms.

And finally, with gratitude for the Kennebec River Zen Center in Augusta Maine and their Sangha for today's morning practice, allowing distant attendance.